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Skinner, Myths and Legends of Our Own Land (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1896). Accessioned in full; the text below is the holding institution's own transcription, quoted without alteration.","text_extract":"The Project Gutenberg eBook of Myths and Legends of Our Own Land — Complete\r\n    \r\nThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and\r\nmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions\r\nwhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms\r\nof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online\r\nat www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,\r\nyou will have to check the laws of the country where you are located\r\nbefore using this eBook.\r\n\r\nTitle: Myths and Legends of Our Own Land — Complete\r\n\r\nAuthor: Charles M. Skinner\r\n\r\n\r\n        \r\nRelease date: December 14, 2004 [eBook #6615]\r\n                Most recently updated: May 28, 2025\r\n\r\nLanguage: English\r\n\r\nOther information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6615\r\n\r\nCredits: Produced by David Widger\r\n\r\n\r\n*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND — COMPLETE ***\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND\r\n\r\nBy Charles M. Skinner\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCONTENTS:\r\n\r\nTHE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS\r\n\r\nRip Van Winkle\r\nCatskill Gnomes\r\nThe Catskill Witch\r\nThe Revenge of Shandaken\r\nCondemned to the Noose\r\nBig Indian\r\nThe Baker's Dozen\r\nThe Devil's Dance-Chamber\r\nThe Culprit Fay\r\nPokepsie\r\nDunderberg\r\nAnthony's Nose\r\nMoodua Creek\r\nA Trapper's Ghastly Vengeance\r\nThe Vanderdecken of Tappan Zee\r\nThe Galloping Hessian\r\nStorm Ship on the Hudson\r\nWhy Spuyten Duyvil is so Named\r\nThe Ramapo Salamander\r\nChief Croton\r\nThe Retreat from Mahopac\r\nNiagara\r\nThe Deformed of Zoar\r\nHorseheads\r\nKayuta and Waneta\r\nThe Drop Star\r\nThe Prophet of Palmyra\r\nA Villain's Cremation\r\nThe Monster Mosquito\r\nThe Green Picture\r\nThe Nuns of Carthage\r\nThe Skull in the Wall\r\nThe Haunted Mill\r\nOld Indian Face\r\nThe Division of the Saranacs\r\nAn Event in Indian Park\r\nThe Indian Plume\r\nBirth of the Water-Lily\r\nRogers's Slide\r\nThe Falls at Cohoes\r\nFrancis Woolcott's Night-Riders\r\nPolly's Lover\r\nCrosby, the Patriot Spy\r\nThe Lost Grave of Paine\r\nThe Rising of Gouverneur Morris\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY\r\n\r\nDolph Heyliger\r\nThe Knell at the Wedding\r\nRoistering Dirck Van Dara\r\nThe Party from Gibbet Island\r\nMiss Britton's Poker\r\nThe Devil's Stepping-Stones\r\nThe Springs of Blood and Water\r\nThe Crumbling Silver\r\nThe Cortelyou Elopement\r\nVan Wempel's Goose\r\nThe Weary Watcher\r\nThe Rival Fiddlers\r\nWyandank\r\nMark of the Spirit Hand\r\nThe First Liberal Church\r\n\r\n\r\nON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE\r\n\r\nThe Phantom Dragoon\r\nDelaware Water Gap\r\nThe Phantom Drummer\r\nThe Missing Soldier of Valley Forge\r\nThe Last Shot at Germantown\r\nA Blow in the Dark\r\nThe Tory's Conversion\r\nLord Percy's Dream\r\nSaved by the Bible\r\nParricide of the Wissahickon\r\nThe Blacksmith at Brandywine\r\nFather and Son\r\nThe Envy of Manitou\r\nThe Last Revel in Printz Hall\r\nThe Two Rings\r\nFlame Scalps of the Chartiers\r\nThe Consecration of Washington\r\nMarion\r\n\r\n\r\nTALES OF PURITAN LAND\r\n\r\nEvangeline\r\nThe Snoring of Swunksus\r\nThe Lewiston Hermit\r\nThe Dead Ship of Harpswell\r\nThe Schoolmaster had not reached Orrington\r\nJack Welch's Death Light\r\nMogg Megone\r\nThe Lady Ursula\r\nFather Moody's Black Veil\r\nThe Home of Thunder\r\nThe Partridge Witch\r\nThe Marriage of Mount Katahdin\r\nThe Moose of Mount Kineo\r\nThe Owl Tree\r\nA Chestnut Log\r\nThe Watcher on White Island\r\nChocorua\r\nPassaconaway's Ride to Heaven\r\nThe Ball Game by the Saco\r\nThe White Mountains\r\nThe Vision on Mount Adams\r\nThe Great Carbuncle\r\nSkinner's Cave\r\nYet they call it Lover's Leap\r\nSalem and other Witchcraft\r\nThe Gloucester Leaguers\r\nSatan and his Burial-Place\r\nPeter Rugg, the Missing Man\r\nThe Loss of Weetamoo\r\nThe Fatal Forget-me-not\r\nThe Old Mill at Somerville\r\nEdward Randolph's Portrait\r\nLady Eleanore's Mantle\r\nHowe's Masquerade\r\nOld Esther Dudley\r\nThe Loss of Jacob Hurd\r\nThe Hobomak\r\nBerkshire Tories\r\nThe Revenge of Josiah Breeze\r\nThe May-Pole of Merrymount\r\nThe Devil and Tom Walker\r\nThe Gray Champion\r\nThe Forest Smithy\r\nWahconah Falls\r\nKnocking at the Tomb\r\nThe White Deer of Onota\r\nWizard's Glen\r\nBalanced Rock\r\nShonkeek-Moonkeek\r\nThe Salem Alchemist\r\nEliza Wharton\r\nSale of the Southwicks\r\nThe Courtship of Myles Standish\r\nMother Crewe\r\nAunt Rachel's Curse\r\nNix's Mate\r\nThe Wild Man of Cape Cod\r\nNewbury's Old Elm\r\nSamuel Sewall's Prophecy\r\nThe Shrieking Woman\r\nAgnes Surriage\r\nSkipper Ireson's Ride\r\nHeartbreak Hill\r\nHarry Main: The Treasure and the Cats\r\nThe Wessaguscus Hanging\r\nThe Unknown Champion\r\nGoody Cole\r\nGeneral Moulton and the Devil\r\nThe Skeleton in Armor\r\nMartha's Vineyard and Nantucket\r\nLove and Treason\r\nThe Headless Skeleton of Swamptown\r\nThe Crow and Cat of Hopkins Hill\r\nThe Old Stone Mill\r\nOrigin of a Name\r\nMicah Rood Apples\r\nA Dinner and its Consequences\r\nThe New Haven Storm Ship\r\nThe Windham Frogs\r\nThe Lamb of Sacrifice\r\nMoodus Noises\r\nHaddam Enchantments\r\nBlock Island and the Palatine\r\nThe Buccaneer\r\nRobert Lockwood's Fate\r\nLove and Rum\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH\r\n\r\nThe Swim at Indian Head\r\nThe Moaning Sisters\r\nA Ride for a Bride\r\nSpooks of the Hiawassee\r\nLake of the Dismal Swamp\r\nThe Barge of Defeat\r\nNatural Bridge\r\nThe Silence Broken\r\nSiren of the French Broad\r\nThe Hunter of Calawassee\r\nRevenge of the Accabee\r\nToccoa Falls\r\nTwo Lives for One\r\nA Ghostly Avenger\r\nThe Wraith Ringer of Atlanta\r\nThe Swallowing Earthquake\r\nThe Last Stand of the Biloxi\r\nThe Sacred Fire of Natchez\r\nPass Christian\r\nThe Under Land\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CENTRAL STATES AND GREAT LAKES\r\n\r\nAn Averted Peril\r\nThe Obstinacy of Saint Clair\r\nThe Hundredth Skull\r\nThe Crime of Black Swamp\r\nThe House Accursed\r\nMarquette's Man-Eater\r\nMichel de Coucy's Troubles\r\nWallen's Ridge\r\nThe Sky Walker of Huron\r\nThe Coffin of Snakes\r\nMackinack\r\nLake Superior Water Gods\r\nThe Witch of Pictured Rocks\r\nThe Origin of White Fish\r\nThe Spirit of Cloudy\r\nThe Sun Fire at Sault Sainte Marie\r\nThe Snake God of Belle Isle\r\nWere-Wolves of Detroit\r\nThe Escape of Francois Navarre\r\nThe Old Lodger\r\nThe Nain Rouge\r\nTwo Revenges\r\nHiawatha\r\nThe Indian Messiah\r\nThe Vision of Rescue\r\nDevil's Lake\r\nThe Keusca Elopement\r\nPipestone\r\nThe Virgins' Feast\r\nFalls of St. Anthony\r\nFlying Shadow and Track Maker\r\nSaved by a Lightning-Stroke\r\nThe Killing of Cloudy Sky\r\nProvidence Hole\r\nThe Scare Cure\r\nTwelfth Night at Cahokia\r\nThe Spell of Creve Coeur Lake\r\nHow the Crime was Revealed\r\nBanshee of the Bad Lands\r\nStanding Rock\r\nThe Salt Witch\r\n\r\n\r\nALONG THE ROCKY RANGE\r\n\r\nOver the Divide\r\nThe Phantom Train of Marshall Pass\r\nThe River of Lost Souls\r\nRiders of the Desert\r\nThe Division of Two Tribes\r\nBesieged by Starvation\r\nA Yellowstone Tragedy\r\nThe Broad House\r\nThe Death Waltz\r\nThe Flood at Santa Fe\r\nGoddess of Salt\r\nThe Coming of the Navajos\r\nThe Ark on Superstition Mountains\r\nThe Pale Faced Lightning\r\nThe Weird Sentinel at Squaw Peak\r\nSacrifice of the Toltecs\r\nTa-Vwots Conquers the Sun\r\nThe Comanche Rider\r\nHorned Toad and Giants\r\nThe Spider Tower\r\nThe Lost Trail\r\nA Battle in the Air\r\n\r\n\r\nON THE PACIFIC SLOPE\r\n\r\nThe Voyager of the Whulge\r\nTamanous of Tacoma\r\nThe Devil and the Dalles\r\nCascades of the Columbia\r\nThe Death of Umatilla\r\nHunger Valley\r\nThe Wrath of Manitou\r\nThe Spook of Misery Hill\r\nThe Queen of Death Valley\r\nBridal Veil Fall\r\nThe Governor's Right Eye\r\nThe Prisoner in American Shaft\r\n\r\n\r\nAS TO BURIED TREASURE\r\n\r\nKidd's Treasure\r\nOther Buried Wealth\r\n\r\n\r\nSTORIED WATERS, CLIFFS AND MOUNTAINS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPREFACE\r\n\r\nIt is unthinkingly said and often, that America is not old enough to have\r\ndeveloped a legendary era, for such an era grows backward as a nation\r\ngrows forward. No little of the charm of European travel is ascribed to\r\nthe glamour that history and fable have flung around old churches,\r\ncastles, and the favored haunts of tourists, and the Rhine and Hudson are\r\nfrequently compared, to the prejudice of the latter, not because its\r\nscenery lacks in loveliness or grandeur, but that its beauty has not been\r\nhumanized by love of chivalry or faerie, as that of the older stream has\r\nbeen. Yet the record of our country's progress is of deep import, and as\r\ntime goes on the figures seen against the morning twilight of our history\r\nwill rise to more commanding stature, and the mists of legend will invest\r\nthem with a softness or glory that shall make reverence for them\r\nspontaneous and deep. Washington hurling the stone across the Potomac may\r\nlive as the Siegfried of some Western saga, and Franklin invoking the\r\nlightnings may be the Loki of our mythology. The bibliography of American\r\nlegends is slight, and these tales have been gathered from sources the\r\nmost diverse: records, histories, newspapers, magazines, oral\r\nnarrative--in every case reconstructed. The pursuit of them has been so\r\nlong that a claim may be set forth for some measure of completeness.\r\n\r\nBut, whatever the episodes of our four historic centuries may furnish to\r\nthe poet, painter, dramatist, or legend-building idealist of the future,\r\nit is certain that we are not devoid of myth and folk-lore. Some\r\ncharacters, prosaic enough, perhaps, in daily life, have impinged so\r\nlightly on society before and after perpetrating their one or two great\r\ndeeds, that they have already become shadowy and their achievements have\r\nacquired a color of the supernatural. It is where myth and history\r\ncombine that legend is most interesting and appeals to our fancy or our\r\nsympathy most strongly; and it is not too early for us to begin the\r\ncollation of those quaint happenings and those spoken reports that gain\r\nin picturesqueness with each transmission. An attempt has been made in\r\nthis instance to assemble only legends, for, doubtful as some historians\r\nprofess to find them, certain occurrences, like the story of Captain\r\nSmith and Pocahontas, and the ride of General Putnam down Breakneck\r\nStairs, are taught as history; while as to folk-lore, that of the Indian\r\ntribes and of the Southern negro is too copious to be recounted in this\r\nwork. It will be noted that traditions do not thrive in brick and\r\nbrownstone, and that the stories once rife in the colonial cities have\r\nalmost as effectually disappeared as the architectural landmarks of last\r\ncentury. The field entered by the writer is not untrodden. Hawthorne and\r\nIrving have made paths across it, and it is hoped that others may deem\r\nits farther exploration worthy of their efforts.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nRIP VAN WINKLE\r\n\r\nThe story of Rip Van Winkle, told by Irving, dramatized by Boucicault,\r\nacted by Jefferson, pictured by Darley, set to music by Bristow, is the\r\nbest known of American legends. Rip was a real personage, and the Van\r\nWinkles are a considerable family at this day. An idle, good-natured,\r\nhappy-go-lucky fellow, he lived, presumably, in the village of Catskill,\r\nand began his long sleep in 1769. His wife was a shrew, and to escape her\r\nabuse Rip often took his dog and gun and roamed away to the Catskills,\r\nnine miles westward, where he lounged or hunted, as the humor seized him.\r\nIt was on a September evening, during a jaunt on South Mountain, that he\r\nmet a stubby, silent man, of goodly girth, his round head topped with a\r\nsteeple hat, the skirts of his belted coat and flaps of his petticoat\r\ntrousers meeting at the tops of heavy boots, and the face--ugh!--green\r\nand ghastly, with unmoving eyes that glimmered in the twilight like\r\nphosphorus. The dwarf carried a keg, and on receiving an intimation, in a\r\nsign, that he would like Rip to relieve him of it, that cheerful vagabond\r\nshouldered it and marched on up the mountain.\r\n\r\nAt nightfall they emerged on a little plateau where a score of men in the\r\ngarb of long ago, with faces like that of Rip's guide, and equally still\r\nand speechless, were playing bowls with great solemnity, the balls\r\nsometimes rolling over the plateau's edge and rumbling down the rocks\r\nwith a boom like thunder. A cloaked and snowy-bearded figure, watching\r\naloof, turned like the others, and gazed uncomfortably at the visitor who\r\nnow came blundering in among them. Rip was at first for making off, but\r\nthe sinister glare in the circle of eyes took the run out of his legs,\r\nand he was not displeased when they signed to him to tap the keg and join\r\nin a draught of the ripest schnapps that ever he had tasted,--and he knew\r\nthe flavor of every brand in Catskill. While these strange men grew no\r\nmore genial with passing of the flagons, Rip was pervaded by a satisfying\r\nglow; then, overcome by sleepiness and resting his head on a stone, he\r\nstretched his tired legs out and fell to dreaming.\r\n\r\nMorning. Sunlight and leaf shadow were dappled over the earth when he\r\nawoke, and rising stiffly from his bed, with compunctions in his bones,\r\nhe reached for his gun. The already venerable implement was so far gone\r\nwith rot and rust that it fell to pieces in his hand, and looking down at\r\nthe fragments of it, he saw that his clothes were dropping from his body\r\nin rags and mould, while a white beard flowed over his breast. Puzzled\r\nand alarmed, shaking his head ruefully as he recalled the carouse of the\r\nsilent, he hobbled down the mountain as fast as he might for the grip of\r\nthe rheumatism on his knees and elbows, and entered his native village.\r\nWhat! Was this Catskill? Was this the place that he left yesterday? Had\r\nall these houses sprung up overnight, and these streets been pushed\r\nacross the meadows in a day? The people, too: where were his friends? The\r\nchildren who had romped with him, the rotund topers whom he had left\r\ncooling their hot noses in pewter pots at the tavern door, the dogs that\r\nused to bark a welcome, recognizing in him a kindred spirit of vagrancy:\r\nwhere were they?\r\n\r\nAnd his wife, whose athletic arm and agile tongue had half disposed him\r\nto linger in the mountains how happened it that she was not awaiting him\r\nat the gate? But gate there was none in the familiar place: an unfenced\r\nyard of weeds and ruined foundation wall were there. Rip's home was gone.\r\nThe idlers jeered at his bent, lean form, his snarl of beard and hair,\r\nhis disreputable dress, his look of grieved astonishment. He stopped,\r\ninstinctively, at the tavern, for he knew that place in spite of its new\r\nsign: an officer in blue regimentals and a cocked hat replacing the\r\ncrimson George III. of his recollection, and labelled “General\r\nWashington.” There was a quick gathering of ne'er-do-weels, of\r\ntavern-haunters and gaping 'prentices, about him, and though their faces\r\nwere strange and their manners rude, he made bold to ask if they knew\r\nsuch and such of his friends.\r\n\r\n“Nick Vedder? He's dead and gone these eighteen years.” “Brom Dutcher? He\r\njoined the army and was killed at Stony Point.” “Van Brummel? He, too,\r\nwent to the war, and is in Congress now.”\r\n\r\n“And Rip Van Winkle?”\r\n\r\n“Yes, he's here. That's him yonder.”\r\n\r\nAnd to Rip's utter confusion he saw before him a counterpart of himself,\r\nas young, lazy, ragged, and easy-natured as he remembered himself to be,\r\nyesterday--or, was it yesterday?\r\n\r\n“That's young Rip,” continued his informer. “His father was Rip Van\r\nWinkle, too, but he went to the mountains twenty years ago and never came\r\nback. He probably fell over a cliff, or was carried off by Indians, or\r\neaten by bears.”\r\n\r\nTwenty years ago! Truly, it was so. Rip had slept for twenty years\r\nwithout awaking. He had left a peaceful colonial village; he returned to\r\na bustling republican town. How he eventually found, among the oldest\r\ninhabitants, some who admitted that they knew him; how he found a\r\ncomfortable home with his married daughter and the son who took after him\r\nso kindly; how he recovered from the effect of the tidings that his wife\r\nhad died of apoplexy, in a quarrel; how he resumed his seat at the tavern\r\ntap and smoked long pipes and told long yarns for the rest of his days,\r\nwere matters of record up to the beginning of this century.\r\n\r\nAnd a strange story Rip had to tell, for he had served as cup-bearer to\r\nthe dead crew of the Half Moon. He had quaffed a cup of Hollands with no\r\nother than Henry Hudson himself. Some say that Hudson's spirit has made\r\nits home amid these hills, that it may look into the lovely valley that\r\nhe discovered; but others hold that every twenty years he and his men\r\nassemble for a revel in the mountains that so charmed them when first\r\nseen swelling against the western heavens, and the liquor they drink on\r\nthis night has the bane of throwing any mortal who lips it into a slumber\r\nwhence nothing can arouse him until the day dawns when the crew shall\r\nmeet again. As you climb the east front of the mountains by the old\r\ncarriage road, you pass, half-way up the height, the stone that Rip Van\r\nWinkle slept on, and may see that it is slightly hollowed by his form.\r\nThe ghostly revellers are due in the Catskills in 1909, and let all\r\ntourists who are among the mountains in September of that year beware of\r\naccepting liquor from strangers.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCATSKILL GNOMES\r\n\r\nBehind the New Grand Hotel, in the Catskills, is an amphitheatre of\r\nmountain that is held to be the place of which the Mohicans spoke when\r\nthey told of people there who worked in metals, and had bushy beards and\r\neyes like pigs. From the smoke of their forges, in autumn, came the haze\r\nof Indian summer; and when the moon was full, it was their custom to\r\nassemble on the edge of a precipice above the hollow and dance and caper\r\nuntil the night was nigh worn away. They brewed a liquor that had the\r\neffect of shortening the bodies and swelling the heads of all who drank\r\nit, and when Hudson and his crew visited the mountains, the pygmies held\r\na carouse in his honor and invited him to drink their liquor. The crew\r\nwent away, shrunken and distorted by the magic distillation, and thus it\r\nwas that Rip Van Winkle found them on the eve of his famous sleep.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CATSKILL WITCH\r\n\r\nWhen the Dutch gave the name of Katzbergs to the mountains west of the\r\nHudson, by reason of the wild-cats and panthers that ranged there, they\r\nobliterated the beautiful Indian Ontiora, “mountains of the sky.” In one\r\ntradition of the red men these hills were bones of a monster that fed on\r\nhuman beings until the Great Spirit turned it into stone as it was\r\nfloundering toward the ocean to bathe. The two lakes near the summit were\r\nits eyes. These peaks were the home of an Indian witch, who adjusted the\r\nweather for the Hudson Valley with the certainty of a signal service\r\nbureau. It was she who let out the day and night in blessed alternation,\r\nholding back the one when the other was at large, for fear of conflict.\r\nOld moons she cut into stars as soon as she had hung new ones in the sky,\r\nand she was often seen perched on Round Top and North Mountain, spinning\r\nclouds and flinging them to the winds. Woe betide the valley residents if\r\nthey showed irreverence, for then the clouds were black and heavy, and\r\nthrough them she poured floods of rain and launched the lightnings,\r\ncausing disastrous freshets in the streams and blasting the wigwams of\r\nthe mockers. In a frolic humor she would take the form of a bear or deer\r\nand lead the Indian hunters anything but a merry dance, exposing them to\r\ntire and peril, and vanishing or assuming some terrible shape when they\r\nhad overtaken her. Sometimes she would lead them to the cloves and would\r\nleap into the air with a mocking “Ho, ho!” just as they stopped with a\r\nshudder at the brink of an abyss. Garden Rock was a spot where she was\r\noften found, and at its foot a lake once spread. This was held in such\r\nawe that an Indian would never wittingly pursue his quarry there; but\r\nonce a hunter lost his way and emerged from the forest at the edge of the\r\npond. Seeing a number of gourds in crotches of the trees he took one, but\r\nfearing the spirit he turned to leave so quickly that he stumbled and it\r\nfell. As it broke, a spring welled from it in such volume that the\r\nunhappy man was gulfed in its waters, swept to the edge of Kaaterskill\r\nclove and dashed on the rocks two hundred and sixty feet below. Nor did\r\nthe water ever cease to run, and in these times the stream born of the\r\nwitch's revenge is known as Catskill Creek.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE REVENGE OF SHANDAKEN\r\n\r\nOn the rock platform where the Catskill Mountain House now stands,\r\ncommanding one of the fairest views in the world, old chief Shandaken set\r\nhis wigwam,--for it is a mistake to suppose that barbarians are\r\nindifferent to beauty,--and there his daughter, Lotowana, was sought in\r\nmarriage by his braves. She, however, kept faith to an early vow\r\nexchanged with a young chief of the Mohawks. A suitor who was\r\nparticularly troublesome was Norsereddin, proud, morose, dark-featured, a\r\nstranger to the red man, a descendant, so he claimed, from Egyptian\r\nkings, and who lived by himself on Kaaterskill Creek, appearing among\r\nwhite settlements but rarely.\r\n\r\nOn one of his visits to Catskill, a tavern-lounging Dutchman wagered him\r\na thousand golden crowns that he could not win Lotowana, and, stung by\r\navarice as well as inflamed by passion, Norsereddin laid new siege to her\r\nheart. Still the girl refused to listen, and Shandaken counselled him to\r\nbe content with the smiles of others, thereby so angering the Egyptian\r\nthat he assailed the chief and was driven from the camp with blows; but\r\non the day of Lotowana's wedding with the Mohawk he returned, and in a\r\nhoneyed speech asked leave to give a jewel to the bride to show that he\r\nhad stifled jealousy and ill will. The girl took the handsome box he gave\r\nher and drew the cover, when a spring flew forward, driving into her hand\r\nthe poisoned tooth of a snake that had been affixed to it. The venom was\r\nstrong, and in a few minutes Lotowana lay dead at her husband's feet.\r\n\r\nThough the Egyptian had disappeared into the forest directly on the\r\nacceptance of his treacherous gift, twenty braves set off in pursuit, and\r\novertaking him on the Kalkberg, they dragged him back to the rock where\r\nfather and husband were bewailing the maid's untimely fate. A pile of\r\nfagots was heaped within a few feet of the precipice edge, and tying\r\ntheir captive on them, they applied the torch, dancing about with cries\r\nof exultation as the shrieks of the wretch echoed from the cliffs. The\r\ndead girl was buried by the mourning tribe, while the ashes of\r\nNorsereddin were left to be blown abroad. On the day of his revenge\r\nShandaken left his ancient dwelling-place, and his camp-fires never\r\nglimmered afterward on the front of Ontiora.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCONDEMNED TO THE NOOSE\r\n\r\nRalph Sutherland, who, early in the last century, occupied a stone house\r\na mile from Leeds, in the Catskills, was a man of morose and violent\r\ndisposition, whose servant, a Scotch girl, was virtually a slave,\r\ninasmuch as she was bound to work for him without pay until she had\r\nrefunded to him her passage-money to this country. Becoming weary of\r\nbondage and of the tempers of her master, the girl ran away. The man set\r\noff in a raging chase, and she had not gone far before Sutherland\r\novertook her, tied her by the wrists to his horse's tail, and began the\r\nhomeward journey. Afterward, he swore that the girl stumbled against the\r\nhorse's legs, so frightening the animal that it rushed off madly,\r\npitching him out of the saddle and dashing the servant to death on rocks\r\nand trees; yet, knowing how ugly-tempered he could be, his neighbors were\r\nbetter inclined to believe that he had driven the horse into a gallop,\r\nintending to drag the girl for a short distance, as a punishment, and to\r\nrein up before he had done serious mischief. On this supposition he was\r\narrested, tried, and sentenced to die on the scaffold.\r\n\r\nThe tricks of circumstantial evidence, together with pleas advanced by\r\ninfluential relatives of the prisoner, induced the court to delay\r\nsentence until the culprit should be ninety-nine years old, but it was\r\nordered that, while released on his own recognizance, in the interim, he\r\nshould keep a hangman's noose about his neck and show himself before the\r\njudges in Catskill once every year, to prove that he wore his badge of\r\ninfamy and kept his crime in mind. This sentence he obeyed, and there\r\nwere people living recently who claimed to remember him as he went about\r\nwith a silken cord knotted at his throat. He was always alone, he seldom\r\nspoke, his rough, imperious manner had departed. Only when children asked\r\nhim what the rope was for were his lips seen to quiver, and then he would\r\nhurry away. After dark his house was avoided, for gossips said that a\r\nshrieking woman passed it nightly, tied at the tail of a giant horse with\r\nfiery eyes and smoking nostrils; that a skeleton in a winding sheet had\r\nbeen found there; that a curious thing, somewhat like a woman, had been\r\nknown to sit on his garden wall, with lights shining from her\r\nfinger-tips, uttering unearthly laughter; and that domestic animals\r\nreproached the man by groaning and howling beneath his windows.\r\n\r\nThese beliefs he knew, yet he neither grieved, nor scorned, nor answered\r\nwhen he was told of them. Years sped on. Every year deepened his reserve\r\nand loneliness, and some began to whisper that he would take his own way\r\nout of the world, though others answered that men who were born to be\r\nhanged would never be drowned; but a new republic was created; new laws\r\nwere made; new judges sat to minister them; so, on Ralph Sutherland's\r\nninety-ninth birthday anniversary, there were none who would accuse him\r\nor execute sentence. He lived yet another year, dying in 1801. But was it\r\nfrom habit, or was it in self-punishment and remorse, that he never took\r\noff the cord? for, when he drew his last breath, though it was in his own\r\nhouse, his throat was still encircled by the hangman's rope.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBIG INDIAN\r\n\r\nIntermarriages between white people and red ones in this country were not\r\nuncommon in the days when our ancestors led as rude a life as the\r\nnatives, and several places in the Catskills commemorate this fact. Mount\r\nUtsayantha, for example, is named for an Indian woman whose life, with\r\nthat of her baby and her white husband, was lost there. For the white men\r\nearly found friends among these mountains. As far back as 1663 they\r\nspared Catherine Dubois and her three children, after some rash spirits\r\nhad abducted them and carried them to a place on the upper Walkill, to do\r\nthem to death; for the captives raised a Huguenot hymn and the hearts of\r\ntheir captors were softened.\r\n\r\nIn Esopus Valley lived Winnisook, whose height was seven feet, and who\r\nwas known among the white settlers as “the big Indian.” He loved a white\r\ngirl of the neighborhood, one Gertrude Molyneux, and had asked for her\r\nhand; but while she was willing, the objections of her family were too\r\nstrong to be overcome, and she was teased into marriage with Joseph\r\nBundy, of her own race, instead. She liked the Indian all the better\r\nafter that, however, because Bundy proved to be a bad fellow, and\r\nbelieving that she could be happier among barbarians than among a people\r\nthat approved such marriages, she eloped with Winnisook. For a long time\r\nall trace of the runaway couple was lost, but one day the man having gone\r\ndown to the plain to steal cattle, it was alleged, was discovered by some\r\nfarmers who knew him, and who gave hot chase, coming up with him at the\r\nplace now called Big Indian.\r\n\r\nForemost in the chase was Bundy. As he came near to the enemy of his\r\npeace he exclaimed, “I think the best way to civilize that yellow serpent\r\nis to let daylight into his heart,” and, drawing his rifle to his\r\nshoulder, he fired. Mortally wounded, yet instinctively seeking refuge,\r\nthe giant staggered into the hollow of a pine-tree, where the farmers\r\nlost sight of him. There, however, he was found by Gertrude, bolt\r\nupright, yet dead. The unwedded widow brought her dusky children to the\r\nplace and spent the remainder of her days near his grave. Until a few\r\nyears ago the tree was still pointed out, but a railroad company has now\r\ncovered it with an embankment.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BAKER'S DOZEN\r\n\r\nBaas [Boss] Volckert Jan Pietersen Van Amsterdam kept a bake-shop in\r\nAlbany, and lives in history as the man who invented New Year cakes and\r\nmade gingerbread babies in the likeness of his own fat offspring. Good\r\nchurchman though he was, the bane of his life was a fear of being\r\nbewitched, and perhaps it was to keep out evil spirits, who might make\r\none last effort to gain the mastery over him, ere he turned the customary\r\nleaf with the incoming year, that he had primed himself with an extra\r\nglass of spirits on the last night of 1654. His sales had been brisk, and\r\nas he sat in his little shop, meditating comfortably on the gains he\r\nwould make when his harmless rivals--the knikkerbakkers (bakers of\r\nmarbles)--sent for their usual supply of olie-koeks and mince-pies on the\r\nmorrow, he was startled by a sharp rap, and an ugly old woman entered.\r\n“Give me a dozen New Year's cookies!” she cried, in a shrill voice.\r\n\r\n“Vell, den, you needn' sbeak so loud. I aind teaf, den.”\r\n\r\n“A dozen!” she screamed. “Give me a dozen. Here are only twelve.”\r\n\r\n“Vell, den, dwalf is a dozen.”\r\n\r\n“One more! I want a dozen.”\r\n\r\n“Vell, den, if you vant anodder, go to de duyvil and ged it.”\r\n\r\nDid the hag take him at his word? She left the shop, and from that time\r\nit seemed as if poor Volckert was bewitched, indeed, for his cakes were\r\nstolen; his bread was so light that it went up the chimney, when it was\r\nnot so heavy that it fell through the oven; invisible hands plucked\r\nbricks from that same oven and pelted him until he was blue; his wife\r\nbecame deaf, his children went unkempt, and his trade went elsewhere.\r\nThrice the old woman reappeared, and each time was sent anew to the\r\ndevil; but at last, in despair, the baker called on Saint Nicolaus to\r\ncome and advise him. His call was answered with startling quickness, for,\r\nalmost while he was making it, the venerable patron of Dutch feasts stood\r\nbefore him. The good soul advised the trembling man to be more generous\r\nin his dealings with his fellows, and after a lecture on charity he\r\nvanished, when, lo! the old woman was there in his place.\r\n\r\nShe repeated her demand for one more cake, and Volckert Jan Pietersen,\r\netc., gave it, whereupon she exclaimed, “The spell is broken, and from\r\nthis time a dozen is thirteen!” Taking from the counter a gingerbread\r\neffigy of Saint Nicolaus, she made the astonished Dutchman lay his hand\r\nupon it and swear to give more liberal measure in the future. So, until\r\nthirteen new States arose from the ruins of the colonies,--when the\r\nshrewd Yankees restored the original measure,--thirteen made a baker's\r\ndozen.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEVIL'S DANCE-CHAMBER.\r\n\r\nMost storied of our New World rivers is the Hudson. Historic scenes have\r\nbeen enacted on its shores, and Indian, Dutchman, Briton, and American\r\nhave invested it with romance. It had its source, in the red man's fancy,\r\nin a spring of eternal youth; giants and spirits dwelt in its woods and\r\nhills, and before the river-Shatemuc, king of streams, the red men called\r\nit--had broken through the highlands, those mountains were a pent for\r\nspirits who had rebelled against the Manitou. After the waters had forced\r\na passage to the sea these evil ones sought shelter in the glens and\r\nvalleys that open to right and left along its course, but in time of\r\ntempest, when they hear Manitou riding down the ravine on wings of storm,\r\ndashing thunderbolts against the cliffs, it is the fear that he will\r\nrecapture them and force them into lightless caverns to expiate their\r\nrevolt, that sends them huddling among the rocks and makes the hills\r\nresound with roars and howls.\r\n\r\nAt the Devil's Dance-Chamber, a slight plateau on the west bank, between\r\nNewburg and Crom Elbow, the red men performed semi-religious rites as a\r\npreface to their hunting and fishing trips or ventures on the war-path.\r\nThey built a fire, painted themselves, and in that frenzy into which\r\nsavages are so readily lashed, and that is so like to the action of mobs\r\nin trousers, they tumbled, leaped, danced, yelled, sang, grimaced, and\r\ngesticulated until the Manitou disclosed himself, either as a harmless\r\nanimal or a beast of prey. If he came in the former shape the augury was\r\nfavorable, but if he showed himself as a bear or panther, it was a\r\nwarning of evil that they seldom dared to disregard.\r\n\r\nThe crew of Hudson's ship, the Half Moon, having chanced on one of these\r\norgies, were so impressed by the fantastic spectacle that they gave the\r\nname Duyvels Dans-Kamer to the spot. Years afterwards, when Stuyvesant\r\nascended the river, his doughty retainers were horrified, on landing\r\nbelow the Dans-Kamer, to discover hundreds of painted figures frisking\r\nthere in the fire-light. A few surmised that they were but a new\r\ngeneration of savages holding a powwow, but most of the sailors fancied\r\nthat the assemblage was demoniac, and that the figures were spirits of\r\nbad Indians repeating a scalp-dance and revelling in the mysterious\r\nfire-water that they had brought down from the river source in jars and\r\nskins. The spot was at least once profaned with blood, for a young\r\nDutchman and his wife, of Albany, were captured here by an angry Indian,\r\nand although the young man succeeded in stabbing his captor to death, he\r\nwas burned alive on the rock by the friends of the Indian whose wrath he\r\nhad provoked. The wife, after being kept in captivity for a time, was\r\nransomed.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CULPRIT FAY\r\n\r\nThe wood-tick's drum convokes the elves at the noon of night on Cro' Nest\r\ntop, and, clambering out of their flower-cup beds and hammocks of cobweb,\r\nthey fly to the meeting, not to freak about the grass or banquet at the\r\nmushroom table, but to hear sentence passed on the fay who, forgetting\r\nhis vestal vow, has loved an earthly maid. From his throne under a canopy\r\nof tulip petals, borne on pillars of shell, the king commands silence,\r\nand with severe eye but softened voice he tells the culprit that while he\r\nhas scorned the royal decree he has saved himself from the extreme\r\npenalty, of imprisonment in walnut shells and cobweb dungeons, by loving\r\na maid who is gentle and pure. So it shall be enough if he will go down\r\nto the Hudson and seize a drop from the bow of mist that a sturgeon\r\nleaves when he makes his leap; and after, to kindle his darkened\r\nflame-wood lamp at a meteor spark. The fairy bows, and without a word\r\nslowly descends the rocky steep, for his wing is soiled and has lost its\r\npower; but once at the river, he tugs amain at a mussel shell till he has\r\nit afloat; then, leaping in, he paddles out with a strong grass blade\r\ntill he comes to the spot where the sturgeon swims, though the\r\nwatersprites plague him and toss his boat, and the fish and the leeches\r\nbunt and drag; but, suddenly, the sturgeon shoots from the water, and ere\r\nthe arch of mist that he tracks through the air has vanished, the sprite\r\nhas caught a drop of the spray in a tiny blossom, and in this he washes\r\nclean his wings.\r\n\r\nThe water-goblins torment him no longer. They push his boat to the shore,\r\nwhere, alighting, he kisses his hand, then, even as a bubble, he flies\r\nback to the mountain top, dons his acorn helmet, his corselet of\r\nbee-hide, his shield of lady-bug shell, and grasping his lance, tipped\r\nwith wasp sting, he bestrides his fire-fly steed and off he goes like a\r\nflash. The world spreads out and then grows small, but he flies straight\r\non. The ice-ghosts leer from the topmost clouds, and the mists surge\r\nround, but he shakes his lance and pipes his call, and at last he comes\r\nto the Milky Way, where the sky-sylphs lead him to their queen, who lies\r\ncouched in a palace ceiled with stars, its dome held up by northern\r\nlights and the curtains made of the morning's flush. Her mantle is\r\ntwilight purple, tied with threads of gold from the eastern dawn, and her\r\nface is as fair as the silver moon.\r\n\r\nShe begs the fay to stay with her and taste forever the joys of heaven,\r\nbut the knightly elf keeps down the beating of his heart, for he\r\nremembers a face on earth that is fairer than hers, and he begs to go.\r\nWith a sigh she fits him a car of cloud, with the fire-fly steed chained\r\non behind, and he hurries away to the northern sky whence the meteor\r\ncomes, with roar and whirl, and as it passes it bursts to flame. He\r\nlights his lamp at a glowing spark, then wheels away to the fairy-land.\r\nHis king and his brothers hail him stoutly, with song and shout, and\r\nfeast and dance, and the revel is kept till the eastern sky has a ruddy\r\nstreak. Then the cock crows shrill and the fays are gone.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPOKEPSIE\r\n\r\nThe name of this town has forty-two spellings in old records, and with\r\nsingular pertinacity in ill-doing, the inhabitants have fastened on it\r\nthe longest and clumsiest of all. It comes from the Mohegan words\r\nApo-keep-sink, meaning a safe, pleasant harbor. Harbor it might be for\r\ncanoes, but for nothing bigger, for it was only the little cove that was\r\nso called between Call Rock and Adder Cliff,--the former indicating where\r\nsettlers awaiting passage hailed the masters of vessels from its top, and\r\nthe latter taking its name from the snakes that abounded there.\r\n\r\nHither came a band of Delawares with Pequot captives, among them a young\r\nchief to whom had been offered not only life but leadership if he would\r\nrenounce his tribe, receive the mark of the turtle on his breast, and\r\nbecome a Delaware. On his refusal, he was bound to a tree, and was about\r\nto undergo the torture, when a girl among the listeners sprang to his\r\nside. She, too, was a Pequot, but the turtle totem was on her bosom, and\r\nwhen she begged his life, because they had been betrothed, the captors\r\npaused to talk of it. She had chosen well the time to interfere, for a\r\nband of Hurons was approaching, and even as the talk went on their yell\r\nwas heard in the wood. Instant measures for defence were taken, and in\r\nthe fight that followed both chief and maiden were forgotten; but though\r\nshe cut the cords that bound him, they were separated in the confusion,\r\nhe disappearing, she falling captive to the Hurons, who, sated with\r\nblood, retired from the field. In the fantastic disguise of a wizard the\r\nyoung Pequot entered their camp soon after, and on being asked to try his\r\nenchantments for the cure of a young woman, he entered her tent, showing\r\nno surprise at finding her to be the maiden of his choice, who was\r\nsuffering from nothing worse than nerves, due to the excitement of the\r\nbattle. Left alone with his patient, he disclosed his identity, and\r\nplanned a way of escape that proved effective on that very night, for,\r\nthough pursued by the angry Hurons, the couple reached “safe harbor,”\r\n thence making a way to their own country in the east, where they were\r\nmarried.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDUNDERBERG\r\n\r\nDunderberg, “Thunder Mountain,” at the southern gate of the Hudson\r\nHighlands, is a wooded eminence, chiefly populated by a crew of imps of\r\nstout circumference, whose leader, the Heer, is a bulbous goblin clad in\r\nthe dress worn by Dutch colonists two centuries ago, and carrying a\r\nspeaking-trumpet, through which he bawls his orders for the blowing of\r\nwinds and the touching off of lightnings. These orders are given in Low\r\nDutch, and are put into execution by the imps aforesaid, who troop into\r\nthe air and tumble about in the mist, sometimes smiting the flag or\r\ntopsail of a ship to ribbons, or laying the vessel over before the wind\r\nuntil she is in peril of going on beam ends. At one time a sloop passing\r\nthe Dunderberg had nearly foundered, when the crew discovered the\r\nsugar-loaf hat of the Heer at the mast-head. None dared to climb for it,\r\nand it was not until she had driven past Pollopel's Island--the limit of\r\nthe Heer's jurisdiction--that she righted. As she did so the little hat\r\nspun into the air like a top, creating a vortex that drew up the\r\nstorm-clouds, and the sloop kept her way prosperously for the rest of the\r\nvoyage. The captain had nailed a horse-shoe to the mast. The “Hat Rogue”\r\n of the Devil's Bridge in Switzerland must be a relative of this gamesome\r\nsprite, for his mischief is usually of a harmless sort; but, to be on the\r\nsafe side, the Dutchmen who plied along the river lowered their peaks in\r\nhomage to the keeper of the mountain, and for years this was a common\r\npractice. Mariners who paid this courtesy to the Heer of the Donder Berg\r\nwere never molested by his imps, though skipper Ouselsticker, of\r\nFishkill,--for all he had a parson on board,--was once beset by a heavy\r\nsquall, and the goblin came out of the mist and sat astraddle of his\r\nbowsprit, seeming to guide his schooner straight toward the rocks. The\r\ndominie chanted the song of Saint Nicolaus, and the goblin, unable to\r\nendure either its spiritual potency or the worthy parson's singing, shot\r\nupward like a ball and rode off on the gale, carrying with him the\r\nnightcap of the parson's wife, which he hung on the weathercock of Esopus\r\nsteeple, forty miles away.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nANTHONY'S NOSE\r\n\r\nThe Hudson Highlands are suggestively named Bear Mountain, Sugar Loaf,\r\nCro' Nest, Storm King, called by the Dutch Boterberg, or Butter Hill,\r\nfrom its likeness to a pat of butter; Beacon Hill, where the fires blazed\r\nto tell the country that the Revolutionary war was over; Dunderberg,\r\nMount Taurus, so called because a wild bull that had terrorized the\r\nHighlands was chased out of his haunts on this height, and was killed by\r\nfalling from a cliff on an eminence to the northward, known, in\r\nconsequence, as Breakneck Hill. These, with Anthony's Nose, are the\r\nprincipal points of interest in the lovely and impressive panorama that\r\nunfolds before the view as the boats fly onward.\r\n\r\nConcerning the last-named elevation, the aquiline promontory that abuts\r\non the Hudson opposite Dunderberg, it takes title from no resemblance to\r\nthe human feature, but is so named because Anthony Van Corlaer, the\r\ntrumpeter, who afterwards left a reason for calling the upper boundary of\r\nManhattan Island Spuyten Duyvil Creek, killed the first sturgeon ever\r\neaten at the foot of this mountain. It happened in this wise: By\r\nassiduous devotion to keg and flagon Anthony had begotten a nose that was\r\nthe wonder and admiration of all who knew it, for its size was\r\nprodigious; in color it rivalled the carbuncle, and it shone like\r\npolished copper. As Anthony was lounging over the quarter of Peter\r\nStuyvesant's galley one summer morning this nose caught a ray from the\r\nsun and reflected it hissing into the water, where it killed a sturgeon\r\nthat was rising beside the vessel. The fish was pulled aboard, eaten, and\r\ndeclared good, though the singed place savored of brimstone, and in\r\ncommemoration of the event Stuyvesant dubbed the mountain that rose above\r\nhis vessel Anthony's Nose.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMOODUA CREEK\r\n\r\nMoodua is an evolution, through Murdy's and Moodna, from Murderer's\r\nCreek, its present inexpressive name having been given to it by N. P.\r\nWillis. One Murdock lived on its shore with his wife, two sons, and a\r\ndaughter; and often in the evening Naoman, a warrior of a neighboring\r\ntribe, came to the cabin, caressed the children, and shared the woodman's\r\nhospitality. One day the little girl found in the forest an arrow wrapped\r\nin snake-skin and tipped with crow's feather; then the boy found a\r\nhatchet hanging by a hair from a bough above the door; then a glare of\r\nevil eyes was caught for an instant in a thicket. Naoman, when he came,\r\nwas reserved and stern, finding voice only to warn the family to fly that\r\nnight; so, when all was still, the threatened family made its way softly,\r\nbut quickly, to the Hudson shore, and embarked for Fisher's Kill, across\r\nthe river.\r\n\r\nThe wind lagged and their boat drew heavily, and when, from the shade of\r\nPollopel's Island, a canoe swept out, propelled by twelve men, the hearts\r\nof the people in the boat sank in despair. The wife was about to leap\r\nover, but Murdock drew her back; then, loading and firing as fast as\r\npossible, he laid six of his pursuers low; but the canoe was savagely\r\nurged forward, and in another minute every member of the family was a\r\nhelpless captive. When the skiff had been dragged back, the prisoners\r\nwere marched through the wood to an open spot where the principal members\r\nof the tribe sat in council.\r\n\r\nThe sachem arose, twisted his hands in the woman's golden hair, bared his\r\nknife, and cried, “Tell us what Indian warned you and betrayed his tribe,\r\nor you shall see husband and children bleed before your eyes.” The woman\r\nanswered never a word, but after a little Naoman arose and said, “'Twas\r\nI;” then drew his blanket about him and knelt for execution. An axe cleft\r\nhis skull. Drunk with the sight of blood, the Indians rushed upon the\r\ncaptives and slew them, one by one. The prisoners neither shrank nor\r\ncried for mercy, but met their end with hymns upon their lips, and,\r\nseeing that they could so meet death, one member of the band let fall his\r\narm and straight became a Christian. The cabin was burned, the bodies\r\nflung into the stream, and the stain of blood was seen for many a year in\r\nMurderer's Creek.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA TRAPPER'S GHASTLY VENGEANCE\r\n\r\nAbout a mile back from the Hudson, at Coxsackie, stood the cabin of Nick\r\nWolsey, who, in the last century, was known to the river settlements as a\r\nhunter and trapper of correct aim, shrewdness, endurance, and taciturn\r\nhabit. For many years he lived in this cabin alone, except for the\r\ncompany of his dog; but while visiting a camp of Indians in the\r\nwilderness he was struck with the engaging manner of one of the girls of\r\nthe tribe; he repeated the visit; he found cause to go to the camp\r\nfrequently; he made presents to the father of the maid, and at length won\r\nher consent to be his wife. The simple marriage ceremony of the tribe was\r\nperformed, and Wolsey led Minamee to his home; but the wedding was\r\ninterrupted in an almost tragic manner, for a surly fellow who had loved\r\nthe girl, yet who never had found courage to declare himself, was wrought\r\nto such a jealous fury at the discovery of Wolsey's good fortune that he\r\nsprang at him with a knife, and would have despatched him on the spot had\r\nnot the white man's faithful hound leaped at his throat and borne him to\r\nthe ground.\r\n\r\nWolsey disarmed the fellow and kicked and cuffed him to the edge of the\r\nwood, while the whole company shouted with laughter at this ignominious\r\npunishment, and approved it. A year or more passed. Wolsey and his Indian\r\nwife were happy in their free and simple life; happy, too, in their\r\nlittle babe. Wolsey was seldom absent from his cabin for any considerable\r\nlength of time, and usually returned to it before the night set in. One\r\nevening he noticed that the grass and twigs were bent near his house by\r\nsome passing foot that, with the keen eye of the woodman, he saw was not\r\nhis wife's.\r\n\r\n“Some hunter,” he said, “saw the house when he passed here, and as,\r\nbelike, he never saw one before, he stopped to look in.” For the trail\r\nled to his window, and diverged thence to the forest again. A few days\r\nlater, as he was returning, he came on the footprints that were freshly\r\nmade, and a shadow crossed his face. On nearing the door he stumbled on\r\nthe body of his dog, lying rigid on the ground. “How did this happen,\r\nMinamee?” he cried, as he flung open the door. The wife answered, in a\r\nlow voice, “O Hush! you'll wake the child.”\r\n\r\nNick Wolsey entered the cabin and stood as one turned to marble. Minamee,\r\nhis wife, sat on the gold hearth, her face and hands cut and blackened,\r\nher dress torn, her eyes glassy, a meaningless smile on her lips. In her\r\narms she pressed the body of her infant, its dress soaked with blood, and\r\nthe head of the little creature lay on the floor beside her. She crooned\r\nsoftly over the cold clay as if hushing it to sleep, and when Wolsey at\r\nlength found words, she only whispered, “Hush! you will wake him.” The\r\nnight went heavily on; day dawned, and the crooning became lower and\r\nlower; still, through all that day the bereft woman rocked to and fro\r\nupon the floor, and the agonized husband hung about her, trying in vain\r\nto give comfort, to bind her wounds, to get some explanation of the\r\nmystery that confronted him. The second night set in, and it was evident\r\nthat it would be the last for Minamee. Her strength failed until she\r\nallowed herself to be placed on a couch of skins, while the body of her\r\nchild was gently lifted from her arms. Then, for a few brief minutes, her\r\nreason was restored, and she found words to tell her husband how the\r\nIndian whose murderous attack he had thwarted at the wedding had come to\r\nthe cabin, shot the dog that had rushed out to defend the place, beat the\r\nwoman back from the door, tore the baby from its bed, slashed its head\r\noff with a knife, and, flinging the little body into her lap, departed\r\nwith the words, “This is my revenge. I am satisfied.” Before the sun was\r\nin the east again Minamee was with her baby.\r\n\r\nWolsey sat for hours in the ruin of his happiness, his breathing alone\r\nproving that he was alive, and when at last he arose and went out of the\r\nhouse, there were neither tears nor outcry; he saddled his horse and rode\r\noff to the westward. At nightfall he came to the Indian village where he\r\nhad won his wife, and relating to the assembled tribe what had happened,\r\nhe demanded that the murderer be given up to him. His demand was readily\r\ngranted, whereupon the white man advanced on the cowering wretch, who had\r\nconfidently expected the protection of his people, and with the quick\r\nfling and jerk of a raw-hide rope bound his arms to his side. Then\r\ncasting a noose about his neck and tying the end of it to his saddle-bow,\r\nhe set off for the Hudson. All that night he rode, the Indian walking and\r\nrunning at the horse's heels, and next day he reached his cabin. Tying\r\nhis prisoner to a tree, the trapper cut a quantity of young willows, from\r\nwhich he fashioned a large cradle-like receptacle; in this he placed the\r\nculprit, face upward, and tied so stoutly that he could not move a\r\nfinger; then going into his house, he emerged with the body of Minamee,\r\nand laid it, face downward, on the wretch, who could not repress a groan\r\nof horror as the awful burden sank on his breast. Wolsey bound together\r\nthe living and the dead, and with a swing of his powerful arms he flung\r\nthem on his horse's back, securing them there with so many turns of rope\r\nthat nothing could displace them. Now he began to lash his horse until\r\nthe poor beast trembled with anger and pain, when, flinging off the\r\nhalter, he gave it a final lash, and the animal plunged, foaming and\r\nsnorting, into the wilderness. When it had vanished and the hoof-beats\r\nwere no longer heard, Nick Wolsey took his rifle on his arm and left his\r\nhome forever. And tradition says that the horse never stopped in its mad\r\ncareer, but that on still nights it can be heard sweeping through the\r\nwoods along the Hudson and along the Mohawk like a whirlwind, and that as\r\nthe sound goes by a smothered voice breaks out in cursing, in appeal,\r\nthen in harsh and dreadful laughter.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE VANDERDECKEN OF TAPPAN ZEE\r\n\r\nIt is Saturday night; the swell of the Hudson lazily heaves against the\r\nshores of Tappan Zee, the cliff above Tarrytown where the white lady\r\ncries on winter nights is pale in starlight, and crickets chirp in the\r\nboskage. It is so still that the lap of oars can be heard coming across\r\nthe water at least a mile away. Some small boat, evidently, but of heavy\r\nbuild, for it takes a vigorous hand to propel it, and now there is a\r\ngrinding of oars on thole-pins. Strange that it is not yet seen, for the\r\nsound is near. Look! Is that a shadow crossing that wrinkle of starlight\r\nin the water? The oars have stopped, and there is no wind to make that\r\nsound of a sigh.\r\n\r\nHo, Rambout Van Dam! Is it you? Are you still expiating your oath to pull\r\nfrom Kakiat to Spuyten Duyvil before the dawn of Sabbath, if it takes you\r\na month of Sundays? Better for you had you passed the night with your\r\nroistering friends at Kakiat, or started homeward earlier, for\r\nSabbath-breaking is no sin now, and you, poor ghost, will find little\r\nsympathy for your plight. Grant that your month of Sundays, or your cycle\r\nof months of Sundays, be soon up, for it is sad to be reminded that we\r\nmay be punished for offences many years forgotten. When the sun is high\r\nto-morrow a score of barges will vex the sea of Tappan, each crowded with\r\nmen and maids from New Amsterdam, jigging to profane music and refreshing\r\nthemselves with such liquors as you, Rambout, never even smelled--be\r\nthankful for that much. If your shade sits blinking at them from the\r\nwooded buttresses of the Palisades, you must repine, indeed, at the\r\nhardness of your fate.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE GALLOPING HESSIAN\r\n\r\nIn the flower-gemmed cemetery of Tarrytown, where gentle Irving sleeps, a\r\nHessian soldier was interred after sustaining misfortune in the loss of\r\nhis head in one of the Revolutionary battles. For a long time after he\r\nwas buried it was the habit of this gentleman to crawl from his grave at\r\nunseemly hours and gallop about the country, sending shivers through the\r\nframes of many worthy people, who shrank under their blankets when they\r\nheard the rush of hoofs along the unlighted roads.\r\n\r\nIn later times there lived in Tarrytown--so named because of the tarrying\r\nhabits of Dutch gossips on market days, though some hard-minded people\r\ninsist that Tarwe-town means Wheat-towna gaunt schoolmaster, one Ichabod\r\nCrane, who cherished sweet sentiments for Katrina Van Tassell, the buxom\r\ndaughter of a farmer, also a famous maker of pies and doughnuts. Ichabod\r\nhad been calling late one evening, and, his way home being long,\r\nKatrina's father lent him a horse to make the journey; but even with this\r\nadvantage the youth set out with misgivings, for he had to pass the\r\ngraveyard.\r\n\r\nAs it was near the hour when the Hessian was to ride, he whistled feebly\r\nto keep his courage up, but when he came to the dreaded spot the whistle\r\ndied in a gasp, for he heard the tread of a horse. On looking around, his\r\nhair bristled and his heart came up like a plug in his throat to hinder\r\nhis breathing, for he saw a headless horseman coming over the ridge\r\nbehind him, blackly defined against the starry sky. Setting spurs to his\r\nnag with a hope of being first to reach Sleepy Hollow bridge, which the\r\nspectre never passed, the unhappy man made the best possible time in that\r\ndirection, for his follower was surely overtaking him. Another minute and\r\nthe bridge would be reached; but, to Ichabod's horror, the Hessian dashed\r\nalongside and, rising in his stirrups, flung his head full at the\r\nfugitive's back. With a squeal of fright the schoolmaster rolled into a\r\nmass of weeds by the wayside, and for some minutes he remained there,\r\nknowing and remembering nothing.\r\n\r\nNext morning farmer Van Tassell's horse was found grazing in a field near\r\nSleepy Hollow, and a man who lived some miles southward reported that he\r\nhad seen Mr. Crane striding as rapidly along the road to New York as his\r\nlean legs could take him, and wearing a pale and serious face as he kept\r\nhis march. There were yellow stains on the back of his coat, and the man\r\nwho restored the horse found a smashed pumpkin in the broken bushes\r\nbeside the road. Ichabod never returned to Tarrytown, and when Brom\r\nBones, a stout young ploughman and taphaunter, married Katrina, people\r\nmade bold to say that he knew more about the galloping Hessian than any\r\none else, though they believed that he never had reason to be jealous of\r\nIchabod Crane.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSTORM SHIP OF THE HUDSON\r\n\r\nIt was noised about New Amsterdam, two hundred years ago, that a round\r\nand bulky ship flying Dutch colors from her lofty quarter was careering\r\nup the harbor in the teeth of a north wind, through the swift waters of\r\nan ebbing tide, and making for the Hudson. A signal from the Battery to\r\nheave to and account for herself being disregarded, a cannon was trained\r\nupon her, and a ball went whistling through her cloudy and imponderable\r\nmass, for timbers she had none. Some of the sailor-folk talked of mirages\r\nthat rose into the air of northern coasts and seas, but the wise ones put\r\ntheir fingers beside their noses and called to memory the Flying\r\nDutchman, that wanderer of the seas whose captain, having sworn that he\r\nwould round Cape Horn in spite of heaven and hell, has been beating to\r\nand fro along the bleak Fuegian coast and elsewhere for centuries, being\r\nallowed to land but once in seven years, when he can break the curse if\r\nhe finds a girl who will love him. Perhaps Captain Vanderdecken found\r\nthis maiden of his hopes in some Dutch settlement on the Hudson, or\r\nperhaps he expiated his rashness by prayer and penitence; howbeit, he\r\nnever came down again, unless he slipped away to sea in snow or fog so\r\ndense that watchers and boatmen saw nothing of his passing. A few old\r\nsettlers declared the vessel to be the Half Moon, and there were some who\r\ntestified to seeing that identical ship with Hudson and his spectre crew\r\non board making for the Catskills to hold carouse.\r\n\r\nThis fleeting vision has been confounded with the storm ship that lurks\r\nabout the foot of the Palisades and Point-no-Point, cruising through\r\nTappan Zee at night when a gale is coming up. The Hudson is four miles\r\nwide at Tappan, and squalls have space enough to gather force; hence,\r\nwhen old skippers saw the misty form of a ship steal out from the shadows\r\nof the western hills, then fly like a gull from shore to shore, catching\r\nthe moonlight on her topsails, but showing no lanterns, they made to\r\nwindward and dropped anchor, unless their craft were stanch and their\r\npilot's brains unvexed with liquor. On summer nights, when falls that\r\ncurious silence which is ominous of tempest, the storm ship is not only\r\nseen spinning across the mirror surface of the river, but the voices of\r\nthe crew are heard as they chant at the braces and halyards in words\r\ndevoid of meaning to the listeners.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nWHY SPUYTEN DUYVIL IS SO NAMED\r\n\r\nThe tide-water creek that forms the upper boundary of Manhattan Island is\r\nknown to dwellers in tenements round about as “Spittin' Divvle.” The\r\nproper name of it is Spuyten Duyvil, and this, in turn, is the\r\ncompression of a celebrated boast by Anthony Van Corlaer. This\r\nredoubtable gentleman, famous for fat, long wind, and long whiskers, was\r\ntrumpeter for the garrison at New Amsterdam, which his countrymen had\r\njust bought for twenty-four dollars, and he sounded the brass so sturdily\r\nthat in the fight between the Dutch and Indians at the Dey Street peach\r\norchard his blasts struck more terror into the red men's hearts than did\r\nthe matchlocks of his comrades. William the Testy vowed that Anthony and\r\nhis trumpet were garrison enough for all Manhattan Island, for he argued\r\nthat no regiment of Yankees would approach near enough to be struck with\r\nlasting deafness, as must have happened if they came when Anthony was\r\nawake.\r\n\r\nPeter Stuyvesant-Peter the Headstrong--showed his appreciation of\r\nAnthony's worth by making him his esquire, and when he got news of an\r\nEnglish expedition on its way to seize his unoffending colony, he at once\r\nordered Anthony to rouse the villages along the Hudson with a trumpet\r\ncall to war. The esquire took a hurried leave of six or eight ladies,\r\neach of whom delighted to believe that his affections were lavished on\r\nher alone, and bravely started northward, his trumpet hanging on one\r\nside, a stone bottle, much heavier, depending from the other. It was a\r\nstormy evening when he arrived at the upper end of the island, and there\r\nwas no ferryman in sight, so, after fuming up and down the shore, he\r\nswallowed a mighty draught of Dutch courage,--for he was as accomplished\r\na performer on the horn as on the trumpet,--and swore with ornate and\r\nvoluminous oaths that he would swim the stream “in spite of the devil”\r\n [En spuyt den Duyvil].\r\n\r\nHe plunged in, and had gone half-way across when the Evil One, not to be\r\nspited, appeared as a huge moss-bunker, vomiting boiling water and\r\nlashing a fiery tail. This dreadful fish seized Anthony by the leg; but\r\nthe trumpeter was game, for, raising his instrument to his lips, he\r\nexhaled his last breath through it in a defiant blast that rang through\r\nthe woods for miles and made the devil himself let go for a moment. Then\r\nhe was dragged below, his nose shining through the water more and more\r\nfaintly, until, at last, all sight of him was lost. The failure of his\r\nmission resulted in the downfall of the Dutch in America, for, soon\r\nafter, the English won a bloodless victory, and St. George's cross\r\nflaunted from the ramparts where Anthony had so often saluted the setting\r\nsun. But it was years, even then, before he was hushed, for in stormy\r\nweather it was claimed that the shrill of his trumpet could be heard near\r\nthe creek that he had named, sounding above the deeper roar of the blast.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE RAMAPO SALAMANDER\r\n\r\nA curious tale of the Rosicrucians runs to the effect that more than two\r\ncenturies ago a band of German colonists entered the Ramapo valley and\r\nput up houses of stone, like those they had left in the Hartz Mountains,\r\nand when the Indians saw how they made knives and other wonderful things\r\nout of metal, which they extracted from the rocks by fire, they believed\r\nthem to be manitous and went away, not wishing to resist their possession\r\nof the land. There was treasure here, for High Tor, or Torn Mountain, had\r\nbeen the home of Amasis, youngest of the magi who had followed the star\r\nof Bethlehem. He had found his way, through Asia and Alaska, to this\r\ncountry, had taken to wife a native woman, by whom he had a child, and\r\nhere on the summit he had built a temple. Having refused the sun worship,\r\nwhen the Indians demanded that he should take their faith, he was set\r\nupon, and would have been killed had not an earthquake torn the ground at\r\nhis feet, opening a new channel for the Hudson and precipitating into it\r\nevery one but the magus and his daughter. To him had been revealed in\r\nmagic vision the secrets of wealth in the rocks.\r\n\r\nThe leader in the German colony, one Hugo, was a man of noble origin, who\r\nhad a wife and two children: a boy, named after himself; a girl,--Mary.\r\nThough it had been the custom in the other country to let out the forge\r\nfires once in seven years, Hugo opposed that practice in the forge he had\r\nbuilt as needless. But his men murmured and talked of the salamander that\r\nonce in seven years attains its growth in unquenched flame and goes forth\r\ndoing mischief. On the day when that period was ended the master entered\r\nhis works and saw the men gazing into the furnace at a pale form that\r\nseemed made from flame, that was nodding and turning in the fire,\r\noccasionally darting its tongue at them or allowing its tail to fall out\r\nand lie along the stone floor. As he came to the door he, too, was\r\ntransfixed, and the fire seemed burning his vitals, until he felt water\r\nsprinkled on his face, and saw that his wife, whom he had left at home\r\ntoo ill to move, stood behind him and was casting holy water into the\r\nfurnace, speaking an incantation as she did so. At that moment a storm\r\narose, and a rain fell that put out the fire; but as the last glow faded\r\nthe lady fell dead.\r\n\r\nWhen her children were to be consecrated, seven years later, those who\r\nstood outside of the church during the ceremony saw a vivid flash, and\r\nthe nurse turned from the boy in her fright. She took her hands from her\r\neyes. The child was gone. Twice seven years had passed and the daughter\r\nremained unspotted by the world, for, on the night when her father had\r\nled her to the top of High Torn Mountain and shown her what Amasis had\r\nseen,--the earth spirits in their caves heaping jewels and offering to\r\ngive them if Hugo would speak the word that binds the free to the earth\r\nforces and bars his future for a thousand years,--it was her prayer that\r\nbrought him to his senses and made the scene below grow dim, though the\r\nbaleful light of the salamander clinging to the rocks at the bottom of\r\nthe cave sent a glow into the sky.\r\n\r\nMany nights after that the glow was seen on the height and Hugo was\r\nmissing from his home, but for lack of a pure soul to stand as\r\ninterpreter he failed to read the words that burned in the triangle on\r\nthe salamander's back, and returned in rage and jealousy. A knightly man\r\nhad of late appeared in the settlement, and between him and Mary a tender\r\nfeeling had arisen, that, however, was unexpressed until, after saving\r\nher from the attack of a panther, he had allowed her to fall into his\r\narms. She would willingly then have declared her love for him, but he\r\nplaced her gently and regretfully from him and said, “When you slept I\r\ncame to you and put a crown of gems on your head: that was because I was\r\nin the power of the earth spirit. Then I had power only over the element\r\nof fire, that either consumes or hardens to stone; but now water and life\r\nare mine. Behold! Wear these, for thou art worthy.” And touching the\r\ntears that had fallen from her eyes, they turned into lilies in his\r\nhands, and he put them on her brow.\r\n\r\n“Shall we meet again?” asked the girl.\r\n\r\n“I do not know,” said he. “I tread the darkness of the universe alone,\r\nand I peril my redemption by yielding to this love of earth. Thou art\r\nredeemed already, but I must make my way back to God through obedience\r\ntested in trial. Know that I am one of those that left heaven for love of\r\nman. We were of that subtle element which is flame, burning and glowing\r\nwith love,--and when thy mother came to me with the power of purity to\r\ncast me out of the furnace, I lost my shape of fire and took that of a\r\nhuman being,--a child. I have been with thee often, and was rushing to\r\nannihilation, because I could not withstand the ordeal of the senses. Had\r\nI yielded, or found thee other than thou art, I should have become again\r\nan earth spirit. I have been led away by wish for power, such as I have\r\nin my grasp, and forgot the mission to the suffering. I became a wanderer\r\nover the earth until I reached this land, the land that you call new.\r\nHere was to be my last trial and here I am to pass the gate of fire.”\r\n\r\nAs he spoke voices arose from the settlement.\r\n\r\n“They are coming,” said he. The stout form of Hugo was in advance. With a\r\nfierce oath he sprang on the young man. “He has ruined my household,” he\r\ncried. “Fling him into the furnace!” The young man stood waiting, but his\r\nbrow was serene. He was seized, and in a few moments had disappeared\r\nthrough the mouth of the burning pit. But Mary, looking up, saw a shape\r\nin robes of silvery light, and it drifted upward until it vanished in the\r\ndarkness. The look of horror on her face died away, and a peace came to\r\nit that endured until the end.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHIEF CROTON\r\n\r\nBetween the island of Manhattoes and the Catskills the Hudson shores were\r\nplagued with spooks, and even as late as the nineteenth century Hans\r\nAnderson, a man who tilled a farm back of Peekskill, was worried into his\r\ngrave by the leaden-face likeness of a British spy whom he had hanged on\r\nGeneral Putnam's orders. “Old Put” doubtless enjoyed immunity from this\r\nvexatious creature, because he was born with few nerves. A region\r\nespecially afflicted was the confluence of the Croton and the Hudson, for\r\nthe Kitchawan burying-ground was here, and the red people being disturbed\r\nby the tramping of white men over their graves, “the walking sachems of\r\nTeller's Point” were nightly to be met on their errands of protest.\r\n\r\nThese Indians had built a palisade on Croton Point, and here they made\r\ntheir last stand against their enemies from the north. Throughout the\r\nfight old chief Croton stood on the wall with arrows showering around\r\nhim, and directed the resistance with the utmost calm. Not until every\r\none of his men was dead and the fort was going up in flame about him did\r\nhe confess defeat. Then standing amid the charring timbers, he used his\r\nlast breath in calling down the curse of the Great Spirit against the\r\nfoe. As the victorious enemy rushed into the enclosure to secure the\r\nscalps of the dead he fell lifeless into the fire, and their jubilant\r\nyell was lost upon his ears. Yet, he could not rest nor bear to leave his\r\nancient home, even after death, and often his form, in musing attitude,\r\nwas seen moving through the woods. When a manor was built on the ruins of\r\nhis fort, he appeared to the master of it, to urge him into the\r\nContinental army, and having seen this behest obeyed and laid a solemn\r\ninjointure to keep the freedom of the land forever, he vanished, and\r\nnever appeared again.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE RETREAT FROM MAHOPAC\r\n\r\nAfter the English had secured the city of New Amsterdam and had begun to\r\nextend their settlements along the Hudson, the Indians congregated in\r\nlarge numbers about Lake Mahopac, and rejected all overtures for the\r\npurchase of that region. In their resolution they were sustained by their\r\nyoung chief Omoyao, who refused to abandon on on any terms the country\r\nwhere his fathers had solong hunted, fished, and built their lodges. A\r\nhalf-breed, one Joliper, a member of this tribe, was secretly in the pay\r\nof the English, but the allurements and insinuations that he put forth on\r\ntheir behalf were as futile as the breathing of wind in the leaves. At\r\nlast the white men grew angry. Have the land they would, by evil course\r\nif good ways were refused, and commissioning Joliper to act for them in a\r\ndecisive manner, they guaranteed to supply him with forces if his\r\nnegotiations fell through. This man never thought it needful to\r\nnegotiate. He knew the temper of his tribe and he was too jealous of his\r\nchief to go to him for favors, because he loved Maya, the chosen one of\r\nOmoyao.\r\n\r\nAt the door of Maya's tent he entreated her to go with him to the white\r\nsettlements, and on her refusal he broke into angry threats, declaring,\r\nin the self-forgetfulness of passion, that he would kill her lover and\r\nlead the English against the tribe. Unknown to both Omoyao had overheard\r\nthis interview, and he immediately sent runners to tell all warriors of\r\nhis people to meet him at once on the island in the lake. Though the\r\nrunners were cautioned to keep their errand secret, it is probable that\r\nJoliper suspected that the alarm had gone forth, and he resolved to\r\nstrike at once; so he summoned his renegades, stole into camp next\r\nevening and made toward Maya's wigwam, intending to take her to a place\r\nof safety. Seeing the chief at the door, he shot an arrow at him, but the\r\nshaft went wide and slew the girl's father. Realizing, upon this assault,\r\nthat he was outwitted and that his people were outnumbered, the chief\r\ncalled to Maya to meet him at the island, and plunged into the brush,\r\nafter seeing that she had taken flight in an opposite direction. The\r\nvengeful Joliper was close behind him with his renegades, and the chief\r\nwas captured; then, that he might not communicate with his people or\r\ndelay the operations against them, it was resolved to put him to death.\r\n\r\nHe was tied to a tree, the surrounding wood was set on fire, and he was\r\nabandoned to his fate, his enemies leaving him to destruction in their\r\nhaste to reach the place of the council and slay or capture all who were\r\nthere. Hardly were they out of hearing ere the plash of a paddle sounded\r\nthrough the roar of flame and Maya sprang upon the bank, cut her lover's\r\nbonds, and with him made toward the island, which they reached by a\r\nprotected way before the assailants had arrived. They told the story of\r\nJoliper's cruelty and treason, and when his boats were seen coming in to\r\nshore they had eyes and hands only for Joliper. He was the first to land.\r\nHardly had he touched the strand before he was surrounded by a frenzied\r\ncrowd and had fallen bleeding from a hundred gashes.\r\n\r\nThe Indians were overpowered after a brief and bloody resistance. They\r\ntook safety in flight. Omoyao and Maya, climbing upon the rock above\r\ntheir “council chamber,” found that while most of their people had\r\nescaped their own retreat was cut off, and that it would be impossible to\r\nreach any of the canoes. They preferred death to torture and captivity,\r\nso, hand in hand, they leaped together down the cliff, and the English\r\nclaimed the land next day.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nNIAGARA\r\n\r\nThe cataract of Niagara (properly pronounced Nee-ah-gah-rah), or\r\nOniahgarah, is as fatal as it is fascinating, beautiful, sublime, and the\r\ncasualties occurring there justify the tradition that “the Thundering\r\nWater asks two victims every year.” It was reputed, before white men\r\nlooked for the first time on these falls--and what thumping yarns they\r\ntold about them!--that two lives were lost here annually, and this\r\naverage has been kept up by men and women who fall into the flood through\r\naccident, recklessness or despair, while bloody battles have been fought\r\non the shores, and vessels have been hurled over the brink, to be dashed\r\nto splinters on the rocks.\r\n\r\nThe sound of the cataract was declared to be the voice of a mighty spirit\r\nthat dwelt in the waters, and in former centuries the Indians offered to\r\nit a yearly sacrifice. This sacrifice was a maiden of the tribe, who was\r\nsent over in a white canoe, decorated with fruit and flowers, and the\r\ngirls contended for this honor, for the brides of Manitou were objects of\r\na special grace in the happy hunting-grounds. The last recorded sacrifice\r\nwas in 1679, when Lelawala, the daughter of chief Eagle Eye, was chosen,\r\nin spite of the urgings and protests of the chevalier La Salle, who had\r\nbeen trying to restrain the people from their idolatries by an exposition\r\nof the Christian dogma. To his protests he received the unexpected\r\nanswer, “Your words witness against you. Christ, you say, set us an\r\nexample. We will follow it. Why should one death be great, while our\r\nsacrifice is horrible?” So the tribe gathered at the bank to watch the\r\nsailing of the white canoe. The chief watched the embarkation with the\r\nstoicism usual to the Indian when he is observed by others, but when the\r\nlittle bark swung out into the current his affection mastered him, and he\r\nleaped into his own canoe and tried to overtake his daughter. In a moment\r\nboth were beyond the power of rescue. After their death they were changed\r\ninto spirits of pure strength and goodness, and live in a crystal heaven\r\nso far beneath the fall that its roaring is a music to them: she, the\r\nmaid of the mist; he, the ruler of the cataract. Another version of the\r\nlegend makes a lover and his mistress the chief actors. Some years later\r\na patriarch of the tribe and all his sons went over the fall when the\r\nwhite men had seized their lands, preferring death to flight or war.\r\n\r\nIn about the year 200 the Stone Giants waded across the river below the\r\nfalls on their northward march. These beings were descended from an\r\nancient family, and being separated from their stock in the year 150 by\r\nthe breaking of a vine bridge across the Mississippi, they left that\r\nregion. Indian Pass, in the Adirondacks, bore the names of Otneyarheh,\r\nStony Giants; Ganosgwah, Giants Clothed in Stone; and Dayohjegago, Place\r\nWhere the Storm Clouds Fight the Great Serpent. Giants and serpents were\r\nheld to be harmful inventions of the Evil Spirit, and the Lightning god,\r\ncatching up clouds as he stood on the crags, broke them open, tore their\r\nlightnings out and hurled them against the monsters. These cannibals had\r\nalmost exterminated the Iroquois, for they were of immense size and had\r\nmade themselves almost invincible by rolling daily in the sand until\r\ntheir flesh was like stone. The Holder of the Heavens, viewing their evil\r\nactions from on high, came down disguised as one of their number--he used\r\noften to meditate on Manitou Rock, at the Whirlpool--and leading them to\r\na valley near Onondaga, on pretence of guiding them to a fairer country,\r\nhe stood on a hill above them and hurled rocks upon their heads until\r\nall, save one, who fled into the north, were dead. Yet, in the fulness of\r\ntime, new children of the Stone Giants (mail-clad Europeans?) entered the\r\nregion again and were destroyed by the Great Spirit,--oddly enough where\r\nthe famous fraud known as the Cardiff giant was alleged to have been\r\nfound. The Onondagas believed this statue to be one of their ancient\r\nfoes.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEFORMED OF ZOAR\r\n\r\nThe valley of Zoar, in western New York, is so surrounded by hills that\r\nits discoverers--a religious people, who gave it a name from Scripture\r\nsaid, “This is Zoar; it is impregnable. From her we will never go.” And\r\ntruly, for lack of roads, they found it so hard to get out, having got\r\nin, that they did not leave it. Among the early settlers here were people\r\nof a family named Wright, whose house became a sort of inn for the\r\ninfrequent traveller, inasmuch as they were not troubled with piety, and\r\nhad no scruples against the selling of drink and the playing of cards at\r\nlate hours. A peddler passed through the valley on his way to Buffalo and\r\nstopped at the Wright house for a lodging, but before he went to bed he\r\nincautiously showed a number of golden trinkets from his pack and drew a\r\nconsiderable quantity of money out of his pocket when he paid the fee for\r\nhis lodging. Hardly had he fallen asleep before his greedy hosts were in\r\nthe room, searching for his money. Their lack of caution caused him to\r\nawake, and as he found them rifling his pockets and his pack he sprang up\r\nand showed fight.\r\n\r\nA blow sent him to the bottom of the stairs, where his attempt to escape\r\nwas intercepted, and the family closed around him and bound his arms and\r\nlegs. They showed him the money they had taken and asked where he had\r\nconcealed the rest. He vowed that it was all he had. They insisted that\r\nhe had more, and seizing a knife from the table the elder Wright slashed\r\noff one of his toes “to make him confess.” No result came from this, and\r\nsix toes were cut off,--three from each foot; then, in disgust, the\r\nunhappy peddler was knocked on the head and flung through a trap-door\r\ninto a shallow cellar. Presently he arose and tried to draw himself out,\r\nbut with hatchet and knife they chopped away his fingers and he fell\r\nback. Even the women shared in this work, and leaned forward to gaze into\r\nthe cellar to see if he might yet be dead. While listening, they heard\r\nthe man invoke the curse of heaven on them: he asked that they should\r\nwear the mark of crime even to the fourth generation, by coming into the\r\nworld deformed and mutilated as he was then. And it was so. The next\r\nchild born in that house had round, hoof-like feet, with only two toes,\r\nand hands that tapered from the wrist into a single long finger. And in\r\ntime there were twenty people so deformed in the valley: The “crab-clawed\r\nZoarites” they were called.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHORSEHEADS\r\n\r\nThe feeling recently created by an attempt to fasten the stupid names of\r\nFairport or of North Elmira on the village in central New York that, off\r\nand on for fifty years, had been called Horseheads, caused an inquiry as\r\nto how that singular name chanced to be adopted for a settlement. In\r\n1779, when General Sullivan was retiring toward the base of his supplies\r\nafter a destructive campaign against the Indians in Genesee County, he\r\nstopped near this place and rested his troops. The country was then rude,\r\nunbroken, and still beset with enemies, however, and when the march was\r\nresumed it was thought best to gain time over a part of the way by\r\ndescending the Chemung River on rafts.\r\n\r\nAs there were no appliances for building large floats, and the depth of\r\nthe water was not known, the general ordered a destruction of all\r\nimpedimenta that could be got rid of, and commanded that the poor and\r\nsuperfluous horses should be killed. His order was obeyed. As soon as the\r\ntroops had gone, the wolves, that were then abundant, came forth and\r\ndevoured the carcasses of the steeds, so that the clean-picked bones were\r\nstrewn widely over the camp-ground. When the Indians ventured back into\r\nthis region, some of them piled the skulls of the horses into heaps, and\r\nthese curious monuments were found by white settlers who came into the\r\nvalley some years later, and who named their village Horseheads, in\r\ncommemoration of these relics. The Indians were especially loth to leave\r\nthis region, for their tradition was that it had been the land of the\r\nSenecas from immemorial time, the tribe being descended from a couple\r\nthat had a home on a hill near Horseheads.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nKAYUTA AND WANETA\r\n\r\nThe Indians loved our lakes. They had eyes for their beauty, and to them\r\nthey were abodes of gracious spirits. They used to say of Oneida Lake,\r\nthat when the Great Spirit formed the world “his smile rested on its\r\nwaters and Frenchman's Island rose to greet it; he laughed and Lotus\r\nIsland came up to listen.” So they built lodges on their shores and\r\nskimmed their waters in canoes. Much of their history relates to them,\r\nand this is a tale of the Senecas that was revived a few years ago by the\r\ndiscovery of a deer-skin near Lakes Waneta and Keuka, New York, on which\r\nsome facts of the history were rudely drawn, for all Indians are artists.\r\n\r\nWaneta, daughter of a chief, had plighted her troth to Kayuta, a hunter\r\nof a neighboring tribe with which her people were at war. Their tryst was\r\nheld at twilight on the farther shore of the lake from her village, and\r\nit was her gayety and happiness, after these meetings had taken place,\r\nthat roused the suspicion and jealousy of Weutha, who had marked her for\r\nhis bride against the time when he should have won her father's consent\r\nby some act of bravery. Shadowing the girl as she stole into the forest\r\none evening, he saw her enter her canoe and row to a densely wooded spot;\r\nhe heard a call like the note of a quail, then an answer; then Kayuta\r\nemerged on the shore, lifted the maiden from her little bark, and the\r\ntwain sat down beside the water to listen to the lap of its waves and\r\nwatch the stars come out.\r\n\r\nHurrying back to camp, the spy reported that an enemy was near them, and\r\nalthough Waneta had regained her wigwam by another route before the\r\ncompany of warriors had reached the lake, Kayuta was seen, pursued, and\r\nonly escaped with difficulty. Next evening, not knowing what had happened\r\nafter her homeward departure on the previous night--for the braves deemed\r\nit best to keep the knowledge of their military operations from the\r\nwomen--the girl crept away to the lake again and rowed to the accustomed\r\nplace, but while waiting for the quail call a twig dropped on the water\r\nbeside her. With a quick instinct that civilization has spoiled she\r\nrealized this to be a warning, and remaining perfectly still, she allowed\r\nher boat to drift toward shore, presently discovering that her lover was\r\nstanding waist-deep in the water. In a whisper he told her that they were\r\nwatched, and bade her row to a dead pine that towered at the foot of the\r\nlake, where he would soon meet her. At that instant an arrow grazed his\r\nside and flew quivering into the canoe.\r\n\r\nPushing the boat on its course and telling her to hasten, Kayuta sprang\r\nashore, sounded the warwhoop, and as Weutha rose into sight he clove his\r\nskull with a tomahawk. Two other braves now leaped forward, but, after a\r\nstruggle, Kayuta left them dead or senseless, too. He would have stayed\r\nto tear their scalps off had he not heard his name uttered in a shriek of\r\nagony from the end of the lake, and, tired and bleeding though he was, he\r\nbounded along its margin like a deer, for the voice that he heard was\r\nWaneta's. He reached the blasted pine, gave one look, and sank to the\r\nearth. Presently other Indians came, who had heard the noise of fighting,\r\nand burst upon him with yells and brandished weapons, but something in\r\nhis look restrained them from a close advance. His eyes were fixed on a\r\nstring of beads that lay on the bottom of the lake, just off shore, and\r\nwhen the meaning of it came to them, the savages thought no more of\r\nkilling, but moaned their grief; for Waneta, in stepping from her canoe\r\nto wade ashore, had been caught and swallowed by a quagmire. All night\r\nand all next day Kayuta sat there like a man of stone. Then, just as the\r\nhour fell when he was used to meet his love, his heart broke, and he\r\njoined her in the spiritland.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DROP STAR\r\n\r\nA little maid of three years was missing from her home on the Genesee.\r\nShe had gone to gather water-lilies and did not return. Her mother,\r\nalmost crazed with grief, searched for days, weeks, months, before she\r\ncould resign herself to the thought that her little one--Kayutah, the\r\nDrop Star, the Indians called her--had indeed been drowned. Years went\r\nby. The woman's home was secure against pillage, for it was no longer the\r\none house of a white family in that region, and the Indians had retired\r\nfarther and farther into the wilderness. One day a hunter came to the\r\nwoman and said, “I have seen old Skenandoh,--the last of his tribe, thank\r\nGod! who bade me say this to you: that the ice is broken, and he knows of\r\na hill of snow where a red berry grows that shall be yours if you will\r\nclaim it.” When the meaning of this message came upon her the woman\r\nfainted, but on recovering speech she despatched her nephew to the hut of\r\nthe aged chief and passed that night in prayer.\r\n\r\nThe young man set off at sunset, and by hard riding, over dim trails,\r\nwith only stars for light, he came in the gray of dawn to an upright\r\ntimber, colored red and hung with scalps, that had been cut from white\r\nmen's heads at the massacre of Wyoming. The place they still call Painted\r\nPost. Without drawing rein he sped along the hills that hem Lake Seneca,\r\nthen, striking deeper into the wilds, he reached a smaller lake, and\r\nalmost fell from his saddle before a rude tent near the shore. A new\r\ngrave had been dug close by, and he shuddered to think that perhaps he\r\nhad come too late, but a wrinkled Indian stepped forth at that moment and\r\nwaited his word.\r\n\r\n“I come,” cried the youth,--“to see the berry that springs from snow.”\r\n\r\n“You come in time,” answered Skenandoh. “No, 'tis not in that grave. It\r\nis my own child that is buried there. She was as a sister to the one you\r\nseek, and she bade me restore the Drop Star to her mother,--the squaw\r\nthat we know as the New Moon's Light.”\r\n\r\nStepping into the wigwam, he emerged again, clasping the wrist of a girl\r\nof eighteen, whose robe he tore asunder at the throat, showing the white\r\nbreast, and on it a red birth-mark; then, leading her to the young man,\r\nhe said,--“And now I must go to the setting sun.” He slung a pouch about\r\nhim, loaded, not with arms and food, but stones, stepped into his canoe,\r\nand paddled out upon the water, singing as he went a melancholy\r\nchant--his deathsong. On gaining the middle of the lake he swung his\r\ntomahawk and clove the bottom of the frail boat, so that it filled in a\r\nmoment and the chief sank from sight. The young man took his cousin to\r\nher overjoyed mother, helped to win her back to the ways of civilized\r\nlife, and eventually married her. She took her Christian name again, but\r\nleft to the lake on whose banks she had lived so long her Indian name of\r\nDrop Star--Kayutah.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PROPHET OF PALMYRA\r\n\r\nIt was at Palmyra, New York, that the principles of Mormonism were first\r\nenunciated by Joseph Smith, who claimed to have found the golden plates\r\nof the Book of Mormon in a hill-side in neighboring Manchester,--the\r\n“Hill of Cumorah,”--to which he was led by angels. The plates were\r\nwritten in characters similar to the masonic cabala, and he translated\r\nthem by divine aid, giving to the world the result of his discovery. The\r\nHebrew prophet Mormon was the alleged author of the record, and his son\r\nMoroni buried it. The basis of Mormonism was, however, an unpublished\r\nnovel, called “The Manuscript Found,” that was read to Sidney Rigdon\r\n(afterwards a Mormon elder) by its author, a clergyman, and that\r\nformulated a creed for a hypothetical church. Smith had a slight local\r\ncelebrity, for he and his father were operators with the divining-rod,\r\nand when he appropriated this creed a harmless and beneficent one, for\r\npolygamy was a later “inspiration” of Brigham Young--and began to preach\r\nit, in 1844, it gained many converts. His arrogation of the presidency of\r\nthe “Church of Latter Day Saints” and other rash performances won for him\r\nthe enmity of the Gentiles, who imprisoned and killed him at Carthage,\r\nMissouri, leaving Brigham Young to lead the people across the deserts to\r\nSalt Lake, where they prospered through thrift and industry.\r\n\r\nIt was claimed that in the van of this army, on the march to Utah, was\r\noften seen a venerable man with silver beard, who never spoke, but who\r\nwould point the way whenever the pilgrims were faint or discouraged. When\r\nthey reached the spot where the temple was afterwards built, he struck\r\nhis staff into the earth and vanished.\r\n\r\nAt Hydesville, near Palmyra, spiritualism, as it is commonly called, came\r\ninto being on March 31, 1849, when certain of the departed announced\r\nthemselves by thumping on doors and tables in the house of the Fox\r\nfamily, the survivors of which confessed the fraud nearly forty years\r\nafter. It is of interest to note that the ground whence these new\r\nreligions sprang was peopled by the Onondagas, the sacerdotal class of\r\nthe Algonquin tribe, who have preserved the ancient religious rites of\r\nthat great family until this day.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA VILLAIN'S CREMATION\r\n\r\nBramley's Mountain, near the present village of Bloomfield, New York, on\r\nthe edge of the Catskill group, was the home of a young couple that had\r\nmarried with rejoicing and had taken up the duties and pleasures of\r\nhousekeeping with enthusiasm. To be sure, in those days housekeeping was\r\nnot a thing to be much afraid of, and the servant question had not come\r\nup for discussion. The housewives did the work themselves, and the\r\nhusband had no valets. The domicile of this particular pair was merely a\r\ntent of skins stretched around a frame of poles, and their furniture\r\nconsisted principally of furs strewn over the earth floor; but they loved\r\neach other truly. The girl was thankful to be taken from her home to\r\nlive, because, up to the time of her marriage, she had been persecuted by\r\na morose and ill-looking fellow of her tribe, who laid siege to her\r\naffection with such vehemence that the more he pleaded the greater was\r\nher dislike; and now she hoped that she had seen the last of him. But\r\nthat was not to be. He lurked about the wigwam of the pair, torturing\r\nhimself with the sight of their felicity, and awaiting his chance to\r\nprove his hate. This chance came when the husband had gone to Lake\r\nDelaware to fish, for he rowed after and gave battle in the middle of the\r\npond. Taken by surprise, and being insufficiently armed, the husband was\r\nkilled and his body flung into the water. Then, casting an affectionate\r\nleer at the wife who had watched this act of treachery and malice with\r\nspeechless horror from the mountain-side, he drove his canoe ashore and\r\nset off in pursuit of her. She retreated so slowly as to allow him to\r\nkeep her in sight, and when she entered a cave he pressed forward\r\neagerly, believing that now her escape was impossible; but she had\r\npurposely trapped him there, for she had already explored a tortuous\r\npassage that led to the upper air, and by this she had left the cavern in\r\nsafety while he was groping and calling in the dark. Returning to the\r\nentrance, she loosened, by a jar, a ledge that overhung it, so that the\r\ndoor was almost blocked; then, gathering light wood from the dry trees\r\naround her, she made a fire and hurled the burning sticks into the prison\r\nwhere the wretch was howling, until he was dead in smoke and flame. When\r\nhis yells and curses had been silenced she told a friend what she had\r\ndone, then going back to the lake, she sang her death-song and cast\r\nherself into the water, hoping thus to rejoin her husband.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MONSTER MOSQUITOE\r\n\r\nThey have some pretty big mosquitoes in New Jersey and on Long Island,\r\nbut, if report of their ancestry is true, they have degenerated in size\r\nand voracity; for the grandfather of all mosquitoes used to live in the\r\nneighborhood of Fort Onondaga, New York, and sallying out whenever he was\r\nhungry, would eat an Indian or two and pick his teeth with their ribs.\r\nThe red men had no arms that could prevail against it, but at last the\r\nHolder of the Heavens, hearing their cry for aid, came down and attacked\r\nthe insect. Finding that it had met its match, the mosquito flew away so\r\nrapidly that its assailant could hardly keep it in sight. It flew around\r\nthe great lake, then turned eastward again. It sought help vainly of the\r\nwitches that brooded in the sink-holes, or Green Lakes (near Janesville,\r\nNew York), and had reached the salt lake of Onondaga when its pursuer\r\ncame up and killed it, the creature piling the sand into hills in its\r\ndying struggles.\r\n\r\nAs its blood poured upon the earth it became small mosquitoes, that\r\ngathered about the Holder of the Heavens and stung him so sorely that he\r\nhalf repented the service that he had done to men. The Tuscaroras say\r\nthat this was one of two monsters that stood on opposite banks of the\r\nSeneca River and slew all men that passed. Hiawatha killed the other one.\r\nOn their reservation is a stone, marked by the form of the Sky Holder,\r\nthat shows where he rested during the chase, while his tracks were until\r\nlately seen south of Syracuse, alternating with footprints of the\r\nmosquito, which were shaped like those of a bird, and twenty inches long.\r\nAt Brighton, New York, where these marks appeared, they were\r\nreverentially renewed by the Indians for many years.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE GREEN PICTURE\r\n\r\nIn a cellar in Green Street, Schenectady, there appeared, some years ago,\r\nthe silhouette of a human form, painted on the floor in mould. It was\r\nswept and scrubbed away, but presently it was there again, and month by\r\nmonth, after each removal, it returned: a mass of fluffy mould, always in\r\nthe shape of a recumbent man. When it was found that the house stood on\r\nthe site of the old Dutch burial ground, the gossips fitted this and that\r\ntogether and concluded that the mould was planted by a spirit whose\r\nmortal part was put to rest a century and more ago, on the spot covered\r\nby the house, and that the spirit took this way of apprising people that\r\nthey were trespassing on its grave. Others held that foul play had been\r\ndone, and that a corpse, hastily and shallowly buried, was yielding\r\nitself back to the damp cellar in vegetable form, before its resolution\r\ninto simpler elements. But a darker meaning was that it was the outline\r\nof a vampire that vainly strove to leave its grave, and could not because\r\na virtuous spell had been worked about the place.\r\n\r\nA vampire is a dead man who walks about seeking for those whose blood he\r\ncan suck, for only by supplying new life to its cold limbs can he keep\r\nthe privilege of moving about the earth. He fights his way from his\r\ncoffin, and those who meet his gray and stiffened shape, with fishy eyes\r\nand blackened mouth, lurking by open windows, biding his time to steal in\r\nand drink up a human life, fly from him in terror and disgust. In\r\nnorthern Rhode Island those who die of consumption are believed to be\r\nvictims of vampires who work by charm, draining the blood by slow\r\ndraughts as they lie in their graves. To lay this monster he must be\r\ntaken up and burned; at least, his heart must be; and he must be\r\ndisinterred in the daytime when he is asleep and unaware. If he died with\r\nblood in his heart he has this power of nightly resurrection. As late as\r\n1892 the ceremony of heart-burning was performed at Exeter, Rhode Island,\r\nto save the family of a dead woman that was threatened with the same\r\ndisease that removed her, namely, consumption. But the Schenectady\r\nvampire has yielded up all his substance, and the green picture is no\r\nmore.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE NUNS OF CARTHAGE\r\n\r\nAt Carthage, New York, where the Black River bends gracefully about a\r\npoint, there was a stanch old house, built in the colonial fashion and\r\ndesigned for the occupancy of some family of hospitality and wealth, but\r\nthe family died out or moved away, and for some years it remained\r\ndeserted. During the war of 1812 the village gossips were excited by the\r\nappearance of carpenters, painters and upholsterers, and it was evident\r\nthat the place was to be restored to its manorial dignities; but their\r\ncuriosity was deepened instead of satisfied when, after the house had\r\nbeen put in order and high walls built around it, the occupants presented\r\nthemselves as four young women in the garb of nuns. Were they daughters\r\nof the family? Were they English sympathizers in disguise, seeking asylum\r\nin the days of trouble? Had they registered a vow of celibacy until their\r\nlovers should return from the war? Were they on a secret and diplomatic\r\nerrand? None ever knew, at least in Carthage. The nuns lived in great\r\nprivacy, but in a luxury before unequalled in that part of the country.\r\nThey kept a gardener, they received from New York wines and delicacies\r\nthat others could not afford, and when they took the air, still veiled,\r\nit was behind a splendid pair of bays.\r\n\r\nOne afternoon, just after the close of the war, a couple of young\r\nAmerican officers went to the convent, and, contrary to all precedent,\r\nwere admitted. They remained within all that day, and no one saw them\r\nleave, but a sound of wheels passed through the street that evening. Next\r\nday there were no signs of life about the place, nor the day following,\r\nnor the next. The savage dog was quiet and the garden walks had gone\r\nunswept. Some neighbors climbed over the wall and reported that the place\r\nhad been deserted. Why and by whom no one ever knew, but a cloud remained\r\nupon its title until a recent day, for it was thought that at some time\r\nthe nuns might return.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SKULL IN THE WALL\r\n\r\nA skull is built into the wall above the door of the court-house at\r\nGoshen, New York. It was taken from a coffin unearthed in 1842, when the\r\nfoundation of the building was laid. People said there was no doubt about\r\nit, only Claudius Smith could have worn that skull, and he deserved to be\r\npublicly pilloried in that manner. Before the Revolutionary war Smith was\r\na farmer in Monroe, New York, and being prosperous enough to feel the\r\nking's taxes no burden, to say nothing of his jealousy of the advantage\r\nthat an independent government would be to the hopes of his poorer\r\nneighbors, he declared for the king. After the declaration of\r\nindependence had been published, his sympathies were illustrated in an\r\nunpleasantly practical manner by gathering a troop of other Tories about\r\nhim, and, emboldened by the absence of most of the men of his vicinage in\r\nthe colonial army, he began to harass the country as grievously in foray\r\nas the red-coats were doing in open field.\r\n\r\nHe pillaged houses and barns, then burned them; he insulted women, he\r\ndrove away cattle and horses, he killed several persons who had\r\nundertaken to defend their property. His “campaigns” were managed with\r\nsuch secrecy that nobody knew when or whence to look for him. His murder\r\nof Major Nathaniel Strong, of Blooming Grove, roused indignation to such\r\na point that a united effort was made to catch him, a money reward for\r\nsuccess acting as a stimulus to the vigilance of the hunters, and at last\r\nhe was captured on Long Island. He was sent back to Goshen, tried,\r\nconvicted, and on January 22, 1779, was hanged, with five of his band.\r\nThe bodies of the culprits were buried in the jail-yard, on the spot\r\nwhere the court-house stands, and old residents identified Smith's\r\nskeleton, when it was accidentally exhumed, by its uncommon size. A\r\nfarmer from an adjacent town made off with a thigh bone, and a mason\r\nclapped mortar into the empty skull and cemented it into the wall, where\r\nit long remained.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HAUNTED MILL\r\n\r\nAmong the settlers in the Adirondacks, forty or fifty years ago, was\r\nHenry Clymer, from Brooklyn, who went up to Little Black Creek and tried\r\nto make a farm out of the gnarly, stumpy land; but being a green hand at\r\nthat sort of thing, he soon gave it up and put up the place near\r\nNorthwood, that is locally referred to as the haunted mill. When the\r\nfirst slab was cut, a big party was on hand to cheer and eat pie in honor\r\nof the Clymers, for Mr. Clymer, who was a dark, hearty, handsome fellow,\r\nand his bright young wife had been liberal in their hospitality. The\r\ncouple had made some talk, they were so loving before folks--too loving\r\nto last; and, besides, it was evident that Mrs. Clymer was used to a\r\nbetter station in life than her husband. It was while the crowd was\r\nlaughing and chattering at the picnic-table of new boards from the mill\r\nthat Mrs. Clymer stole away to her modest little house, and a neighbor\r\nwho had followed her was an accidental witness to a singular episode.\r\nMrs. Clymer was kneeling beside her bed, crying over the picture of a\r\nchild, when Clymer entered unexpectedly and attempted to take the picture\r\nfrom her.\r\n\r\nShe faced him defiantly. “You kept that because it looked like him, I\r\nreckon,” he said. “You might run back to him. You know what he'd call you\r\nand where you'd stand with your aristocracy.”\r\n\r\nThe woman pointed to the door, and the man left without another word, and\r\nso did the listener. Next morning the body of Mrs. Clymer was found\r\nhanging to a beam in the mill. At the inquest the husband owned that he\r\nhad “had a few words” with her on the previous day, and thought that she\r\nmust have suddenly become insane. The jury took this view. News of the\r\nsuicide was printed in some of the city papers, and soon after that the\r\ngossips had another sensation, for a fair-haired man, also from Brooklyn,\r\narrived at the place and asked where the woman was buried. When he found\r\nthe grave he sat beside it for some time, his head resting on his hand;\r\nthen he inquired for Clymer, but Clymer, deadly pale, had gone into the\r\nwoods as soon as he heard that a stranger had arrived. The new-comer went\r\nto Trenton, where he ordered a gravestone bearing the single word\r\n“Estella” to be placed where the woman's body had been interred. Clymer\r\nquickly sold out and disappeared. The mill never prospered, and has long\r\nbeen in a ruinous condition. People of the neighborhood think that the\r\nghost of Mrs. Clymer--was that her name?--still troubles it, and they\r\npass the place with quickened steps.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOLD INDIAN FACE\r\n\r\nOn Lower Ausable Pond is a large, ruddy rock showing a huge profile, with\r\nanother, resembling a pappoose, below it. When the Tahawi ruled this\r\nregion their sachem lived here at “the Dark Cup,” as they called this\r\nlake, a man renowned for virtue and remarkable, in his age, for\r\ngentleness. When his children had died and his manly grandson, who was\r\nthe old man's hope, had followed them to the land of the cloud mountains,\r\nAdota's heart withered within him, and standing beneath this rock, he\r\naddressed his people, recounting what he had done for them, how he had\r\nswept their enemies from the Lakes of the Clustered Stars (the Lower\r\nSaranac) and Silver Sky (Upper Saranac) to the Lake of Wandah, gaining a\r\nland where they might hunt and fish in peace. The little one, the Star,\r\nhad been ravished away to crown the brow of the thunder god, who, even\r\nnow, was advancing across the peaks, bending the woods and lighting the\r\nvalleys with his jagged torches.\r\n\r\nLife was nothing to him longer; he resigned it.\r\n\r\nAs he spoke these words he fell back, and the breath passed out of him.\r\nThen came the thunder god, and with an appalling burst of fire sent the\r\npeople cowering. The roar that followed seemed to shake the earth, but\r\nthe medicine-man of the tribe stood still, listening to the speech of the\r\ngod in the clouds. “Tribe of the Tahawi,” he translated, “Adota treads\r\nthe star-path to the happy hunting-grounds, and the sun is shining on his\r\nheart. He will never walk among you again, but the god loves both him and\r\nyou, and he will set his face on the mountains. Look!” And, raising their\r\neyes, they beheld the likeness of Adota and of his beloved child, the\r\nStar, graven by lightning-stroke on the cliff. There they buried the body\r\nof Adota and held their solemn festivals until the white men drove them\r\nout of the country.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DIVISION OF THE SARANACS\r\n\r\nIn the middle of the last century a large body of Saranac Indians\r\noccupied the forests of the Upper Saranac through which ran the Indian\r\ncarrying-place, called by them the Eagle Nest Trail. Whenever they raided\r\nthe Tahawi on the slopes of Mount Tahawus (Sky-splitter), there was a\r\npleasing rivalry between two young athletes, called the Wolf and the\r\nEagle, as to which would carry off the more scalps, and the tribe was\r\ndivided in admiration of them. There was one who did not share this\r\nliking: an old sachem, one of the wizards who had escaped when the Great\r\nSpirit locked these workers of evil in the hollow trees that stood beside\r\nthe trail. In their struggles to escape the less fortunate ones thrust\r\ntheir arms through the closing bark, and they are seen there, as withered\r\ntrunks and branches, to this day. Oquarah had not been softened by this\r\nexhibition of danger nor the qualification of mercy that allowed him\r\nstill to exist. Rather he was more bitter when he saw, as he fancied,\r\nthat the tribe thought more of the daring and powerful warriors than it\r\ndid of the bent and malignant-minded counsellor.\r\n\r\nIt was in the moon of green leaves that the two young men set off to hunt\r\nthe moose, and on the next day the Wolf returned alone. He explained that\r\nin the hunt they had been separated; he had called for hours for his\r\nfriend, and had searched so long that he concluded he must have returned\r\nahead of him. But he was not at the camp. Up rose the sachem with visage\r\ndark. “I hear a forked tongue,” he cried. “The Wolf was jealous of the\r\nEagle and his teeth have cut into his heart.”\r\n\r\n“The Wolf cannot lie,” answered the young man.\r\n\r\n“Where is the Eagle?” angrily shouted the sachem, clutching his hatchet.\r\n\r\n“The Wolf has said,” replied the other.\r\n\r\nThe old sachem advanced upon him, but as he raised his axe to strike, the\r\nwife of the Wolf threw herself before her husband, and the steel sank\r\ninto her brain. The sachem fell an instant later with the Wolf's knife in\r\nhis heart, and instantly the camp was in turmoil. Before the day had\r\npassed it had been broken up, and the people were divided into factions,\r\nfor it was no longer possible to hold it together in peace. The Wolf,\r\nwith half of the people, went down the Sounding River to new\r\nhunting-grounds, and the earth that separated the families was reddened\r\nwhenever one side met the other.\r\n\r\nYears had passed when, one morning, the upper tribe saw a canoe advancing\r\nacross the Lake of the Silver Sky. An old man stepped from it: he was the\r\nEagle. After the Wolf had left him he had fallen into a cleft in a rock,\r\nand had lain helpless until found by hunters who were on their way to\r\nCanada. He had joined the British against the French, had married a\r\nnorthern squaw, but had returned to die among the people of his early\r\nlove. Deep was his sorrow that his friend should have been accused of\r\ndoing him an injury, and that the once happy tribe should have been\r\ndivided by that allegation. The warriors and sachems of both branches\r\nwere summoned to a council, and in his presence they swore a peace, so\r\nthat in the fulness of time he was able to die content. That peace was\r\nalways kept.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN EVENT IN INDIAN PARK\r\n\r\nIt was during the years when the Saranacs were divided that Howling Wind,\r\none of the young men of Indian Carry, saw and fell in love with a girl of\r\nthe family on Tupper Lake. He quickly found a way to tell his liking, and\r\nthe couple met often in the woods and on the shore. He made bold to row\r\nher around the quieter bays, and one moonlight evening he took her to\r\nDevil's Rock, or Devil's Pulpit, where he told her the story of the\r\nplace. This was to the effect that the fiend had paddled, on timbers, by\r\nmeans of his tail, to that rock, and had assembled fish and game about\r\nhim in large numbers by telling them that he was going to preach to them,\r\ninstead of which moral procedure he pounced upon and ate all that were\r\nwithin his grasp.\r\n\r\nAs so often happened in Indian history, the return of these lovers was\r\nseen by a disappointed rival, who had hurried back to camp and secured\r\nthe aid of half a dozen men to arrest the favored one as soon as he\r\nshould land. The capture was made after a struggle, and Howling Wind was\r\ndragged to the chief's tent for sentence. That sentence was death, and\r\nwith a refinement of cruelty that was rare even among the Indians, the\r\ngirl was ordered to execute it. She begged and wept to no avail. An axe\r\nwas put into her hands, and she was ordered to despatch the prisoner. She\r\ntook the weapon; her face grew stern and the tears dried on her cheeks;\r\nher lover, bound to a tree, gazed at her in amazement; his rival watched,\r\nalmost in glee. Slowly the girl crossed the open space to her lover. She\r\nraised the tomahawk and at a blow severed the thongs that held him, then,\r\nlike a flash, she leaped upon his rival, who had sprung forward to\r\ninterfere, and clove his skull with a single stroke. The lovers fled as\r\nonly those can fly who run for life. Happily for them, they met a party\r\nfrom the Carry coming to rescue Howling Wind from the danger to which his\r\ncourtship had exposed him, and it was even said that this party entered\r\nthe village and by presenting knives and arrows at the breast of the\r\nchief obtained his now superfluous consent to the union of the fugitives.\r\nThe pair reached the Carry in safety and lived a long and happy life\r\ntogether.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE INDIAN PLUME\r\n\r\nBrightest flower that grows beside the brooks is the scarlet blossom of\r\nthe Indian plume: the blood of Lenawee. Hundreds of years ago she lived\r\nhappily among her brother and sister Saranacs beside Stony Creek, the\r\nStream of the Snake, and was soon to marry the comely youth who, for the\r\nspeed of his foot, was called the Arrow. But one summer the Quick Death\r\ncame on the people, and as the viewless devil stalked through the village\r\nyoung and old fell before him. The Arrow was the first to die. In vain\r\nthe Prophet smoked the Great Calumet: its smoke ascending took no shape\r\nthat he could read. In vain was the white dog killed to take aloft the\r\npeople's sins. But at last the Great Spirit himself came down to the\r\nmountain called the Storm Darer, splendid in lightning, awful in his\r\nthunder voice and robe of cloud. “My wrath is against you for your sins,”\r\n he cried, “and naught but human blood will appease it.”\r\n\r\nIn the morning the Prophet told his message, and all sat silent for a\r\ntime. Then Lenawee entered the circle. “Lenawee is a blighted flower,”\r\n she sobbed. “Let her blood flow for her people.” And catching a knife\r\nfrom the Prophet's belt, she ran with it to the stream on which she and\r\nthe Arrow had so often floated in their canoe. In another moment her\r\nblood had bedewed the earth. “Lay me with the Arrow,” she murmured, and,\r\nsmiling in their sad faces, breathed her last. The demon of the quick\r\ndeath shrank from the spot, and the Great Spirit smiled once more on the\r\ntribe that could produce such heroism. Lenawee's body was placed beside\r\nher lover's, and next morning, where her blood had spilt, the ground was\r\npure, and on it grew in slender spires a new flower,--the Indian plume:\r\nthe transformed blood of sacrifice. The people loved that flower in all\r\nyears after. They decked their hair and dresses with it and made a feast\r\nin its honor. When parents taught their children the beauty of\r\nunselfishness they used as its emblem a stalk of Indian plume.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBIRTH OF THE WATER-LILY\r\n\r\nBack from his war against the Tahawi comes the Sun, chief of the Lower\r\nSaranacs,--back to the Lake of the Clustered Stars, afterward called, by\r\ndullards, Tupper's Lake. Tall and invincible he comes among his people,\r\nboasting of his victories, Indian fashion, and stirring the scalps that\r\nhang at his breast. “The Eagle screams,” he cries. “He greets the chief,\r\nthe Blazing Sun. Wayotah has made the Tahawi tremble. They fly from him.\r\nHooh, hooh! He is the chief.” Standing apart with wistful glance stands\r\nOseetah, the Bird. She loves the strong young chief, but she knows that\r\nanother has his promise, and she dares not hope; yet the chief loves her,\r\nand when the feasting is over he follows her footprints to the shore,\r\nwhere he sees her canoe turning the point of an island. He silently\r\npursues and comes upon her as she sits waving and moaning. He tries to\r\nembrace her, but she draws apart. He asks her to sing to him; she bids\r\nhim begone.\r\n\r\nHe takes a more imperious tone and orders her to listen to her chief. She\r\nmoves away. He darts toward her. Turning on him a face of sorrow, she\r\nruns to the edge of a steep rock and waves him back. He hastens after.\r\nThen she springs and disappears in the deep water. The Sun plunges after\r\nher and swims with mad strength here and there. He calls. There is no\r\nanswer. Slowly he returns to the village and tells the people what has\r\nhappened. The Bird's parents are stricken and the Sun moans in his sleep.\r\nAt noon a hunter comes in with strange tidings: flowers are growing on\r\nthe water! The people go to their canoes and row to the Island of Elms.\r\nThere, in a cove, the still water is enamelled with flowers, some as\r\nwhite as snow, filling the air with perfume, others strong and yellow,\r\nlike the lake at sunset.\r\n\r\n“Explain to us,” they cry, turning to the old Medicine of his tribe, “for\r\nthis was not so yesterday.”\r\n\r\n“It is our daughter,” he answered. “These flowers are the form she\r\ntakes. The white is her purity, the yellow her love. You shall see that\r\nher heart will close when the sun sets, and will reopen at his coming.”\r\n And the young chief went apart and bowed his head.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nROGERS'S SLIDE\r\n\r\nThe shores of Lakes George and Champlain were ravaged by war. Up and down\r\nthose lovely waters swept the barges of French and English, and the green\r\nhills rang to the shrill of bugles, the boom of cannon, and the yell of\r\nsavages. Fiction and history have been weft across the woods and the\r\nmemory of deeds still echoes among the heights. It was at Glen's Falls,\r\nin the cave on the rock in the middle of the river, that the brave Uncas\r\nheld the watch with Hawkeye. Bloody Defile and Bloody Pond, between there\r\nand Lake George, take their names from the “Bloody morning scout” sent\r\nout by Sir William Johnson on a September day in 1755 to check Dieskau\r\nuntil Fort William Henry could be completed. In the action that ensued,\r\nColonel Williams, founder of Williams College, and Captain Grant, of the\r\nConnecticut line, great-grandfather of the President who bore that name,\r\nwere killed. The victims, dead and wounded alike, having been flung into\r\nBloody Pond, it was thick and red for days, and tradition said that in\r\nafter years it resumed its hue of crimson at sunset and held it until\r\ndawn. The captured, who were delivered to the Indians, had little to\r\nhope, for their white allies could not stay their savagery. Blind Rock\r\nwas so called because the Indians brought a white man there, and tearing\r\nhis eyes out, flung them into embers at the foot of the stone. Captives\r\nwere habitually tortured, blazing splinters of pine being thrust into\r\ntheir flesh, their nails torn out, and their bodies slashed with knives\r\nbefore they went to the stake. An English prisoner was allowed to run the\r\ngauntlet here. They had already begun to strike at him as he sped between\r\nthe lines, when he seized a pappoose, flung it on a fire, and, in the\r\ninstant of confusion that followed, snatched an axe, cut the bonds of a\r\ncomrade who had been doomed to die, and both escaped.\r\n\r\nBut the best-known history of this region is that of Rogers's Rock, or\r\nRogers's Slide, a lofty precipice at the lower end of Lake George. Major\r\nRogers did not toboggan down this rock in leather trousers, but his\r\nescape was no less remarkable than if he had. On March 13, 1758, while\r\nreconnoitring near Ticonderoga with two hundred rangers, he was surprised\r\nby a force of French and Indians. But seventeen of his men escaped death\r\nor capture, and he was pursued nearly to the brink of this cliff. During\r\na brief delay among the red men, arising from the loss of his trail, he\r\nhad time to throw his pack down the slide, reverse his snow-shoes, and go\r\nback over his own track to the head of a ravine before they emerged from\r\nthe woods, and, seeing that his shoe-marks led to the rock, while none\r\npointed back, they concluded that he had flung himself off and committed\r\nsuicide to avoid capture. Great was their disappointment when they saw\r\nthe major on the frozen surface of the lake beneath going at a lively\r\nrate toward Fort William Henry. He had gained the ice by way of the cleft\r\nin the rocks, but the savages, believing that he had leaped over the\r\nprecipice, attributed his preservation to the Great Spirit and forbore to\r\nfire on him. Unconsciously, he had chosen the best possible place to\r\ndisappear from, for the Indians held it in superstitious regard,\r\nbelieving that spirits haunted the wood and hurled bad souls down the\r\ncliff, drowning them in the lake, instead of allowing them to go to the\r\nhappy hunting grounds. The major reached his quarters in safety, and\r\nlived to take up arms against the land of his birth when the colonies\r\nrevolted, seventeen years later.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE FALLS AT COHOES\r\n\r\nWhen Occuna, a young Seneca, fell in love with a girl whose cabin was\r\nnear the present town of Cohoes, he behaved very much as Americans of a\r\nlater date have done. He picked wild flowers for her; he played on the\r\nbone pipe and sang sentimental songs in the twilight; he roamed the hills\r\nwith her, gathering the loose quartz crystals that the Indians believed\r\nto be the tears of stricken deer, save on Diamond Rock, in Lansingburgh,\r\nwhere they are the tears of Moneta, a bereaved mother and wife; and in\r\nfine weather they went boating on the Mohawk above the rapids. They liked\r\nto drift idly on the current, because it gave them time to gaze into each\r\nother's eyes, and to build air castles that they would live in in the\r\nfuture. They were suddenly called to a realization of danger one evening,\r\nfor the stream had been subtly drawing them on and on until it had them\r\nin its power. The stroke of the paddle failed and the air castles fell in\r\ndismal ruin. Sitting erect they began their death-song in this wise:\r\n\r\nOccuna: “Daughter of a mighty warrior, the Manitou calls me hence. I hear\r\nthe roaring of his voice; I see the lightning of his glance along the\r\nriver; he walks in clouds and spray upon the waters.”\r\n\r\nThe Maiden: “Thou art thyself a warrior, O Occuna. Hath not thine axe\r\nbeen often bathed in blood? Hath the deer ever escaped thine arrow or the\r\nbeaver avoided thy chase? Thou wilt not fear to go into the presence of\r\nManitou.”\r\n\r\nOccuna: “Manitou, indeed, respects the strong. When I chose thee from the\r\nwomen of our tribe I promised that we should live and die together. The\r\nThunderer calls us now. Welcome, O ghost of Oriska, chief of the\r\ninvincible Senecas! A warrior and the daughter of a warrior come to join\r\nyou in the feast of the blessed!”\r\n\r\nThe boat leaped over the falls, and Occuna, striking on the rocks below,\r\nwas killed at once; but, as by a miracle, the girl fell clear of them and\r\nwas whirled on the seething current to shoal water, where she made her\r\nescape. For his strength and his virtues the dead man was canonized. His\r\ntribe raised him above the regions of the moon, whence he looked down on\r\nthe scenes of his youth with pleasure, and in times of war gave pleasant\r\ndreams and promises to his friends, while he confused the enemy with evil\r\nomens. Whenever his tribe passed the falls they halted and with brief\r\nceremonials commemorated the death of Occuna.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nFRANCIS WOOLCOTT'S NIGHT-RIDERS\r\n\r\nIn Copake, New York, among the Berkshire Hills, less than a century ago,\r\nlived Francis Woolcott, a dark, tall man, with protruding teeth, whose\r\nsinister laugh used to give his neighbors a creep along their spines. He\r\nhad no obvious trade or calling, but the farmers feared him so that he\r\nhad no trouble in making levies: pork, flour, meal, cider, he could have\r\nwhat he chose for the asking, for had he not halted horses at the plow so\r\nthat neither blows nor commands could move them for two hours? Had he not\r\nset farmer Raught's pigs to walking on their hind legs and trying to\r\ntalk? When he shouted “Hup! hup! hup!” to farmer Williams's children, had\r\nthey not leaped to the moulding of the parlor wainscot,--a yard above the\r\nfloor and only an inch wide,--and walked around it, afterward skipping\r\nlike birds from chair-back to chair-back, while the furniture stood as if\r\nnailed to the floor? And was he not the chief of thirteen night-riders,\r\nwhose faces no man had seen, nor wanted to see, and whom he sent about\r\nthe country on errands of mischief every night when the moon was growing\r\nold? As to moons, had he not found a mystic message from our satellite on\r\nMount Riga, graven on a meteor?\r\n\r\nHorses' tails were tied, hogs foamed at the mouth and walked like men,\r\ncows gave blood for milk. These night-riders met Woolcott in a grove of\r\nash and chestnut trees, each furnished with a stolen bundle of oat straw,\r\nand these bundles Woolcott changed to black horses when the night had\r\ngrown dark enough not to let the way of the change be seen. These horses\r\ncould not cross streams of water, and on the stroke of midnight they fell\r\nto pieces and were oaten sheaves once more, but during their time of\r\naction they rushed through woods, bearing their riders safely, and tore\r\nlike hurricanes across the fields, leaping bushes, fences, even trees,\r\nwithout effort. Never could traces be found of them the next day. At last\r\nthe devil came to claim his own. Woolcott, who was ninety years old, lay\r\nsick and helpless in his cabin. Clergymen refused to see him, but two or\r\nthree of his neighbors stifled their fears and went to the wizard's house\r\nto soothe his dying moments. With the night came storm, and with its\r\noutbreak the old man's face took on such a strange and horrible look that\r\nthe watchers fell back in alarm. There was a burst of purple flame at the\r\nwindow, a frightful peal, a smell of sulphur, and Woolcott was dead. When\r\nthe watchers went out the roads were dry, and none in the village had\r\nheard wind, rain, or thunder. It was the coming of the fiend.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPOLLY'S LOVER\r\n\r\nIn about the middle of this century a withered woman of ninety was buried\r\nfrom a now deserted house in White Plains, New York, Polly Carter the\r\nname of her, but “Crazy Polly” was what the neighbors called her, for she\r\nwas eccentric and not fond of company. Among the belongings of her house\r\nwas a tall clock, such as relic hunters prize, that ticked solemnly in a\r\nlanding on the stairs.\r\n\r\nFor a time, during the Revolution, the house stood within the British\r\nlines, and as her father was a colonel in Washington's army she was left\r\nalmost alone in it. The British officers respected her sex, but they had\r\nan unpleasant way of running in unannounced and demanding entertainment,\r\nin the king's name, which she felt forced to grant. One rainy afternoon\r\nthe door was flung open, then locked on the inside, and she found herself\r\nin the arms of a stalwart, handsome lieutenant, who wore the blue. It was\r\nher cousin and fiance. Their glad talk had not been going long when there\r\ncame a rousing summons at the door. Three English officers were awaiting\r\nadmittance.\r\n\r\nPerhaps they had seen Lawrence Carter go into the house, and if caught he\r\nwould be killed as a spy. He must be hidden, but in some place where they\r\nwould not think of looking. The clock! That was the place. With a laugh\r\nand a kiss the young man submitted to be shut in this narrow quarter, and\r\nthrowing his coat and hat behind some furniture the girl admitted the\r\nofficers, who were wet and surly and demanded dinner. They tramped about\r\nthe best room in their muddy boots, talking loudly, and in order to break\r\nthe effect of the chill weather they passed the brandy bottle freely.\r\nPolly served them with a dinner as quickly as possible, for she wanted to\r\nget them out of the house, but they were in no mood to go, and the bottle\r\npassed so often that before the dinner was over they were noisy and tipsy\r\nand were using language that drove Polly from the room.\r\n\r\nAt last, to her relief, she heard them preparing to leave the house, but\r\nas they were about to go the senior officer, looking up at the landing,\r\nnow dim in the paling light, said to one of the others, “See what time it\r\nis.” The officer addressed, who happened to be the drunkest of the party,\r\nstaggered up the stair and exclaimed, “The d---d thing's stopped.” Then,\r\nas if he thought it a good joke, he added, “It'll never go again.”\r\n Drawing his sabre he gave the clock a careless cut and ran the blade\r\nthrough the panel of the door; after this the three passed out. When\r\ntheir voices had died in distant brawling, Polly ran to release her\r\nlover. Something thick and dark was creeping from beneath the clock-case.\r\nWith trembling fingers she pulled open the door, and Lawrence, her lover,\r\nfell heavily forward into her arms, dead. The officer was right: the\r\nclock never went again.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCROSBY, THE PATRIOT SPY\r\n\r\nIt was at the Jay house, in Westchester, New York, that Enoch Crosby met\r\nWashington and offered his services to the patriot army. Crosby was a\r\ncobbler, and not a very thriving one, but after the outbreak of\r\nhostilities he took a peddler's outfit on his back and, as a\r\nnon-combatant, of Tory sympathies, he obtained admission through the\r\nBritish lines. After his first visit to head quarters it is certain that\r\nhe always carried Sir Henry Clinton's passport in the middle of his pack,\r\nand so sure were his neighbors that he was in the service of the British\r\nthat they captured him and took him to General Washington, but while his\r\ncase was up for debate he managed to slip his handcuffs, which were not\r\nsecure, and made off. Clinton, on the other hand, was puzzled by the\r\nunaccountable foresight of the Americans, for every blow that he prepared\r\nto strike was met, and he lost time and chance and temper. As if the\r\nsuspicion of both armies and the hatred of his neighbors were not enough\r\nto contend against, Crosby now became an object of interest to the\r\nSkinners and Cowboys, who were convinced that he was making money,\r\nsomehow, and resolved to have it.\r\n\r\nThe Skinners were camp-followers of the American troops and the Cowboys a\r\nband of Tories and renegade British. Both factions were employed,\r\nostensibly, in foraging for their respective armies, but, in reality, for\r\nthemselves, and the farmers and citizens occupying the neutral belt north\r\nof Manhattan Island had reason to curse them both impartially. While\r\nthese fellows were daring thieves, they occasionally got the worst of it,\r\neven in the encounters with the farmers, as on the Neperan, near\r\nTarrytown, where the Cowboys chased a woman to death, but were afterward\r\ncut to pieces by the enraged neighbors. Hers is but one of the many\r\nghosts that haunt the neutral ground, and the croaking of the birds of\r\nill luck that nest at Raven rock is blended with the cries of her dim\r\nfigure. Still, graceless as these fellows were, they affected a loyalty\r\nto their respective sides, and were usually willing to fight each other\r\nwhen they met, especially for the plunder that was to be got by fighting.\r\n\r\nIn October, 1780, Claudius Smith, “king of the Cowboys,” and three\r\nscalawag sons came to the conclusion that it was time for Crosby's money\r\nto revert to the crown, and they set off toward his little house one\r\nevening, sure of finding him in, for his father was seriously ill. The\r\nSmiths arrived there to find that the Skinners had preceded them on the\r\nsame errand, and they recognized through the windows, in the leader of\r\nthe band, a noted brigand on whose head a price was laid. He was\r\nsearching every crack and cranny of the room, while Crosby, stripped to\r\nshirt and trousers, stood before the empty fireplace and begged for that\r\nnight to be left alone with his dying father.\r\n\r\n“To hell with the old man!” roared the Skinner. “Give up your gold, or\r\nwe'll put you to the torture,” and he significantly whirled the end of a\r\nrope that he carried about his waist. At that moment the faint voice of\r\nthe old man was heard calling from another room.\r\n\r\n“Take all that I have and let me go!” cried Crosby, and turning up a\r\nbrick in the fire-place he disclosed a handful of gold, his life savings.\r\nThe leader still tried to oppose his exit, but Crosby flung him to the\r\nfloor and rushed away to his father, while the brigand, deeming it well\r\nto delay rising, dug his fingers into the hollow and began to extract the\r\nsovereigns. At that instant four muskets were discharged from without:\r\nthere was a crash of glass, a yell of pain, and four of the Skinners\r\nrolled bleeding on the floor; two others ran into the darkness and\r\nescaped; their leader, trying to follow, was met at the threshold by the\r\nSmiths, who clutched the gold out of his hand and pinioned his elbows in\r\na twinkling.\r\n\r\n“I thought ye'd like to know who's got ye,” said old Smith, peering into\r\nthe face of the astonished and crestfallen robber, “for I've told ye many\r\na time to keep out of my way, and now ye've got to swing for getting into\r\nit.”\r\n\r\nWithin five minutes of the time that he had got his clutch on Crosby's\r\nmoney the bandit was choking to death at the end of his own rope, hung\r\nfrom the limb of an apple-tree, and, having secured the gold, the Cowboys\r\nwent their way into the darkness. Crosby soon made his appearance in the\r\nranks of the Continentals, and, though they looked askant at him for a\r\ntime, they soon discovered the truth and hailed him as a hero, for the\r\ninformation he had carried to Washington from Clinton's camp had often\r\nsaved them from disaster. He had survived attack in his own house through\r\nthe falling out of rogues, and he survived the work and hazard of war\r\nthrough luck and a sturdy frame. Congress afterwards gave him a sum of\r\nmoney larger than had been taken from him, for his chief had commended\r\nhim in these lines: “Circumstances of political importance, which\r\ninvolved the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what\r\nthis paper now reveals. Enoch Crosby has for years been a faithful and\r\nunrequited servant of his country. Though man does not, God may reward\r\nhim for his conduct. GEORGE WASHINGTON.”\r\n\r\nAssociated with Crosby in his work of getting information from the enemy\r\nwas a man named Gainos, who kept an inn on the neutral ground, that was\r\noften raided. Being assailed by Cowboys once, Gainos, with his tenant and\r\nstable-boys, fired at the bandits together, just as the latter had forced\r\nhis front door, then stepping quickly forward he slashed off the head of\r\nthe leader with a cutlass. The retreating crew dumped the body into a\r\nwell on the premises, and there it sits on the crumbling curb o' nights\r\nlooking disconsolately for its head.\r\n\r\nIt may also be mentioned that the Skinners had a chance to revenge\r\nthemselves on the Cowboys for their defeat at the Crosby house. They fell\r\nupon the latter at the tent-shaped cave in Yonkers,--it is called\r\nWashington's Cave, because the general napped there on bivouac,--and not\r\nonly routed them, but secured so much of their treasure that they were\r\nable to be honest for several years after.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LOST GRAVE OF PAINE\r\n\r\nFailure to mark the resting-places of great men and to indicate the\r\nscenes of their deeds has led to misunderstanding and confusion among\r\nthose who discover a regard for history and tradition in this practical\r\nage. Robert Fulton, who made steam navigation possible, lies in an\r\nunmarked tomb in the yard of Trinity Church--the richest church in\r\nAmerica. The stone erected to show where Andre was hanged was destroyed\r\nby a cheap patriot, who thought it represented a compliment to the spy.\r\nThe spot where Alexander Hamilton was shot in the duel by Aaron Burr is\r\nknown to few and will soon be forgotten. It was not until a century of\r\nobloquy had been heaped on the memory of Thomas Paine that his once\r\nenemies were brought to know him as a statesman of integrity, a\r\nphilanthropist, and philosopher. His deistic religion, proclaimed in “The\r\nAge of Reason,” is unfortunately no whit more independent than is\r\npreached in dozens of pulpits to-day. He died ripe in honors, despite his\r\nwant of creed, and his mortal part was buried in New Rochelle, New York,\r\nunder a large walnut-tree in a hay-field. Some years later his friends\r\nremoved the body to a new grave in higher ground, and placed over it a\r\nmonument that the opponents of his principles quickly hacked to pieces.\r\nAround the original grave there still remains a part of the old\r\ninclosure, and it was proposed to erect a suitable memorial--the Hudson\r\nand its Hills the spot, but the owner of the tract would neither give nor\r\nsell an inch of his land for the purpose of doing honor to the man. Some\r\ndoubt has already been expressed as to whether the grave is beneath the\r\nmonument or in the inclosure; and it is also asserted that Paine's ghost\r\nappears at intervals, hovering in the air between the two burial-places,\r\nor flitting back and forth from one to the other, lamenting the\r\nforgetfulness of men and wailing, “Where is my grave? I have lost my\r\ngrave!”\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE RISING OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS\r\n\r\nGouverneur Morris, American minister to the court of Louis XVI, was\r\nconsiderably enriched, at the close of the reign of terror, by plate,\r\njewels, furniture, paintings, coaches, and so on, left in his charge by\r\nmembers of the French nobility, that they might not be confiscated in the\r\nsack of the city by the _sans culottes_; for so many of the aristocracy\r\nwere killed and so many went into exile or disguised their names, that it\r\nwas impossible to find heirs or owners for these effects. Some of the\r\npeople who found France a good country to be out of came to America,\r\nwhere adventurers had found prosperity and refugees found peace so many\r\ntimes before. Marshal Ney and Bernadotte are alleged to have served in\r\nthe American army during the Revolution, and at Hogansburg, New York, the\r\nReverend Eleazer Williams, an Episcopal missionary, who lies buried in\r\nthe church-yard there, was declared to be the missing son of Louis XVI.\r\nThe question, “Have we a Bourbon among us?” was frequently canvassed; but\r\nhe avoided publicity and went quietly on with his pastoral work.\r\n\r\nAll property left in Mr. Morris's hands that had not been claimed was\r\nremoved to his mansion at Port Morris, when he returned from his\r\nministry, and he gained in the esteem and envy of his neighbors when the\r\nextent of these riches was seen. Once, at the wine, he touched glasses\r\nwith his wife, and said that if she bore a male child that son should be\r\nheir to his wealth. Two relatives who sat at the table exchanged looks at\r\nthis and cast a glance of no gentle regard on his lady. A year went by.\r\nThe son was born, but Gouverneur Morris was dead.\r\n\r\nIt is the first night of the year 1817, the servants are asleep, and the\r\nwidow sits late before the fire, her baby in her arms, listening betimes\r\nto the wind in the chimney, the beat of hail on the shutters, the\r\nbrawling of the Bronx and the clash of moving ice upon it; yet thinking\r\nof her husband and the sinister look his promise had brought to the faces\r\nof his cousins, when a tramp of horses is heard without, and anon a\r\nsummons at the door. The panels are beaten by loaded riding-whips, and a\r\nman's voice cries, “Anne Morris, fetch us our cousin's will, or we'll\r\nbreak into the house and take it.” The woman clutches the infant to her\r\nbreast, but makes no answer. Again the clatter of the whips; but now a\r\nmist is gathering in the room, and a strange enchantment comes over her,\r\nfor are not the lions breathing on the coat of arms above the door, and\r\nare not the portraits stirring in their frames?\r\n\r\nThey are, indeed. There is a rustle of robes and clink of steel and one\r\nold warrior leaps down, his armor sounding as he alights, and striking\r\nthrice his sword and shield together he calls on Gouverneur Morris to\r\ncome forth. Somebody moves in the room where Morris died; there is a\r\nmeasured footfall in the corridor, with the clank of a scabbard keeping\r\ntime; the door is opened, and on the blast that enters the widow hears a\r\ncry, then a double gallop, passing swiftly into distance. As she gazes,\r\nher husband appears, apparelled as in life, and with a smile he takes a\r\ncandelabrum from the mantel and, beckoning her to follow, moves from room\r\nto room. Then, for the first time, the widow knows to what wealth her\r\nbaby has been born, for the ghost discloses secret drawers in escritoires\r\nwhere money, title deeds, and gems are hidden, turns pictures and\r\nwainscots on unsuspected hinges, revealing shelves heaped with fabrics,\r\nplate, and lace; then, returning to the fireside, he stoops as if to kiss\r\nhis wife and boy, but a bell strikes the first hour of morning and he\r\nvanishes into his portrait on the wall.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDOLPH HEYLIGER\r\n\r\nNew York was New Amsterdam when Dolph Heyliger got himself born there,--a\r\ngraceless scamp, though a brave, good-natured one, and being left\r\npenniless on his father's death he was fain to take service with a\r\ndoctor, while his mother kept a shop. This doctor had bought a farm on\r\nthe island of Manhattoes--away out of town, where Twenty-third Street now\r\nruns, most likely--and, because of rumors that its tenants had noised\r\nabout it, he seemed likely to enjoy the responsibilities of landholding\r\nand none of its profits. It suited Dolph's adventurous disposition that\r\nhe should be deputed to investigate the reason for these rumors, and for\r\nthree nights he kept his abode in the desolate old manor, emerging after\r\ndaybreak in a lax and pallid condition, but keeping his own counsel, to\r\nthe aggravation of the populace, whose ears were burning for his news.\r\n\r\nNot until long after did he tell of the solemn tread that woke him in the\r\nsmall hours, of his door softly opening, though he had bolted and locked\r\nit, of a portly Fleming, with curly gray hair, reservoir boots, slouched\r\nhat, trunk and doublet, who entered and sat in the arm-chair, watching\r\nhim until the cock crew. Nor did he tell how on the third night he\r\nsummoned courage, hugging a Bible and a catechism to his breast for\r\nconfidence, to ask the meaning of the visit, and how the Fleming arose,\r\nand drawing Dolph after him with his eyes, led him downstairs, went\r\nthrough the front door without unbolting it, leaving that task for the\r\ntrembling yet eager youth, and how, after he had proceeded to a disused\r\nwell at the bottom of the garden, he vanished from sight.\r\n\r\nDolph brooded long upon these things and dreamed of them in bed. He\r\nalleged that it was in obedience to his dreams that he boarded a schooner\r\nbound up the Hudson, without the formality of adieu to his employer, and\r\nafter being spilled ashore in a gale at the foot of Storm King, he fell\r\ninto the company of Anthony Vander Hevden, a famous landholder and\r\nhunter, who achieved a fancy for Dolph as a lad who could shoot, fish,\r\nrow, and swim, and took him home with him to Albany. The Heer had\r\ncommodious quarters, good liquor, and a pretty daughter, and Dolph felt\r\nhimself in paradise until led to the room he was to occupy, for one of\r\nthe first things that he set eyes on in that apartment was a portrait of\r\nthe very person who had kept him awake for the worse part of three nights\r\nat the bowerie in Manhattoes. He demanded to know whose picture it was,\r\nand learned that it was that of Killian Vander Spiegel, burgomaster and\r\ncurmudgeon, who buried his money when the English seized New Amsterdam\r\nand fretted himself to death lest it should be discovered. He remembered\r\nthat his mother had spoken of this Spiegel and that her father was the\r\nmiser's rightful heir, and it now appeared that he was one of Heyden's\r\nforbears too. In his dream that night the Fleming stepped out of the\r\nportrait, led him, as he had done before, to the well, where he smiled\r\nand vanished. Dolph reflected, next morning, that these things had been\r\nordered to bring together the two branches of the family and disclose the\r\nwhereabouts of the treasure that it should inherit. So full was he of\r\nthis idea that he went back to New Amsterdam by the first schooner, to\r\nthe surprise of the Heer and the regret of his daughter.\r\n\r\nAfter the truant had been received with execrations by the doctor and\r\nwith delight by his mother, who believed that spooks had run off with\r\nhim, and with astonishment, as a hero of romance, by the public, he made\r\nfor the haunted premises at the first opportunity and began to angle at\r\nthe disused well. Presently he found his hook entangled in something at\r\nthe bottom, and on lifting slowly he discovered that he had secured a\r\nfine silver porringer, with lid held down by twisted wire. It was the\r\nwork of a moment to wrench off the lid, when he found the vessel to be\r\nfilled with golden pieces. His fishing that day was attended with such\r\nluck as never fell to an angler before, for there were other pieces of\r\nplate down there, all engraved with the Spiegel arms and all containing\r\ntreasure.\r\n\r\nBy encouraging the most dreadful stories about the spot, in order to keep\r\nthe people wide away from it, he accomplished the removal of his prizes\r\nbit by bit from their place of concealment to his home. His unaccounted\r\nabsence in Albany and his dealings with the dead had prepared his\r\nneighbors for any change in himself or his condition, and now that he\r\nalways had a bottle of schnapps for the men and a pot of tea for the\r\nwomen, and was good to his mother, they said that they had always known\r\nthat when he changed it would be for the better,--at which his old\r\ndetractors lifted their eyebrows significantly--and when asked to dinner\r\nby him they always accepted.\r\n\r\nMoreover, they made merry when the day came round for his wedding with\r\nthe little maid of Albany. They likewise elected him a member of the\r\ncorporation, to which he bequeathed some of the Spiegel plate and often\r\nhelped the other city fathers to empty the big punch-bowl. Indeed, it was\r\nat one of these corporation feasts that he died of apoplexy. He was\r\nburied with honors in the yard of the Dutch church in Garden Street.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE KNELL AT THE WEDDING\r\n\r\nA young New Yorker had laid such siege to the heart of a certain\r\nbelle--this was back in the Knickerbocker days when people married for\r\nlove--that everybody said the banns were as good as published; but\r\neverybody did not know, for one fine morning my lady went to church with\r\nanother gentleman--not her father, though old enough to be--and when the\r\ntwo came out they were man and wife. The elderly man was rich. After the\r\nfirst paroxysm of rage and disappointment had passed, the lover withdrew\r\nfrom the world and devoted himself to study; nor when he learned that she\r\nhad become a widow, with comfortable belongings derived from the estate\r\nof the late lamented, did he renew acquaintance with her, and he smiled\r\nbitterly when he heard of her second marriage to a young adventurer who\r\nled her a wretched life, but atoned for his sins, in a measure, by dying\r\nsoon enough afterward to leave a part of her fortune unspent.\r\n\r\nIn the lapse of time the doubly widowed returned to New York, where she\r\nmet again the lover of her youth. Mr. Ellenwood had acquired the reserve\r\nof a scholar, and had often puzzled his friends with his eccentricities;\r\nbut after a few meetings with the object of his young affection he came\r\nout of his glooms, and with respectful formality laid again at her feet\r\nthe heart she had trampled on forty years before. Though both of them\r\nwere well on in life, the news of their engagement made little of a\r\nsensation. The widow was still fair; the wooer was quiet, refined, and\r\ncourtly, and the union of their fortunes would assure a competence for\r\nthe years that might be left to them. The church of St. Paul, on\r\nBroadway, was appointed for the wedding, and it was a whim of the groom\r\nthat his bride should meet him there. At the appointed hour a company of\r\nthe curious had assembled in the edifice; a rattle of wheels was heard,\r\nand a bevy of bridesmaids and friends in hoop, patch, velvet, silk,\r\npowder, swords, and buckles walked down the aisle; but just as the bride\r\nhad come within the door, out of the sunlight that streamed so\r\nbrilliantly on the mounded turf and tombstones in the churchyard, the\r\nbell in the steeple gave a single boom.\r\n\r\nThe bride walked to the altar, and as she took her place before it\r\nanother clang resounded from the belfry. The bridegroom was not there.\r\nAgain and again the brazen throat and iron tongue sent out a doleful\r\nknell, and faces grew pale and anxious, for the meaning of it could not\r\nbe guessed. With eyes fixed on the marble tomb of her first husband, the\r\nwoman tremblingly awaited the solution of the mystery, until the door was\r\ndarkened by something that made her catch her breath--a funeral. The\r\norgan began a solemn dirge as a black-cloaked cortege came through the\r\naisle, and it was with amazement that the bride discovered it to be\r\nformed of her oldest friends,--bent, withered; paired, man and woman, as\r\nin mockery--while behind, with white face, gleaming eyes, disordered\r\nhair, and halting step, came the bridegroom, in his shroud.\r\n\r\n“Come,” he said,--“let us be married. The coffins are ready. Then, home\r\nto the tomb.”\r\n\r\n“Cruel!” murmured the woman.\r\n\r\n“Now, Heaven judge which of us has been cruel. Forty years ago you took\r\naway my faith, destroyed my hopes, and gave to others your youth and\r\nbeauty. Our lives have nearly run their course, so I am come to wed you\r\nas with funeral rites.” Then, in a softer manner, he took her hand, and\r\nsaid, “All is forgiven. If we cannot live together we will at least be\r\nwedded in death. Time is almost at its end. We will marry for eternity.\r\nCome.” And tenderly embracing her, he led her forward. Hard as was the\r\nordeal, confusing, frightening, humiliating, the bride came through it a\r\nbetter woman.\r\n\r\n“It is true,” she said, “I have been vain and worldly, but now, in my\r\nage, the truest love I ever knew has come back to me. It is a holy love.\r\nI will cherish it forever.” Their eyes met, and they saw each other\r\nthrough tears. Solemnly the clergyman read the marriage service, and when\r\nit was concluded the low threnody that had come from the organ in key\r\nwith the measured clang of the bell, merged into a nobler motive, until\r\nat last the funeral measures were lost in a burst of exultant harmony.\r\nSobs of pent feeling and sighs of relief were heard as the bridal party\r\nmoved away, and when the newmade wife and husband reached the portal the\r\nbell was silent and the sun was shining.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nROISTERING DIRCK VAN DARA\r\n\r\nIn the days when most of New York stood below Grand Street, a roistering\r\nfellow used to make the rounds of the taverns nightly, accompanied by a\r\nfriend named Rooney. This brave drinker was Dirck Van Dara, one of the\r\nlast of those swag-bellied topers that made merry with such solemnity\r\nbefore the English seized their unoffending town. It chanced that Dirck\r\nand his chum were out later than usual one night, and by eleven o'clock,\r\nwhen all good people were abed, a drizzle set in that drove the watch to\r\nsleep in doorways and left Broadway tenantless. As the two choice spirits\r\nreeled out of a hostelry near Wall Street and saw the lights go out in\r\nthe tap-room windows they started up town to their homes in Leonard\r\nStreet, but hardly had they come abreast of old St. Paul's when a strange\r\nthing stayed them: crying was heard in the churchyard and a\r\nphosphorescent light shone among the tombs. Rooney was sober in a moment,\r\nbut not so Dirck Van Dara, who shouted, “Here is sport, friend Rooney.\r\nLet's climb the wall. If the dead are for a dance, we will take partners\r\nand show them how pigeons' wings are cut nowadays.”\r\n\r\n“No,” exclaimed the other; “those must perish who go among the dead when\r\nthey come out of their graves. I've heard that if you get into their\r\nclutches, you must stay in purgatory for a hundred years, and no priest\r\ncan pray you out.”\r\n\r\n“Bah! old wives' tales! Come on!” And pulling his friend with him, they\r\nwere over the fence. “Hello! what have we here?” As he spoke a haggard\r\nthing arose from behind a tombstone, a witchlike creature, with rags\r\nfalling about her wasted form and hair that almost hid her face. The\r\ntwain were set a-sneezing by the fumes of sulphur, and Rooney swore\r\nafterwards that there were little things at the end of the yard with\r\ngrinning faces and lights on the ends of their tails. Old Hollands are\r\nheady. Dirck began to chaff the beldam on her dilapidation, but she\r\nstopped his talk by dipping something from a caldron behind her and\r\nflinging it over both of her visitors. Whatever it was, it burned\r\noutrageously, and with a yell of pain they leaped the wall more briskly\r\nthan they had jumped it the other way, and were soon in full flight. They\r\nhad not gone far when the clock struck twelve.\r\n\r\n“Arrah! there's a crowd of them coming after,” panted Rooney. “Ave Mary!\r\nI've heard that if you die with witch broth being thrown over you, you're\r\ndone for in the next world, as well as this. Let us get to Father\r\nDonagan's. Wow!”\r\n\r\nAs he made this exclamation the fugitives found their way opposed by a\r\nwoman, who looked at them with immodest eyes and said, “Dirck Van Dara,\r\nyour sire, in wig and bob, turned us Cyprians out of New York, after\r\nducking us in the Collect. But we forgive him, and to prove it we ask you\r\nto our festival.”\r\n\r\nAt the stroke of midnight the street before the church had swarmed with a\r\nmotley throng, that now came onward, waving torches that sparkled like\r\nstars. They formed a ring about Dirck and began to dance, and he, nothing\r\nloth, seized the nymph who had addressed him and joined in the revel. Not\r\na soul was out or awake except themselves, and no words were said as the\r\ndance went wilder to strains of weird and unseen instruments. Now and\r\nthen one would apply a torch to the person of Dirck, meanly assailing him\r\nin the rear, and the smart of the burn made him feet it the livelier. At\r\nlast they turned toward the Battery as by common consent, and went\r\ncareering along the street in frolic fashion. Rooney, whose senses had\r\nthus far been pent in a stupor, fled with a yell of terror, and as he\r\nlooked back he saw the unholy troop disappearing in the mist like a\r\nmoving galaxy. Never from that night was Dirck Van Data seen or heard of\r\nmore, and the publicans felt that they had less reason for living.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PARTY FROM GIBBET ISLAND\r\n\r\nEllis Island, in New York harbor, once bore the name of Gibbet Island,\r\nbecause pirates and mutineers were hanged there in chains. During the\r\ntimes when it was devoted to this fell purpose there stood in Communipaw\r\nthe Wild Goose tavern, where Dutch burghers resorted, to smoke, drink\r\nHollands, and grow fat, wise, and sleepy in each others' company. The\r\nplague of this inn was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, a nephew of the landlord,\r\nwho frequently alarmed the patrons of the house by putting powder into\r\ntheir pipes and attaching briers beneath their horses' tails, and who\r\nnaturally turned pirate when he became older, taking with him to sea his\r\nboon companion, an ill-disposed, ill-favored blackamoor named Pluto, who\r\nhad been employed about the tavern. When the landlord died, Vanderscamp\r\npossessed himself of this property, fitted it up with plunder, and at\r\nintervals he had his gang ashore,--such a crew of singing, swearing,\r\ndrinking, gaming devils as Communipaw had never seen the like of; yet the\r\nresidents could not summon activity enough to stop the goings-on that\r\nmade the Wild Goose a disgrace to their village. The British authorities,\r\nhowever, caught three of the swashbucklers and strung them up on Gibbet\r\nIsland, and things that went on badly in Communipaw after that went on\r\nwith quiet and secrecy.\r\n\r\nThe pirate and his henchmen were returning to the tavern one night, after\r\na visit to a rakish-looking vessel in the offing, when a squall broke in\r\nsuch force as to give their skiff a leeway to the place of executions. As\r\nthey rounded that lonely reef a creaking noise overhead caused\r\nVanderscamp to look up, and he could not repress a shudder as he saw the\r\nbodies of his three messmates, their rags fluttering and their chains\r\ngrinding in the wind.\r\n\r\n“Don't you want to see your friends?” sneered Pluto. “You, who are never\r\nafraid of living men, what do you fear from the dead?”\r\n\r\n“Nothing,” answered the pirate. Then, lugging forth his bottle, he took a\r\nlong pull at it, and holding it toward the dead felons, he shouted,\r\n“Here's fair weather to you, my lads in the wind, and if you should be\r\nwalking the rounds to-night, come in to supper.”\r\n\r\nA clatter of bones and a creak of chains sounded like a laugh. It was\r\nmidnight when the boat pulled in at Communipaw, and as the storm\r\ncontinued Vanderscamp, drenched to the skin, made quick time to the Wild\r\nGoose. As he entered, a sound of revelry overhead smote his ear, and,\r\nbeing no less astonished than in need of cordials, he hastened up-stairs\r\nand flung open the door. A table stood there, furnished with jugs and\r\npipes and cans, and by light of candles that burned as blue as brimstone\r\ncould be seen the three gallows-birds from Gibbet Island, with halters on\r\ntheir necks, clinking their tankards together and trolling forth a\r\ndrinking-song.\r\n\r\nStarting back with affright as the corpses hailed him with lifted arms\r\nand turned their fishy eyes on him, Vanderscamp slipped at the door and\r\nfell headlong to the bottom of the stairs. Next morning he was found\r\nthere by the neighbors, dead to a certainty, and was put away in the\r\nDutch churchyard at Bergen on the Sunday following. As the house was\r\nrifled and deserted by its occupants, it was hinted that the negro had\r\nbetrayed his master to his fellow-buccaneers, and that he, Pluto, was no\r\nother than the devil in disguise. But he was not, for his skiff was seen\r\nfloating bottom up in the bay soon after, and his drowned body lodged\r\namong the rocks at the foot of the pirates' gallows.\r\n\r\nFor a long time afterwards the island was regarded as a place that\r\nrequired purging with bell, book, and candle, for shadows were reported\r\nthere and faint lights that shot into the air, and to this day, with the\r\ngreat immigrant station on it and crowds going and coming all the time,\r\nthe Battery boatmen prefer not to row around it at night, for they are\r\nlikely to see the shades of the soldier and his mistress who were drowned\r\noff the place one windy night, when the girl was aiding the fellow to\r\nescape confinement in the guard-house, to say nothing of Vanderscamp and\r\nhis felons.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMISS BRITTON'S POKER\r\n\r\nThe maids of Staten Island wrought havoc among the royal troops who were\r\nquartered among them during the Revolution. Near quarantine, in an old\r\nhouse,--the Austen mansion,--a soldier of King George hanged himself\r\nbecause a Yankee maid who lived there would not have him for a husband,\r\nnor any gentleman whose coat was of his color; and, until ghosts went out\r\nof fashion, his spirit, in somewhat heavy boots, with jingling spurs,\r\noften disturbed the nightly quiet of the place.\r\n\r\nThe conduct of a damsel in the old town of Richmond was even more stern.\r\nShe was the granddaughter, and a pretty one, of a farmer named Britton;\r\nbut though Britton by descent and name, she was no friend of Britons,\r\nalbeit she might have had half the officers in the neighboring camp at\r\nher feet, if she had wished them there. Once, while mulling a cup of\r\ncider for her grandfather, she was interrupted by a self-invited\r\nmyrmidon, who undertook, in a fashion rude and unexpected, to show the\r\nlove in which he held her. Before he could kiss her, the girl drew the\r\nhot poker from the mug of drink and jabbed at the vitals of her amorous\r\nfoe, burning a hole through his scarlet uniform and printing on his burly\r\nperson a lasting memento of the adventure. With a howl of pain the fellow\r\nrushed away, and the privacy of the Britton family was never again\r\ninvaded, at least whilst cider was being mulled.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEVIL'S STEPPING-STONES\r\n\r\nWhen the devil set a claim to the fair lands at the north of Long Island\r\nSound, his claim was disputed by the Indians, who prepared to fight for\r\ntheir homes should he attempt to serve his writ of ejectment. Parley\r\nresulted in nothing, so the bad one tried force, but he was routed in\r\nopen fight and found it desirable to get away from the scene of action as\r\nsoon as possible. He retreated across the Sound near the head of East\r\nRiver. The tide was out, so he stepped from island to island, without\r\ntrouble, and those reefs and islands are to this day the Devil's\r\nStepping-Stones. On reaching Throgg's Neck he sat down in a despairing\r\nattitude and brooded on his defeat, until, roused to a frenzy at the\r\nthought of it, he resolved to renew the war on terms advantageous\r\nentirely to himself. In that day Connecticut was free from rocks, but\r\nLong Island was covered with them; so he gathered all he could lay his\r\nhands on and tossed them at the Indians that he could see across the\r\nSound near Cold Spring until the supply had given out. The red men who\r\nlast inhabited Connecticut used to show white men where the missiles\r\nlanded and where the devil struck his heel into the ground as he sprang\r\nfrom the shore in his haste to reach Long Island. At Cold Spring other\r\nfootprints and one of his toes are shown. Establishing himself at Coram,\r\nhe troubled the people of the country for many years, so that between the\r\ndevil on the west and the Montauks on the east they were plagued indeed;\r\nfor though their guard at Watch Hill, Rhode Island, and other places\r\noften apprised them of the coming of the Montauks, they never knew which\r\nway to look for the devil.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SPRINGS OF BLOOD AND WATER\r\n\r\nA great drought had fallen on Long Island, and the red men prayed for\r\nwater. It is true that they could get it at Lake Ronkonkoma, but some of\r\nthem were many miles from there, and, beside, they feared the spirits at\r\nthat place: the girl who plied its waters in a phosphor-shining birch,\r\nseeking her recreant lover; and the powerful guardians that the Great\r\nSpirit had put in charge to keep the fish from being caught, for these\r\nfish were the souls of men, awaiting deliverance into another form. The\r\npeople gathered about their villages in bands and besought the Great\r\nSpirit to give them drink. His voice was heard at last, bidding their\r\nchief to shoot an arrow into the air and to watch where it fell, for\r\nthere would water gush out. The chief obeyed the deity, and as the arrow\r\ntouched the earth a spring of sweet water spouted into the air. Running\r\nforward with glad cries the red men drank eagerly of the liquor, laved\r\ntheir faces in it, and were made strong again; and in memory of that\r\nevent they called the place the Hill of God, or Manitou Hill, and Manet\r\nor Manetta Hill it is to this day. Hereabouts the Indians settled and\r\nlived in peace, thriving under the smile of their deity, making wampum\r\nfor the inland tribes and waxing rich with gains from it. They made the\r\ncanal from bay to sea at Canoe Place, that they might reach open water\r\nwithout dragging their boats across the sand-bars, and in other ways they\r\nproved themselves ingenious and strong.\r\n\r\nWhen the English landed on the island they saw that the Indians were not\r\na people to be trifled with, and in order to properly impress them with\r\ntheir superiority, they told them that John Bull desired a treaty with\r\nthem. The officers got them to sit in line in front of a cannon, the\r\nnature of which instrument was unknown to them, and during the talk the\r\ngun was fired, mowing down so many of the red people that the survivors\r\ntook to flight, leaving the English masters at the north shore, for this\r\nheartless and needless massacre took place at Whale's Neck. So angry was\r\nthe Great Spirit at this act of cruelty and treachery that he caused\r\nblood to ooze from the soil, as he had made water leap for his thirsting\r\nchildren, and never again would grass grow on the spot where the murder\r\nhad been done.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CRUMBLING SILVER\r\n\r\nThere is a clay bank on Little Neck, Long Island, where metallic nodules\r\nare now and then exposed by rain. Rustics declare them to be silver, and\r\naccount for their crumbling on the theory that the metal is under a\r\ncurse. A century ago the Montauks mined it, digging over enough soil to\r\nunearth these pellets now and again, and exchanging them at the nearest\r\nsettlements for tobacco and rum. The seeming abundance of these lumps of\r\nsilver aroused the cupidity of one Gardiner, a dweller in the central\r\nwilderness of the island, but none of the Indians would reveal the source\r\nof their treasure. One day Gardiner succeeded in getting an old chief so\r\ntipsy that, without realizing what he was doing, he led the white man to\r\nthe clay bed and showed him the metallic spots glittering in the sun.\r\nWith a cry of delight Gardiner sprang forward and tore at the earth with\r\nhis fingers, while the Indian stood by laughing at his eagerness.\r\n\r\nPresently a shade crossed the white man's face, for he thought that this\r\nvast treasure would have to be shared by others. It was too much to\r\nendure. He wanted all. He would be the richest man on earth. Stealing\r\nbehind the Indian as he stood swaying and chuckling, he wrenched the\r\nhatchet from his belt and clove his skull at a blow. Then, dragging the\r\nbody to a thicket and hiding it under stones and leaves, he hurried to\r\nhis house for cart and pick and shovel, and returning with speed he dug\r\nout a half ton of the silver before sunset. The cart was loaded, and he\r\nset homeward, trembling with excitement and conjuring bright visions for\r\nhis future, when a wailing sound from a thicket made him halt and turn\r\npale. Noiselessly a figure glided from the bush. It was the Indian he had\r\nkilled. The form approached the treasure, flung up its arm, uttered a few\r\nguttural words; then a rising wind seemed to lift it from the ground and\r\nit drifted toward the Sound, fading like a cloud as it receded.\r\n\r\nFull of misgiving, Gardiner drove to his home, and, by light of a\r\nlantern, transferred his treasure to his cellar. Was it the dulness of\r\nthe candle that made the metal look so black? After a night of feverish\r\ntossing on his bed he arose and went to the cellar to gloat upon his\r\nwealth. The light of dawn fell on a heap of gray dust, a few brassy\r\nlooking particles showing here and there. The curse of the ghost had been\r\nof power and the silver was silver no more. Mineralogists say that the\r\nnodules are iron pyrites. Perhaps so; but old residents know that they\r\nused to be silver.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CORTELYOU ELOPEMENT\r\n\r\nIn the Bath district of Brooklyn stands Cortelyou manor, built one\r\nhundred and fifty years ago, and a place of defence during the Revolution\r\nwhen the British made sallies from their camp in Flatbush and worried the\r\nneighborhood. It was in one of these forays on pigs and chickens that a\r\ngallant officer of red-coats met a pretty lass in the fields of\r\nCortelyou. He stilled her alarm by aiding her to gather wild-flowers, and\r\nit came about that the girl often went into the fields and came back with\r\nprodigious bouquets of daisies. The elder Cortelyou had no inkling of\r\nthis adventure until one of his sons saw her tryst with the red-coat at a\r\ndistance. Be sure the whole family joined him in remonstrance. As the\r\ngirl declared that she would not forego the meetings with her lover, the\r\nfather swore that she should never leave his roof again, and he tried to\r\nbe as good, or bad, as his word. The damsel took her imprisonment as any\r\ngirl of spirit would, but was unable to effect her escape until one\r\nevening, as she sat at her window, watching the moon go down and paint\r\nthe harbor with a path of light. A tap at the pane, as of a pebble thrown\r\nagainst it, roused her from her revery. It was her lover on the lawn.\r\n\r\nAt her eager signal he ran forward with a light ladder, planted it\r\nagainst the window-sill, and in less than a minute the twain were running\r\ntoward the beach; but the creak of the ladder had been heard, and\r\ngrasping their muskets two of the men hurried out. In the track of the\r\nmoon the pursuers descried a moving form, and, without waiting to\r\nchallenge, they levelled the guns and fired. A woman's cry followed the\r\nreport; then a dip of oars was heard that fast grew fainter until it\r\nfaded from hearing. On returning to the house they found the girl's room\r\nempty, and next morning her slipper was brought in from the mud at the\r\nlanding. Nobody inside of the American lines ever learned what that shot\r\nhad done, but if it failed to take a life it robbed Cortelyou of his\r\nmind. He spent the rest of his days in a single room, chained to a staple\r\nin the floor, tramping around and around, muttering and gesturing, and\r\nsometimes startling the passer-by as he showed his white face and ragged\r\nbeard at the window.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nVAN WEMPEL'S GOOSE\r\n\r\nAllow us to introduce Nicholas Van Wempel, of Flatbush: fat, phlegmatic,\r\nrich, and henpecked. He would like to be drunk because he is henpecked,\r\nbut the wife holds the purse-strings and only doles out money to him when\r\nshe wants groceries or he needs clothes. It was New Year's eve, the eve\r\nof 1739, when Vrouw Van Wempel gave to her lord ten English shillings and\r\nbade him hasten to Dr. Beck's for the fat goose that had been bespoken.\r\n“And mind you do not stop at the tavern,” she screamed after him in her\r\nshrillest tone. But poor Nicholas! As he went waddling down the road,\r\nsnapping through an ice-crust at every step, a roguish wind--or perhaps\r\nit was one of the bugaboos that were known to haunt the shores of\r\nGravesend Bay--snatched off his hat and rolled it into the very doorway\r\nof the tavern that he had been warned, under terrible penalties, to\r\navoid.\r\n\r\nAs he bent to pick it up the door fell ajar, and a pungency of schnapps\r\nand tobacco went into his nostrils. His resolution, if he had one,\r\nvanished. He ordered one glass of schnapps; friends came in and treated\r\nhim to another; he was bound to do as much for them; shilling by shilling\r\nthe goose money passed into the till of the landlord. Nicholas was heard\r\nto make a muttered assertion that it was his own money anyhow, and that\r\nwhile he lived he would be the head of his own house; then the mutterings\r\ngrew faint and merged into snores. When he awoke it was at the low sound\r\nof voices in the next room, and drowsily turning his head he saw there\r\ntwo strangers,--sailors, he thought, from their leather jackets, black\r\nbeards, and the rings in their ears. What was that they said? Gold? On\r\nthe marshes? At the old Flatlands tide-mill? The talkers had gone before\r\nhis slow and foggy brain could grasp it all, but when the idea had fairly\r\neaten its way into his intellect, he arose with the nearest approach to\r\nalacrity that he had exhibited in years, and left the place. He crunched\r\nback to his home, and seeing nobody astir went softly into his shed,\r\nwhere he secured a shovel and lantern, and thence continued with all\r\nconsistent speed to the tumbledown tide-mill on the marsh,--a trying\r\njourney for his fat legs on a sharp night, but hope and schnapps impelled\r\nhim.\r\n\r\nHe reached the mill, and, hastening to the cellar, began to probe in the\r\nsoft, unfrozen earth. Presently his spade struck something, and he dug\r\nand dug until he had uncovered the top of a canvas bag,--the sort that\r\nsailors call a “round stern-chest.” It took all his strength to lug it\r\nout, and as he did so a seam burst, letting a shower of gold pieces over\r\nthe ground. He loosed the band of his breeches, and was filling the legs\r\nthereof with coin, when a tread of feet sounded overhead and four men\r\ncame down the stair. Two of them he recognized as the fellows of the\r\ntavern. They saw the bag, the lantern, then Nicholas. Laden though he was\r\nwith gold until he could hardly budge, these pirates, for such they were,\r\ngot him up-stairs, forced him to drink hot Hollands to the success of\r\ntheir flag, then shot him through the window into the creek. As he was\r\nabout to make this unceremonious exit he clutched something to save\r\nhimself, and it proved to be a plucked goose that the pirates had stolen\r\nfrom a neighboring farm and were going to sup on when they had scraped\r\ntheir gold together. He felt the water and mud close over him; he\r\nstruggled desperately; he was conscious of breathing more freely and of\r\nstaggering off at a vigorous gait; then the power of all the schnapps\r\nseemed to get into his head, and he remembered no more until he heard his\r\nwife shrilling in his ears, when he sat up and found himself in a\r\nsnow-bank close to his house, with a featherless goose tight in his\r\ngrasp.\r\n\r\nVrouw Van Wempel cared less about the state of her spouse when she saw\r\nthat he had secured the bird, and whenever he told his tale of the\r\npirates she turned a deaf ear to him, for if he had found the gold why\r\ndid he not manage to bring home a few pieces of it? He, in answer, asked\r\nhow, as he had none of his own money, she could have come by the goose?\r\nHe often told his tale to sympathetic ears, and would point to the old\r\nmill to prove that it was true.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WEARY WATCHER\r\n\r\nBefore the opening of the great bridge sent commerce rattling up\r\nWashington Street in Brooklyn that thoroughfare was a shaded and\r\nbeautiful avenue, and among the houses that attested its respectability\r\nwas one, between Tillary and Concord Streets, that was long declared to\r\nbe haunted. A man and his wife dwelt there who seemed to be fondly\r\nattached to each other, and whose love should have been the stronger\r\nbecause of their three children none grew to years. A mutual sorrow is as\r\nclose a tie as a common affection. One day, while on a visit to a friend,\r\nthe wife saw her husband drive by in a carriage with a showy woman beside\r\nhim. She went home at once, and when the supposed recreant returned she\r\nmet him with bitter reproaches. He answered never a word, but took his\r\nhat and left the house, never to be seen again in the places that had\r\nknown him.\r\n\r\nThe wife watched and waited, daily looking for his return, but days\r\nlengthened into weeks, months, years, and still he came not. Sometimes\r\nshe lamented that she had spoken hastily and harshly, thinking that, had\r\nshe known all, she might have found him blameless. There was no family to\r\nlook after, no wholesome occupation that she sought, so the days went by\r\nin listening and watching, until, at last, her body and mind gave way,\r\nand the familiar sight of her face, watching from a second floor window,\r\nwas seen no longer. Her last day came. She had risen from her bed; life\r\nand mind seemed for a moment to be restored to her; and standing where\r\nshe had stood so often, her form supported by a half-closed shutter and a\r\ngrasp on the sash, she looked into the street once more, sighed\r\nhopelessly, and so died. It was her shade that long watched at the\r\nwindows; it was her waxen face, heavy with fatigue and pain, that was\r\ndimly seen looking over the balusters in the evening.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE RIVAL FIDDLERS\r\n\r\nBefore Brooklyn had spread itself beyond Greenwood Cemetery a stone could\r\nbe seen in Martense's Lane, south of that burial-ground, that bore a hoof\r\nmark. A negro named Joost, in the service of the Van Der\r\nSomething-or-others, was plodding home on Saturday night, his fiddle\r\nunder his arm. He had been playing for a wedding in Flatbush and had been\r\ndrinking schnapps until he saw stars on the ground and fences in the sky;\r\nin fact, the universe seemed so out of order that he seated himself\r\nrather heavily on this rock to think about it. The behavior of the stars\r\nin swimming and rolling struck him as especially curious, and he\r\nconceived the notion that they wanted to dance. Putting his fiddle to his\r\nchin, he began a wild jig, and though he made it up as he went along, he\r\nwas conscious of doing finely, when the boom of a bell sent a shiver down\r\nhis spine. It was twelve o'clock, and here he was playing a dance tune on\r\nSunday. However, the sin of playing for one second on the Sabbath was as\r\ngreat as that of playing all day; so, as long as he was in for it, he\r\nresolved to carry the tune to the end, and he fiddled away with a\r\nreckless vehemence. Presently he became aware that the music was both\r\nwilder and sweeter than before, and that there was more of it. Not until\r\nthen did he observe that a tall, thin stranger stood beside him; and that\r\nhe was fiddling too,--composing a second to Joost's air, as if he could\r\nread his thought before he put it into execution on the strings. Joost\r\npaused, and the stranger did likewise.\r\n\r\n“Where de debble did you come frum?” asked the first. The other smiled.\r\n\r\n“And how did you come to know dat music?” Joost pursued.\r\n\r\n“Oh, I've known that tune for years,” was the reply. “It's called 'The\r\nDevil's joy at Sabbath Breaking.'”\r\n\r\n“You're a liar!” cried the negro. The stranger bowed and burst into a\r\nroar of laughter. “A liar!” repeated Joost,--“for I made up dat music dis\r\nvery minute.”\r\n\r\n“Yet you notice that I could follow when you played.”\r\n\r\n“Humph! Yes, you can follow.”\r\n\r\n“And I can lead, too. Do you know the tune 'Go to the Devil and Shake\r\nYourself?'”\r\n\r\n“Yes; but I play second to nobody.”\r\n\r\n“Very well, I'll beat you at any air you try.”\r\n\r\n“Done!” said Joost. And then began a contest that lasted until daybreak.\r\nThe stranger was an expert, but Joost seemed to be inspired, and just as\r\nthe sun appeared he sounded, in broad and solemn harmonies, the hymn of\r\nVon Catts:\r\n\r\n   “Now behold, at dawn of day,\r\n   Pious Dutchmen sing and pray.”\r\n\r\nAt that the stranger exclaimed, “Well, that beats the devil!” and\r\nstriking his foot angrily on the rock, disappeared in a flash of fire\r\nlike a burst bomb. Joost was hurled twenty feet by the explosion, and lay\r\non the ground insensible until a herdsman found him some hours later. As\r\nhe suffered no harm from the contest and became a better fiddler than\r\never, it is supposed that the recording angel did not inscribe his feat\r\nof Sabbath breaking against him in large letters. There were a few who\r\ndoubted his story, but they had nothing more to say when he showed them\r\nthe hoof-mark on the rock. Moreover, there are fewer fiddlers among the\r\nnegroes than there used to be, because they say that the violin is the\r\ndevil's instrument.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nWYANDANK\r\n\r\nFrom Brooklyn Heights, or Ihpetonga, “highplace of trees,” where the\r\nCanarsie Indians made wampum or sewant, and where they contemplated the\r\nGreat Spirit in the setting of the sun across the meeting waters, to\r\nMontauk Point, Long Island has been swept by the wars of red men, and\r\nmany are the tokens of their occupancy. A number of their graves were to\r\nbe seen until within fifty years, as clearly marked as when the warriors\r\nwere laid there in the hope of resurrection among the happy hunting\r\ngrounds that lay to the west and south. The casting of stones on the\r\ndeath-spots or graves of some revered or beloved Indians was long\r\ncontinued, and was undoubtedly for the purpose of raising monuments to\r\nthem, though at Monument Mountain, Massachusetts, Sacrifice Rock, between\r\nPlymouth and Sandwich, Massachusetts, and some other places the cairns\r\nmerely mark a trail. Even the temporary resting-place of Sachem\r\nPoggatacut, near Sag Harbor, was kept clear of weeds and leaves by\r\nIndians who passed it in the two centuries that lapsed between the death\r\nof the chief and the laying of the road across it in 1846. This spot is\r\nnot far from Whooping Boy's Hollow, so named because of a boy who was\r\nkilled by Indians, and because the rubbing of two trees there in a storm\r\ngave forth a noise like crying. An older legend has it that this noise is\r\nthe angry voice of the magician who tried to slay Wyandank, the\r\n“Washington of the Montauks,” who is buried on the east end of the\r\nisland. Often he led his men into battle, sounding the warwhoop, copied\r\nfrom the scream of the eagle, so loudly that those who heard it said that\r\nthe Montauks were crying for prey.\r\n\r\nIt was while killing an eagle on Block Island, that he might use the\r\nplumes for his hair, that this chief disclosed himself to the hostiles\r\nand brought on a fight in which every participant except himself was\r\nslain. He was secretly followed back to Long Island by a magician who had\r\nhopes of enlisting the evil ones of that region against him,--the giants\r\nthat left their tracks in “Blood-stone Rock” and “Printed Rock,” near\r\nNapeague, and such renegades as he who, having betrayed his people, was\r\nswallowed by the earth, his last agony being marked by a stamp of the\r\nfoot that left its print on a slab near the Indian burial-ground at\r\nKongonok. Failing in these alliances the wizard hid among the hollows of\r\nthe moors, and there worked spells of such malice that the chief's hand\r\nlost steadiness in the hunt and his voice was seldom heard in council.\r\nWhen the haunt of this evil one was made known, a number of young men\r\nundertook to trap him. They went to the hills by night, and moved\r\nstealthily through the shrubbery until they were almost upon him; but his\r\nfamiliars had warned him of their approach, though they had wakened him\r\nonly to betray him for a cloud swept in from the sea, fell about the\r\nwretch, burst into flame, and rolled back toward the ocean, bearing him\r\nin the centre of its burning folds. Because of the cry he uttered the\r\nplace long bore the name of Whooping Hollow, and it used to be said that\r\nthe magician visited the scene of his ill-doing every winter, when his\r\nshrieks could be heard ringing over the hills.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMARK OF THE SPIRIT HAND\r\n\r\nAndover, New Jersey, was quaint and quiet in the days before the\r\nRevolution--it is not a roaring metropolis, even yet--and as it offered\r\nfew social advantages there was more gathering in taprooms and more\r\ndrinking of flip than there should have been. Among those who were not\r\naverse to a cheering cup were three boon companions, Bailey, Hill, and\r\nEvans, farmers of the neighborhood. They loved the tavern better than the\r\nchurch, and in truth the church folk did not love them well, for they\r\nwere suspected of entertaining heresies of the most forbidden character.\r\nIt was while they were discussing matters of belief over their glasses\r\nthat one of them proposed, in a spirit of bravado, that whichever of the\r\ntrio might be first to die should come back from the grave and reveal\r\nhimself to the others--if he could--thus settling the question as to\r\nwhether there was a future.\r\n\r\nNot long after this agreement--for consent was unanimous--Hill departed\r\nthis life. His friends lamented his absence, especially at the tavern,\r\nbut they anticipated no attempt on his part to express the distinguished\r\nconsideration that he had felt for his old chums. Some weeks passed, yet\r\nthere was no sign, and the two survivors of the party, as they jogged\r\nhomeward to the house where both lived, had begun to think and speak less\r\nfrequently of the absent one. But one night the household was alarmed by\r\na terrible cry. Bailey got a light and hurried to the bedside of his\r\nfriend, whom he found deathly white and holding his chest as if in pain.\r\n“He has been here!” gasped Evans. “He stood here just now.”\r\n\r\n“Who?” asked Bailey, a creep passing down his spine.\r\n\r\n“Hill! He stood there, where you are now, and touched me with a hand that\r\nwas so cold--cold--” and Evans shivered violently. On turning back the\r\ncollar of his shirt the impression of a hand appeared on the flesh near\r\nthe shoulder: a hand in white, with one finger missing. Hill had lost a\r\nfinger. There was less of taverns after that night, for Evans carried the\r\ntoken of that ghostly visit on his person until he, too, had gone to\r\nsolve the great secret.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE FIRST LIBERAL CHURCH\r\n\r\nIn 1770 the brig Hand-in-Hand went ashore at Good Luck, New Jersey. Among\r\nthe passengers on board the vessel, that it would perhaps be wrong to\r\ncall ill fated, was John Murray, founder of Universalism in America. He\r\nhad left England in despair, for his wife and children were dead, and so\r\nbroken was he in his power of thought and purpose that he felt as if he\r\nshould never preach again.\r\n\r\nIn fact, his rescue from the wreck was passive, on his part, and he\r\nsuffered himself to be carried ashore, recking little whether he reached\r\nit or no. After he had been for half an hour or so on the soil of the new\r\ncountry, to which he had made his entrance in so unexpected a manner, he\r\nbegan to feel hungry, and set off afoot along the desolate beach. He came\r\nto a cabin where an old man stood in a doorway with a basket of fish\r\nbeside him. “Will you sell me a fish?” asked Murray.\r\n\r\n“No. The fish is all yours. I expected you.”\r\n\r\n“You do not know me.”\r\n\r\n“You are the man who is to tell us of God.”\r\n\r\n“I will never preach of Him again.”\r\n\r\n“I built that log church yonder. Don't say that you will not preach in\r\nit. Whenever a clergyman, Presbyterian, Methody, or Baptist, came here, I\r\nasked him to preach in my kitchen. I tried to get him to stay; but no--he\r\nalways had work elsewhere. Last night I saw the brig driven on the bar,\r\nand a voice said to me, 'In that ship is the man who will teach of God.\r\nNot the old God of terrors, but one of love and mercy. He has come\r\nthrough great sorrow to do this work.' I have made ready for you. Do not\r\ngo away.”\r\n\r\nThe minister felt a strange lifting in his heart. He fell on his knees\r\nbefore the little house and offered up a prayer. Long he staid in that\r\nplace, preaching gentle doctrines and ministering to the men and women of\r\nthat lonely village, and when the fisherman apostle, Thomas Potter, died\r\nhe left the church to Murray, who, in turn, bequeathed it, “free, for the\r\nuse of all Christian people.”\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PHANTOM DRAGOON\r\n\r\nThe height that rises a mile or so to the south of Newark, Delaware, is\r\ncalled Iron Hill, because it is rich in hematite ore, but about the time\r\nof General Howe's advance to the Brandywine it might well have won its\r\nname because of the panoply of war--the sullen guns, the flashing swords,\r\nand glistening bayonets--that appeared among the British tents pitched on\r\nit. After the red-coats had established camp here the American outposts\r\nwere advanced and one of the pickets was stationed at Welsh Tract Church.\r\nOn his first tour of duty the sentry was thrown into great alarm by the\r\nappearance of a figure robed from head to foot in white, that rode a\r\nhorse at a charging gait within ten feet of his face. When guard was\r\nrelieved the soldier begged that he might never be assigned to that post\r\nagain. His nerves were strong in the presence of an enemy in the\r\nflesh--but an enemy out of the grave! Ugh! He would desert rather than\r\nencounter that shape again. His request was granted. The sentry who\r\nsucceeded him was startled, in the small hours, by a rush of hoofs and\r\nthe flash of a pallid form. He fired at it, and thought that he heard the\r\nsound of a mocking laugh come back.\r\n\r\nEvery night the phantom horseman made his rounds, and several times the\r\nsentinels shot at him without effect, the white horse and white rider\r\nshowing no annoyance at these assaults. When it came the turn of a\r\nsceptical and unimaginative old corporal to take the night detail, he\r\ntook the liberty of assuming the responsibilities of this post himself.\r\nHe looked well to the priming of his musket, and at midnight withdrew out\r\nof the moonshine and waited, with his gun resting on a fence. It was not\r\nlong before the beat of hoofs was heard approaching, and in spite of\r\nhimself the corporal felt a thrill along his spine as a mounted figure\r\nthat might have represented Death on the pale horse came into view; but\r\nhe jammed his hat down, set his teeth, and sighted his flint-lock with\r\ndeliberation. The rider was near, when bang went the corporal's musket,\r\nand a white form was lying in the road, a horse speeding into the\r\ndistance. Scrambling over the fence, the corporal, reassured, ran to the\r\nform and turned it over: a British scout, quite dead. The daring fellow,\r\nrelying on the superstitious fears of the rustics in his front, had made\r\na nightly ride as a ghost, in order to keep the American outposts from\r\nadvancing, and also to guess, from elevated points, at the strength and\r\ndisposition of their troops. He wore a cuirass of steel, but that did not\r\nprotect his brain from the corporal's bullet.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDELAWARE WATER GAP\r\n\r\nThe Indian name of this beautiful region, Minisink, “the water is gone,”\r\n agrees with the belief of geologists that a lake once existed behind the\r\nBlue Ridge, and that it burst its way through the hills at this point.\r\nSimilar results were produced by a cataclysm on the Connecticut at Mount\r\nHolyoke, on the Lehigh at Mauch Chunk, and Runaway Pond, New Hampshire,\r\ngot its name by a like performance. The aborigines, whatever may be said\r\nagainst them, enjoyed natural beauty, and their habitations were often\r\nmade in this delightful region, their councils being attended by chief\r\nTamanend, or Tammany, a Delaware, whose wisdom and virtues were such as\r\nto raise him to the place of patron saint of America. The notorious\r\nTammany Society of New York is named for him. When this chief became old\r\nand feeble his tribe abandoned him in a hut at New Britain, Pennsylvania,\r\nand there he tried to kill himself by stabbing, but failing in that, he\r\nflung burning leaves over himself, and so perished. He was buried where\r\nhe died. It was a princess of his tribe that gave the name of Lover's\r\nLeap to a cliff on Mount Tammany, by leaping from it to her death,\r\nbecause her love for a young European was not reciprocated.\r\n\r\nThere is a silver-mine somewhere on the opposite mountain of Minsi, the\r\nknowledge of its location having perished with the death of a recluse,\r\nwho coined the metal he took from it into valuable though illegal\r\ndollars, going townward every winter to squander his earnings. During the\r\nRevolution “Oran the Hawk,” a Tory and renegade, was vexatious to the\r\npeople of Delaware Valley, and a detachment of colonial troops was sent\r\nin pursuit of him. They overtook him at the Gap and chased him up the\r\nslopes of Tammany, though he checked their progress by rolling stones\r\namong them. One rock struck a trooper, crushed him, and bore him down to\r\nthe base of a cliff, his blood smearing it in his descent. But though he\r\nseemed to have eluded his pursuers, Oran was shot in several places\r\nduring his flight, and when at last he cast himself into a thicket, to\r\nrest and get breath, it was never to rise again. His bones, cracked by\r\nbullets and gnawed by beasts, were found there when the leaves fell.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PHANTOM DRUMMER\r\n\r\nColonel Howell, of the king's troops, was a gay fellow, framed to make\r\nwomen false; but when he met the rosy, sweet-natured daughter of farmer\r\nJarrett, near Valley Forge, he attempted no dalliance, for he fell too\r\nseriously in love. He might not venture into the old man's presence, for\r\nJarrett had a son with Washington, and he hated a red-coat as he did the\r\ndevil; but the young officer met the girl in secret, and they plighted\r\ntroth beneath the garden trees, hidden in gray mist. As Howell bent to\r\ntake his first kiss that night, a rising wind went past, bringing from\r\nafar the roll of a drum, and as they talked the drum kept drawing nearer,\r\nuntil it seemed at hand. The officer peered across the wall, then hurried\r\nto his mistress' side, as pale as death. The fields outside were empty of\r\nlife.\r\n\r\nLouder came the rattling drum; it seemed to enter the gate, pass but a\r\nyard away, go through the wall, and die in the distance. When it ceased,\r\nHowell started as if a spell had been lifted, laxed his grip on the\r\nmaiden's hand, then drew her to his breast convulsively. Ruth's terror\r\nwas more vague but no less genuine than his own, and some moments passed\r\nbefore she could summon voice to ask him what this visitation meant. He\r\nanswered, “Something is about to change my fortunes for good or ill;\r\nprobably for ill. Important events in my family for the past three\r\ngenerations have been heralded by that drum, and those events were\r\ndisasters oftener than benefits.” Few more words passed, and with another\r\nkiss the soldier scaled the wall and galloped away, the triple beat of\r\nhis charger's hoofs sounding back into the maiden's ears like drum-taps.\r\nIn a skirmish next day Colonel Howell was shot. He was carried to farmer\r\nJarrett's house and left there, in spite of the old man's protest, for he\r\nwas willing to give no shelter to his country's enemies. When Ruth saw\r\nher lover in this strait she was like to have fallen, but when she\r\nlearned that it would take but a few days of quiet and care to restore\r\nhim to health, she was ready to forgive her fellow-countrymen for\r\ninflicting an injury that might result in happiness for both of them.\r\n\r\nIt took a great deal of teasing to overcome the scruples of the farmer,\r\nbut he gruffly consented to receive the young man until his hurt should\r\nheal. Ruth attended him faithfully, and the cheerful, manly nature of the\r\nofficer so won the farmer's heart that he soon forgot the color of\r\nHowell's coat. Nor was he surprised when Howell told him that he loved\r\nhis daughter and asked for her hand; indeed, it had been easy to guess\r\ntheir affection, and the old man declared that but for his allegiance to\r\na tyrant he would gladly own him as a son-in-law. It was a long struggle\r\nbetween love and duty that ensued in Howell's breast, and love was\r\nvictor. If he might marry Ruth he would leave the army. The old man gave\r\nprompt consent, and a secret marriage was arranged. Howell had been\r\nordered to rejoin his regiment; he could not honorably resign on the eve\r\nof an impending battle, and, even had he done so, a long delay must have\r\npreceded his release. He would marry the girl, go to the country, live\r\nthere quietly until the British evacuated Philadelphia, when he would\r\nreturn and cast his lot with the Jarrett household.\r\n\r\nHowell donned citizen's dress, and the wedding took place in the spacious\r\nbest room of the mansion, but as he slipped the ring on the finger of his\r\nbride the roll of a drum was heard advancing up the steps into the room,\r\nthen on and away until all was still again. The young colonel was pale;\r\nRuth clung to him in terror; clergymen and guests looked at each other in\r\namazement. Now there were voices at the porch, the door was flung open,\r\narmed men entered, and the bridegroom was a prisoner. He was borne to his\r\nquarters, and afterward tried for desertion, for a servant in the Jarrett\r\nhousehold, hating all English and wishing them to suffer, even at each\r\nother's hands, had betrayed the plan of his master's guest. The\r\ncourt-martial found him guilty and condemned him to be shot. When the\r\nexecution took place, Ruth, praying and sobbing in her chamber, knew that\r\nher husband was no more. The distant sound of musketry reverberated like\r\nthe roll of a drum.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MISSING SOLDIER OF VALLEY FORGE\r\n\r\nDuring the dreadful winter of the American encampment at Valley Forge six\r\nor eight soldiers went out to forage for provisions. Knowing that little\r\nwas to be hoped for near the camp of their starving comrades, they set\r\noff in the direction of French Creek. At this stream the party separated,\r\nand a little later two of the men were attacked by Tory farmers. Flying\r\nalong the creek for some distance they came to a small cave in a bluff,\r\nand one of them, a young Southerner named Carrington, scrambled into it.\r\nHis companion was not far behind, and was hurrying toward the cave, when\r\nhe was arrested by a rumble and a crash: a block of granite, tons in\r\nweight, that had hung poised overhead, slid from its place and completely\r\nblocked the entrance. The stifled cry of despair from the living occupant\r\nof the tomb struck to his heart. He hid in a neighboring wood until the\r\nTories had dispersed, then, returning to the cave, he strove with might\r\nand main to stir the boulder from its place, but without avail.\r\n\r\nWhen he reached camp, as he did next day, he told of this disaster, but\r\nthe time for rescue was believed to be past, or the work was thought to\r\nbe too exhausting and dangerous for a body of men who had much ado to\r\nkeep life in their own weak frames. It was a double tragedy, for the\r\nyoung man's sweetheart never recovered from the shock that the news\r\noccasioned, and on her tomb, near Richmond, Virginia, these words are\r\nchiselled: “Died, of a broken heart, on the 1st of March, 1780, Virginia\r\nRandolph, aged 21 years, 9 days. Faithful unto death.” In the summer of\r\n1889 some workmen, blasting rock near the falls on French Creek,\r\nuncovered the long-concealed cavern and found there a skeleton with a few\r\nrags of a Continental uniform. In a bottle beside it was an account,\r\nsigned by Arthur L. Carrington, of the accident that had befallen him,\r\nand a letter declaring undying love for his sweetheart.\r\n\r\nHe had starved to death. The bones were neatly coffined, and were sent to\r\nRichmond to be buried beside those of the faithful Miss Randolph.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LAST SHOT AT GERMANTOWN\r\n\r\nMany are the tales of prophecy that have been preserved to us from war\r\ntimes. In the beginning of King Philip's war in Connecticut, in 1675, it\r\nwas reported that the firing of the first gun was heard all over the\r\nState, while the drumbeats calling settlers to defence were audible eight\r\nmiles away. Braddock's defeat and the salvation of Washington were\r\nforetold by a Miami chief at a council held in Fort Ponchartrain, on\r\nDetroit River, the ambush and the slaughter having been revealed to him\r\nin a dream. The victims of that battle, too, had been apprised, for one\r\nor two nights before the disaster a young lieutenant in Braddock's\r\ncommand saw his fellow-officers pass through his tent, bloody and torn,\r\nand when the first gun sounded he knew that it spoke the doom of nearly\r\nall his comrades. At Killingly, Connecticut, in the autumn before the\r\noutbreak of the Revolution, a distant roar of artillery was heard for a\r\nwhole day and night in the direction of Boston, mingled with a rattle of\r\nmusketry, and so strong was the belief that war had begun and the British\r\nwere advancing, that the minute men mustered to await orders. It was\r\nafterward argued that these noises came from an explosion of meteors, a\r\nshower of these missiles being then in progress, invisible, of course, in\r\nthe day-time. Just after the signing of the Declaration of Independence\r\nthe royal arms on the spire of the Episcopal church at Hampton, Virginia,\r\nwere struck off by lightning. Shortly before the surrender of Cornwallis\r\na display of northern lights was seen in New England, the rays taking the\r\nform of cannon, facing southward. In Connecticut sixty-four of these guns\r\nwere counted.\r\n\r\nAt the battle of Germantown the Americans were enraged by the killing of\r\none of their men who had gone out with a flag of truce. He was shot from\r\nthe windows of Judge Chew's house, which was crowded with British\r\nsoldiers, and as he fell to the lawn, dyeing the peaceful emblem with his\r\nblood, at least one of the Continentals swore that his death should be\r\nwell avenged. The British reinforcements, sixteen thousand strong, came\r\nhurrying through the street, their officers but half-dressed, so urgent\r\nhad been the summons for their aid. Except for their steady tramp the\r\nplace was silent; doors were locked and shutters bolted, and if people\r\nwere within doors no sign of them was visible. General Agnew alone of all\r\nthe troop seemed depressed and anxious. Turning to an aide as they passed\r\nthe Mennonist graveyard, he said, “This field is the last I shall fight\r\non.”\r\n\r\nAn eerie face peered over the cemetery wall, a scarred, unshaven face\r\nframed in long hair and surmounting a body clothed in skins, with the\r\nquestion, “Is that the brave General Gray who beat the rebels at Paoli?”\r\n One of the soldiers, with a careless toss of the hand, seemed to indicate\r\nGeneral Agnew. A moment later there was a report, a puff of smoke from\r\nthe cemetery wall, and a bullet whizzed by the head of the general, who\r\nsmiled wanly, to encourage his men. Summary execution would have been\r\ndone upon the stranger had not a body of American cavalry dashed against\r\nthe red-coats at that moment, and a fierce contest was begun. When the\r\nday was over, General Agnew, who had been separated from his command in\r\nthe confusion of battle, came past the graves again. Tired and depressed,\r\nhe drew rein for a moment to breathe the sweet air, so lately fouled with\r\ndust and smoke, and to watch the gorgeous light of sunset. Again, like a\r\nmalignant genius of the place, the savage-looking stranger arose from\r\nbehind the wall. A sharp report broke the quiet of evening and awoke\r\nclattering echoes from the distant houses. A horse plunged and General\r\nAgnew rolled from his saddle, dead: the last victim in the strife at\r\nGermantown.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA BLOW IN THE DARK\r\n\r\nThe Tory Manheim sits brooding in his farmhouse near Valley Forge, and\r\nhis daughter, with a hectic flush on her cheek, looks out into the\r\ntwilight at the falling snow. She is worn and ill; she has brought on a\r\nfever by exposure incurred that very day in a secret journey to the\r\nAmerican camp, made to warn her lover of another attempt on the life of\r\nWashington, who must pass her father's house on his return from a distant\r\nsettlement. The Tory knows nothing of this; but he starts whenever the\r\nmen in the next room rattle the dice or break into a ribald song, and a\r\nfrown of apprehension crosses his face as the foragers crunch by,\r\nhalf-barefoot, through the snow. The hours go on, and the noise in the\r\nnext room increases; but it hushes suddenly when a knock at the door is\r\nheard. The Tory opens it, and trembles as a tall, grave man, with the\r\nfigure of an athlete, steps into the fire-light and calmly removes his\r\ngloves. “I have been riding far,” said he. “Can you give me some food and\r\nthe chance to sleep for an hour, until the storm clears up?”\r\n\r\nManheim says that he can, and shuffling into the next room, he whispers,\r\n“Washington!” The girl is sent out to get refreshments. It is in vain\r\nthat she seeks to sign or speak to the man who sits there so calmly\r\nbefore the fire, for her father is never out of sight or hearing. After\r\nWashington has finished his modest repast he asks to be left to himself\r\nfor a while, but the girl is told to conduct him to the room on the left\r\nof the landing on the next floor.\r\n\r\nHer father holds the candle at the foot of the stairs until he sees his\r\nguest enter; then he bids his daughter go to her own bed, which is in the\r\nchamber on the right of the landing. There is busy whispering in the room\r\nbelow after that, and the dice box is shaken to see to whose lot it shall\r\nfall to steal up those stairs and stab Washington in his sleep. An hour\r\npasses and all in the house appear to be at rest, but the stairs creak\r\nslightly as Manheim creeps upon his prey. He blows his candle out and\r\nsoftly enters the chamber on the left. The men, who listen in the dark at\r\nthe foot of the stair, hear a moan, and the Tory hurries back with a\r\nshout of gladness, for the rebel chief is no more and Howe's reward will\r\nenrich them for life.\r\n\r\nGlasses are filled, and in the midst of the rejoicing a step is heard on\r\nthe stair. Washington stands before them. In calm, deep tones he thanks\r\nthe farmer for his shelter, and asks that his horse be brought to the\r\ndoor and his reckoning be made out. The Tory stares as one bereft. Then\r\nhe rushes aloft, flings open the door of the room on the left, and gazes\r\nat the face that rests on the pillow,--a pillow that is dabbled with red.\r\nThe face is that of his daughter. The name of father is one that he will\r\nnever hear again in this world. The candle falls from his hand; he sinks\r\nto the floor; be his sin forgiven! Outside is heard the tramp of a horse.\r\nIt is that of Washington, who rides away, ignorant of the peril he has\r\npassed and the sacrifice that averted it.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE TORY'S CONVERSION\r\n\r\nIn his firelit parlor, in his little house at Valley Forge, old Michael\r\nKuch sits talking with his daughter. But though it is Christmas eve the\r\ntalk has little cheer in it. The hours drag on until the clock strikes\r\ntwelve, and the old man is about to offer his evening prayer for the\r\nsafety of his son, who is one of Washington's troopers, when hurried\r\nsteps are heard in the snow, there is a fumbling at the latch, then the\r\ndoor flies open and admits a haggard, panting man who hastily closes it\r\nagain, falls into a seat, and shakes from head to foot. The girl goes to\r\nhim. “John!” she says. But he only averts his face. “What is wrong with\r\nthee, John Blake?” asks the farmer. But he has to ask again and again ere\r\nhe gets an answer. Then, in a broken voice, the trembling man confesses\r\nthat he has tried to shoot Washington, but the bullet struck and killed\r\nhis only attendant, a dragoon. He has come for shelter, for men are on\r\nhis track already. “Thou know'st I am neutral in this war, John Blake,”\r\n answered the farmer,--“although I have a boy down yonder in the camp. It\r\nwas a cowardly thing to do, and I hate you Tories that you do not fight\r\nlike men; yet, since you ask me for a hiding-place, you shall have it,\r\nthough, mind you, 'tis more on the girl's account than yours. The men are\r\ncoming. Out--this way--to the spring-house. So!”\r\n\r\nBefore old Michael has time to return to his chair the door is again\r\nthrust open, this time by men in blue and buff. They demand the assassin,\r\nwhose footsteps they have tracked there through the snow. Michael does\r\nnot answer. They are about to use violence when, through the open door,\r\ncomes Washington, who checks them with a word. The general bears a\r\ndrooping form with a blood splash on its breast, and deposits it on the\r\nhearth as gently as a mother puts a babe into its cradle. As the\r\nfirelight falls on the still face the farmer's eyes grow round and big;\r\nthen he shrieks and drops upon his knees, for it is his son who is lying\r\nthere. Beside him is a pistol; it was dropped by the Tory when he\r\nentered. Grasping it eagerly the farmer leaps to his feet. His years have\r\nfallen from him. With a tiger-like bound he gains the door, rushes to the\r\nspring-house where John Blake is crouching, his eyes sunk and shining,\r\ngnawing his fingers in a craze of dismay. But though hate is swift, love\r\nis swifter, and the girl is there as soon as he. She strikes his arm\r\naside, and the bullet he has fired lodges in the wood. He draws out his\r\nknife, and the murderer, to whom has now come the calmness of despair,\r\nkneels and offers his breast to the blade. Before he can strike, the\r\nsoldiers hasten up, and seizing Blake, they drag him to the house--the\r\nlittle room--where all had been so peaceful but a few minutes before.\r\n\r\nThe culprit is brought face to face with Washington, who asks him what\r\nharm he has ever suffered from his fellow countrymen that he should turn\r\nagainst them thus. Blake hangs his head and owns his willingness to die.\r\nHis eyes rest on the form extended on the floor, and he shudders; but his\r\nfeatures undergo an almost joyous change, for the figure lifts itself,\r\nand in a faint voice calls, “Father!” The young man lives. With a cry of\r\ndelight both father and sister raise him in their arms. “You are not yet\r\nprepared to die,” says Washington to the captive. “I will put you under\r\nguard until you are wanted. Take him into custody, my dear young lady,\r\nand try to make an American of him. See, it is one o'clock, and this is\r\nChristmas morning. May all be happy here. Come.” And beckoning to his men\r\nhe rides away, though Blake and his affianced would have gone on their\r\nknees before him. Revulsion of feeling, love, thankfulness and a latent\r\npatriotism wrought a quick change in Blake. When young Kuch recovered\r\nBlake joined his regiment, and no soldier served the flag more honorably.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLORD PERCY'S DREAM\r\n\r\nLeaving the dissipations of the English court, Lord Percy came to America\r\nto share the fortunes of his brethren in the contest then raging on our\r\nsoil. His father had charged him with the delivery of a certain package\r\nto an Indian woman, should he meet her in his rambles through the western\r\nwilds, and, without inquiring into the nature of the gift\r\nor its occasion, he accepted the trust. At the battle of the\r\nBrandywine--strangely foretold by Quaker prophecy forty years before--he\r\nwas detailed by Cornwallis to drive the colonial troops out of a\r\ngraveyard where they had intrenched themselves, and though he set upon\r\nthis errand with the enthusiasm of youth, his cheek paled as he drew near\r\nthe spot where the enemy was waiting.\r\n\r\nIt was not that he had actual physical fear of the onset: he had dreamed\r\na dream a few nights before, the purport of which he had hinted to his\r\ncomrades, and as he rode into the clearing at the top of Osborn's Hill he\r\ndrew rein and exclaimed, “My dream! Yonder is the graveyard. I am fated\r\nto die there.” Giving a few of his effects to his brother officers, and\r\ncharging one of them to take a message of love to his betrothed in\r\nEngland, he set his lips and rode forward.\r\n\r\nHis cavalry bound toward the scene of action and are within thirty paces\r\nof the cemetery wall, when from behind it rises a battalion of men in the\r\ngreen uniform of the Santee Rangers and pours a withering fire into the\r\nranks. The shock is too great to withstand, and the red-coats stagger\r\naway with broken ranks, leaving many dead and wounded on the ground. Lord\r\nPercy is the coolest of all. He urges the broken columns forward, and\r\nalmost alone holds the place until the infantry, a hundred yards behind,\r\ncome up. Thereupon ensues one of those hand-to-hand encounters that are\r\nso rare in recent war, and that are the sorest test of valor and\r\ndiscipline. Now rides forward Captain Waldemar, chief of the rangers and\r\na half-breed Indian, who, seeing Percy, recognizes him as an officer and\r\nengages him in combat. There is for a minute a clash of steel on steel;\r\nthen the nobleman falls heavily to the earth--dead. His dream has come\r\ntrue. That night the captain Waldemar seeks out the body of this officer,\r\nattracted by something in the memory of his look, and from his bosom\r\ntakes the packet that was committed to his care.\r\n\r\nBy lantern-light he reads, carelessly at first, then rapidly and eagerly,\r\nand at the close he looks long and earnestly at the dead man, and seems\r\nto brush away a tear. Strange thing to do over the body of an enemy! Why\r\nhad fate decreed that they should be enemies? For Waldemar is the\r\nhalf-brother of Percy. His mother was the Indian girl that the earl, now\r\npassing his last days in England, had deceived with a pretended marriage,\r\nand the letters promise patronage to her son. The half-breed digs a grave\r\nthat night with his own hands and lays the form of his brother in it.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSAVED BY THE BIBLE\r\n\r\nIt was on the day after the battle of Germantown that Warner, who wore\r\nthe blue, met his hated neighbor, the Tory Dabney, near that bloody\r\nfield.\r\n\r\nBy a common impulse the men fell upon each other with their knives, and\r\nWarner soon had his enemy in a position to give him the death-stroke, but\r\nDabney began to bellow for quarter. “My brother cried for quarter at\r\nPaoli,” answered the other, “and you struck him to the heart.”\r\n\r\n“I have a wife and child. Spare me for their sakes.”\r\n\r\n“My brother had a wife and two children. Perhaps you would like to beg\r\nyour life of them.”\r\n\r\nThough made in mockery, this proposition was caught at so earnestly that\r\nWarner at length consented to take his adversary, firmly bound, to the\r\nhouse where the bereaved family was living. The widow was reading the\r\nBible to her children, but her grief was too fresh to gather comfort from\r\nit. When Dabney was flung into the room he grovelled at her feet and\r\nbegged piteously for mercy. Her face did not soften, but there was a kind\r\nof contempt in the settled sadness of her tone as she said, “It shall be\r\nas God directs. I will close this Bible, open it at chance, and when this\r\nboy shall put his finger at random on a line, by that you must live or\r\ndie.”\r\n\r\nThe book was opened, and the child put his finger on a line: “That man\r\nshall die.”\r\n\r\nWarner drew his knife and motioned his prisoner to the door. He was going\r\nto lead him into the wood to offer him as a sacrifice to his brother's\r\nspirit.\r\n\r\n“No, no!” shrieked the wretch. “Give me one more chance; one more! Let\r\nthe girl open the book.”\r\n\r\nThe woman coldly consents, and when the book is opened for the second\r\ntime she reads, “Love your enemies.” There are no other words. The knife\r\nis used, but it is to cut the prisoner's bonds, and he walks away with\r\nhead hung down, never more to take arms against his countrymen. And glad\r\nare they all at this, when the husband is brought home--not dead, though\r\nleft among the corpses at Paoli, but alive and certain of recovery, with\r\nsuch nursing as his wife will give him. After tears of joy have been shed\r\nshe tells him the story of the Bible judgment, and all the members of the\r\nfamily fall on their knees in thanksgiving that the blood of Dabney is\r\nnot upon their heads.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPARRICIDE OF THE WISSAHICKON\r\n\r\nFarmer Derwent and his four stout sons set off on an autumn night for the\r\nmeeting of patriots at a house on the Wissahickon,--a meeting that bodes\r\nno good to the British encamped in Philadelphia, let the red-coats laugh\r\nas they will at the rag-tag and bob-tail that are joining the army of Mr.\r\nWashington in the wilds of the Skippack. The farmer sighs as he thinks\r\nthat his younger son alone should be missing from the company, and\r\nwonders for the thousandth time what has become of the boy. They sit by a\r\nrock that juts into the road to trim their lantern, and while they talk\r\ntogether they are startled by an exclamation. It is from Ellen, the\r\nadopted daughter of Derwent and the betrothed of his missing son. On the\r\nnight that the boy stole away from his father's house he asked her to\r\nmeet him in this place in a year's time, and the year is up to-night.\r\n\r\nBut it is not to meet him that she is hastening now: she has heard that\r\nthe British have learned of the patriot gathering and will try to make\r\nprisoners of the company. Even as she tells of this there is a sound to\r\nthe southward: the column is on the march. The farmer's eye blazes with\r\nrage and hate. “Boys,” he says, “yonder come those who intend to kill us.\r\nLet them taste of their own warfare. Stand here in the shadow and fire as\r\nthey pass this rock.”\r\n\r\nThe troopers ride on, chuckling over their sure success, when there is a\r\nreport of rifles and four of the red-coats are in the dust. The\r\nsurvivors, though taken by surprise, prove their courage by halting to\r\nanswer the volley, and one of them springs from his saddle, seizes\r\nDerwent, and plunges a knife into his throat. The rebel falls. His blood\r\npools around him. The British are successful, for two of the young men\r\nare bound and two of them have fallen, and there is a cheer of victory,\r\nbut the trooper with the knife in his hand does not raise his voice. He\r\nbends above the farmer as still as one dead, until his captain claps him\r\non the shoulder. As he rises, the prisoners start in wonder, for the face\r\nthey see in the lantern-light is that of their brother, yet strange in\r\nits haggardness and its smear of blood on the cheek. The girl runs from\r\nher hiding-place with a cry, but stands in horror when her foot touches\r\nthe gory pool in the road. The trooper opens his coat and offers her a\r\nlocket. It contains her picture, and he has worn it above his heart for a\r\nyear, but she lets it fall and sinks down, moaning. The soldier tears off\r\nhis red coat, tramples it in the dust, then vaulting to his saddle he\r\nplunges into the river, fords it, and crashes through the underbrush on\r\nthe other side. In a few minutes he has reached the summit of a rock that\r\nrises nearly a hundred feet above the stream. The horse halts at the\r\nedge, but on a fierce stab of the spur into his flank he takes the leap.\r\nWith a despairing yell the traitor and parricide goes into eternity.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BLACKSMITH AT BRANDYWINE\r\n\r\nTerrible in the field at Brandywine was the figure of a man armed only\r\nwith a hammer, who plunged into the ranks of the enemy, heedless of his\r\nown life, yet seeming to escape their shots and sabre cuts by magic, and\r\nwith Thor strokes beat them to the earth. But yesterday war had been to\r\nhim a distant rumor, a thing as far from his cottage at Dilworth as if it\r\nhad been in Europe, but he had revolted at a plot that he had overheard\r\nto capture Washington and had warned the general. In revenge the Tories\r\nhad burned his cottage, and his wife and baby had perished in the flames.\r\nAll day he had sat beside the smoking ruins, unable to weep, unable to\r\nthink, unable almost to suffer, except dumbly, for as yet he could not\r\nunderstand it. But when the drums were heard they roused the tiger in\r\nhim, and gaunt with sleeplessness and hunger he joined his countrymen and\r\nranged like Ajax on the field. Every cry for quarter was in vain: to\r\nevery such appeal he had but one reply, his wife's name--Mary.\r\n\r\nNear the end of the fight he lay beside the road, his leg broken, his\r\nflesh torn, his life ebbing from a dozen wounds. A wagoner, hasting to\r\njoin the American retreat, paused to give him drink. “I've only five\r\nminutes more of life in me,” said the smith. “Can you lift me into that\r\ntree and put a rifle in my hands?” The powerful teamster raised him to\r\nthe crotch of an oak, and gave him the rifle and ammunition that a dying\r\nsoldier had dropped there. A band of red-coats came running down the\r\nroad, chasing some farmers. The blacksmith took careful aim; there was a\r\nreport, and the leader of the band fell dead. A pause; again a report\r\nrang out, and a trooper sprawled upon the ground. The marksman had been\r\nseen, and a lieutenant was urging his men to hurry on and cut him down.\r\nThere was a third report, and the lieutenant reeled forward into the\r\nroad, bleeding and cursing. “That's for Mary,” gasped the blacksmith. The\r\nrifle dropped from his hands, and he, too, sank lifeless against the\r\nboughs.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nFATHER AND SON\r\n\r\nIt was three soldiers, escaping from the rout of Braddock's forces, who\r\ncaught the alleged betrayer of their general and put him to the death.\r\nThey threw his purse of ill-gotten louis d'or into the river, and sent\r\nhim swinging from the edge of a ravine, with a vine about his neck and a\r\nplacard on his breast. And so they left him.\r\n\r\nTwenty years pass, and the war-fires burn more fiercely in the vales of\r\nPennsylvania, but, too old to fight, the schoolmaster sits at his door\r\nnear Chad's Ford and smokes and broods upon the past. He thinks of the\r\ntime when he marched with Washington, when with two wounded comrades he\r\nreturned along the lonely trail; then comes the vision of a blackening\r\nface, and he rises and wipes his brow. “It was right,” he mutters. “He\r\nsent a thousand of his brothers to their deaths.”\r\n\r\nGilbert Gates comes that evening to see the old man's daughter: a smooth,\r\npolite young fellow, but Mayland cannot like him, and after some short\r\ntalk he leaves him, pleading years and rheumatism, and goes to bed. But\r\nnot to sleep; for toward ten o'clock his daughter goes to him and urges\r\nhim to fly, for men are gathering near the house--Tories, she is\r\nsure,--and they mean no good. Laughing at her fears, but willing to\r\nrelieve her anxiety, the old man slips into his clothes, goes into the\r\ncellar, and thence starts for the barn, while the girl remains for a few\r\nminutes to hide the silver.\r\n\r\nHe does not go far before Gates is at his elbow with the whispered words,\r\n“Into the stack-quick. They are after you.” Mayland hesitates with\r\ndistrust, but the appearance of men with torches leaves no time for talk.\r\nWith Gilbert's help he crawls deep into the straw and is covered up.\r\nPresently a rough voice asks which way he has gone. Gilbert replies that\r\nhe has gone to the wood, but there is no need for getting into a passion,\r\nand that on no account would it be advisable to fire the stack. “Won't we\r\nthough?” cries one of the party. “We'll burn the rebel out of house and\r\nhome,” and thrusting his torch into the straw it is ablaze in an instant.\r\nThe crowd hurries away toward the wood, and does not hear the stifled\r\ngroan that comes out of the middle of the fire. Gates takes a paper from\r\nhis pocket, and, after reading it for the last time, flings it upon the\r\nflame. It bears the inscription, “Isaac Gates, Traitor and Spy, hung by\r\nthree soldiers of his majesty's army. Isaac Mayland.”\r\n\r\nFrom his moody contemplation he rouses with a start, for Mayland's\r\ndaughter is there. Her eyes are bent on a distorted thing that lies among\r\nthe embers, and in the dying light of the flames it seems to move. She\r\nstudies it close, then with a cry of pain and terror she falls upon the\r\nhot earth, and her senses go out, not to be regained in woful years. With\r\nhead low bowed, Gilbert Gates trudges away. In the fight at Brandywine\r\nnext day, Black Samson, a giant negro, armed with a scythe, sweeps his\r\nway through the red ranks like a sable figure of Time. Mayland had taught\r\nhim; his daughter had given him food. It is to avenge them that he is\r\nfighting. In the height of the conflict he enters the American ranks\r\nleading a prisoner--Gilbert Gates. The young man is pale, stern, and\r\nsilent. His deed is known, he is a spy as well as a traitor, but he asks\r\nno mercy. It is rumored that next day he alone, of the prisoners, was led\r\nto a wood and lashed by arms and legs to a couple of hickory trees that\r\nhad been bent by a prodigious effort and tied together by their tops. The\r\nlashing was cut by a rifle-ball, the trees regained their straight\r\nposition with a snap like whips, and that was the way Gilbert Gates came\r\nto his end.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE ENVY OF MANITOU\r\n\r\nBehind the mountains that gloom about the romantic village of Mauch\r\nChunk, Pennsylvania, was once a lake of clear, bright water, its winding\r\nloops and bays extending back for several miles. On one of its prettiest\r\nbits of shore stood a village of the Leni Lenape, and largest of its\r\nwigwams, most richly pictured without, most luxurious in its couching of\r\nfurs within, was that of the young chief, Onoko. This Indian was a man of\r\ngreat size, strength, and daring. Single-handed he had slain the bear on\r\nMauch Chunk [Bear Mountain], and it was no wonder that Wenonah, the\r\nfairest of her tribe, was flattered when he sued for her hand, and\r\npromptly consented to be his wife. It was Onoko's fortune in war, the\r\nchase, and love that roused the envy of Mitche Manitou.\r\n\r\nOne day, as the couple were floating in their shallop of bark on the calm\r\nlake, idly enjoying the sunshine and saying pretty things to each other,\r\nthe Manitou arose among the mountains. Terrible was his aspect, for the\r\nscowl of hatred was on his face, thunder crashed about his head, and fire\r\nsnapped from his eyes. Covering his right hand with his invincible magic\r\nmitten, he dealt a blow on the hills that made the earth shake, and rived\r\nthem to a depth of a thousand feet. Through the chasm thus created the\r\nlake poured a foaming deluge, and borne with it was the canoe of Onoko\r\nand Wenonah. One glance at the wrathful face in the clouds above them and\r\nthey knew that escape was hopeless, so, clasping each other in a close\r\nembrace, they were whirled away to death. Manitou strode away moodily\r\namong the hills, and ever since that time the Lehigh has rolled through\r\nthe chasm that he made. The memory of Onoko is preserved in the name of a\r\nglen and cascade a short distance above Mauch Chunk.\r\n\r\nIt is not well to be too happy in this world. It rouses the envy of the\r\ngods.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LAST REVEL IN PRINTZ HALL\r\n\r\n“Young man, I'll give thee five dollars a week to be care-taker in Printz\r\nHall,” said Quaker Quidd to fiddler Matthews, on an autumn evening.\r\n\r\nYoung Matthews had just been taunting the old gentleman with being afraid\r\nto sleep on his own domain, and as the eyes of all the tavern loungers\r\nwere on him he could hardly decline so flattering a proposition, so,\r\nafter some hemming and hawing, he said he would take the Quaker at his\r\nword. He played but two or three more tunes that evening, did Peter\r\nMatthews, and played them rather sadly; then, as Quidd had finished his\r\nmulled cider and departed, he took his homeward way in thoughtful mood.\r\nPrintz Hall stood in a lonely, weed-grown garden near Chester,\r\nPennsylvania, and thither repaired Peter, as next day's twilight shut\r\ndown, with a mattress, blanket, comestibles, his beloved fiddle, and a\r\nflask of whiskey. Ensconcing himself in the room that was least\r\ndepressing in appearance he stuffed rags into the vacant panes, lighted a\r\ncandle, started a blaze in the fireplace, and ate his supper.\r\n\r\n“Not so bad a place, after all,” mumbled Peter, as he warmed himself at\r\nthe fire and the flask; then, taking out his violin, he began to play.\r\nThe echo of his music emphasized the emptiness of the house, the damp got\r\ninto the strings so that they sounded tubby, and there were unintentional\r\nquavers in the melody whenever the trees swung against the windows and\r\nsplashed them with rain, or when a distant shutter fell a-creaking.\r\nFinally, he stirred the fire, bolted the door, snuffed his candle, took a\r\ncourageous pull at the liquor, flung off his coat and shoes, rolled his\r\nblanket around him, stretched himself on the mattress, and fell asleep.\r\nHe was awakened by--well, he could not say what, exactly, only he became\r\nsuddenly as wide awake as ever he had been in his life, and listened for\r\nsome sound that he knew was going to come out of the roar of the wind and\r\nthe slamming, grating, and whistling about the house. Yes, there it was:\r\na tread and a clank on the stair. The door, so tightly bolted, flew open,\r\nand there entered a dark figure with steeple-crowned hat, cloak,\r\njack-boots, sword, and corselet. The terrified fiddler wanted to howl,\r\nbut his voice was gone. “I am Peter Printz, governor-general of his\r\nSwedish Majesty's American colonies, and builder of this house,” said the\r\nfigure. “'Tis the night of the autumnal equinox, when my friends meet\r\nhere for revel. Take thy fiddle and come. Play, but speak not.”\r\n\r\nAnd whether he wished or no, Peter was drawn to follow the figure, which\r\nhe could make out by the phosphor gleam of it. Down-stairs they went,\r\ndoors swinging open before them, and along corridors that clanged to the\r\nstroke of the spectre's boot heels. Now they came to the ancient\r\nreception-room, and as they entered it Peter was dazzled. The floor was\r\nsmooth with wax, logs snapped in the fireplace, though the flame was\r\nsomewhat blue, the old hangings and portraits looked fresh, and in the\r\nlight of wax candles a hundred people, in the brave array of old times,\r\nwalked, courtesied, and seemed to laugh and talk together. As the fiddler\r\nappeared, every eye was turned on him in a disquieting way, and when he\r\naddressed himself to his bottle, from every throat came a hollow laugh.\r\nFinding his way to a chair he sank into it and put his instrument in\r\nposition. At the first note the couples took hands, and as he struck into\r\na jig they began to circle swiftly, leaping wondrous high.\r\n\r\nFaster went the music, for the whiskey was at work in Peter's noddle, and\r\nwilder grew the dance. It was as if the storm had come in through the\r\nwindows and was blowing these people hither and yon, around and around.\r\nThe fiddler vaguely wondered at himself, for he had never played so well,\r\nthough he had never heard the tune before. Now loomed Governor Printz in\r\nthe middle of the room, and extending his hand he ordered the dance to\r\ncease. “Thou bast played well, fiddler,” he said, “and shalt be paid.”\r\n Then, at his signal, came two negro men tugging at a strong box that\r\nPrintz unlocked. It was filled with gold pieces. “Hold thy fiddle bag,”\r\n commanded the governor, and Peter did so, watching, open mouthed, the\r\ntransfer of a double handful of treasure from box to sack. Another such\r\nhandful followed, and another. At the fourth Peter could no longer\r\ncontain himself. He forgot the injunction not to speak, and shouted\r\ngleefully, “Lord Harry! Here's luck!”\r\n\r\nThere was a shriek of demon laughter, the scene was lost in darkness, and\r\nPeter fell insensible. In the morning a tavern-haunting friend, anxious\r\nto know if Peter had met with any adventure, entered the house and went\r\ncautiously from room to room, calling on the watcher to show himself.\r\nThere was no response. At last he stumbled on the whiskey bottle, empty,\r\nand knew that Peter must be near. Sure enough, there he lay in the great\r\nroom, with dust and mould thick on everything, and his fiddle smashed\r\ninto a thousand pieces. Peter on being awakened looked ruefully about\r\nhim, then sprang up and eagerly demanded his money. “What money?” asked\r\nhis friend. The fiddler clutched at his green bag, opened it, shook it;\r\nthere was nothing. Nor was there any delay in Peter's exit from that\r\nmansion, and when, twenty-four hours after, the house went up in flames,\r\nhe averred that the ghosts had set it afire, and that he knew where they\r\nbrought their coals from.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE TWO RINGS\r\n\r\nGabrielle de St. Pierre, daughter of the commandant of Fort Le Boeuf,\r\nnow--Waterford, Pennsylvania, that the French had setup on the Ohio\r\nRiver, was Parisian by birth and training, but American by choice, for\r\nshe had enjoyed on this lonesome frontier a freedom equal to that of the\r\nbig-handed, red-faced half-breeds, and she was as wild as an Indian in\r\nher sports. Returning from a hunt, one day, she saw three men advancing\r\nalong the trail, and, as it was easy to see that they were not Frenchmen,\r\nher guide slipped an arrow to the cord and discharged it; but Gabrielle\r\nwas as quick as he, for she struck the missile as it was leaving the bow\r\nand it quivered harmlessly into a beech. The younger of the men who were\r\nadvancing--he was Harry Fairfax, of Virginia--said to his chief, “Another\r\nescape for you, George. Heaven sent one of its angels to avert that\r\nstroke.”\r\n\r\nWashington, for it was he, answered lightly, and, as no other hostile\r\ndemonstrations were made, the new-comers pressed on to the fort, where\r\nSt. Pierre received them cordially, though he knew that their errand was\r\nto claim his land on behalf of the English and urge the French to retire\r\nto the southwest. The days that were spent in futile negotiation passed\r\nall too swiftly for Fairfax, for he had fallen in love with Gabrielle.\r\nShe would not consent to a betrothal until time had tried his affection,\r\nbut as a token of friendship she gave him a stone circlet of Indian\r\nmanufacture, and received in exchange a ring that had been worn by the\r\nmother of Fairfax.\r\n\r\nAfter the diplomats had returned the English resolved to enforce their\r\ndemand with arms, and Fairfax was one of the first to be despatched to\r\nthe front.\r\n\r\nEarly in the campaign his company engaged the enemy near the Ohio River,\r\nand in the heat of battle he had time to note and wonder at the strange\r\nconduct of one of the French officers, a mere stripling, who seemed more\r\nconcerned to check the fire of his men than to secure any advantage in\r\nthe fight. Presently the French gave way, and with a cheer the English\r\nran forward to claim the field, the ruder spirits among them at once\r\nbeginning to plunder the wounded. A cry for quarter drew Fairfax with a\r\nbound to the place whence it came, and, dashing aside a pilfering\r\nsoldier, he bent above a slight form that lay extended on the earth: the\r\nyoung officer whose strange conduct had so surprised him. In another\r\nmoment he recognized his mother's ring on one of the slender hands. It\r\nwas Gabrielle. Her father had perished in the fight, but she had saved\r\nher lover.\r\n\r\nIn due time she went with her affianced to his home in Williamsburg,\r\nVirginia, and became mistress of the Fairfax mansion. But she never liked\r\nthe English, as a people, and when, in later years, two sturdy sons of\r\nhers asked leave to join the Continental army, she readily consented.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nFLAME SCALPS OF THE CHARTIERS\r\n\r\nBefore Pittsburg had become worthy to be called a settlement, a white man\r\nrowed his boat to the mouth of Chartiers creek, near that present city.\r\nHe was seeking a place in which to make his home, and a little way\r\nup-stream, where were timber, water, and a southern slope, he marked a\r\n“tomahawk claim,” and set about clearing the land. Next year his wife,\r\ntwo children, and his brother came to occupy the cabin he had built, and\r\nfor a long time all went happily, but on returning from a long hunt the\r\nbrothers found the little house in ashes and the charred remains of its\r\noccupants in the ruins. Though nearly crazed by this catastrophe they\r\nknew that their own lives were in hourly peril, and they wished to live\r\nuntil they could punish the savages for this crime. After burying the\r\nbodies, they started east across the hills, leaving a letter on birch\r\nbark in a cleft stick at the mouth of Chartiers creek, in which the\r\ntragedy was recounted.\r\n\r\nThis letter was afterward found by trappers. The men themselves were\r\nnever heard from, and it is believed that they, too, fell at the hands of\r\nthe Indians. Old settlers used to affirm that on summer nights the cries\r\nof the murdered innocents could be heard in the little valley where the\r\ncabin stood, and when storms were coming up these cries were often\r\nblended with the yells of savages. More impressive are the death\r\nlights--the will-o'-the-wisps--that wander over the scene of the tragedy,\r\nand up and down the neighboring slopes. These apparitions are said to be\r\nthe spirits of husband and wife seeking each other, or going together in\r\nsearch of their children; but some declare that in their upward streaming\r\nrays it can readily be seen that they are the scalps of the slain. Two of\r\nthem have a golden hue, and these are the scalps of the children. From\r\nbeneath them drops of red seem to distil on the grass and are found to\r\nhave bedewed the flowers on the following morning.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CONSECRATION OF WASHINGTON\r\n\r\nIn 1773 some of the Pietist monks were still living in their rude\r\nmonastery whose ruins are visible on the banks of the Wissahickon. Chief\r\namong these mystics was an old man who might have enjoyed the wealth and\r\ndistinction warranted by a title had he chosen to remain in Germany, but\r\nhe had forsworn vanities, and had come to the new world to pray, to rear\r\nhis children, and to live a simple life. Some said he was an alchemist,\r\nand many believed him to be a prophet. The infrequent wanderer beside the\r\nromantic river had seen lights burning in the window of his cell and had\r\nheard the solemn sound of song and prayer. On a winter night, when snow\r\nlay untrodden about the building and a sharp air stirred in the trees\r\nwith a sound like harps, the old man sat in a large room of the place,\r\nwith his son and daughter, waiting. For a prophecy had run that on that\r\nnight, at the third hour of morning, the Deliverer would present himself.\r\nIn a dream was heard a voice, saying, “I will send a deliverer to the new\r\nworld who shall save my people from bondage, as my Son saved them from\r\nspiritual death.” The night wore on in prayer and meditation, and the\r\nhours tolled heavily across the frozen wilderness, but, at the stroke of\r\nthree, steps were heard in the snow and the door swung open. The man who\r\nentered was of great stature, with a calm, strong face, a powerful frame,\r\nand a manner of dignity and grace.\r\n\r\n“Friends, I have lost my way,” said he. “Can you direct me?”\r\n\r\nThe old man started up in a kind of rapture. “You have not lost your\r\nway,” he cried, “but found it. You are called to a great mission. Kneel\r\nat this altar and receive it.”\r\n\r\nThe stranger looked at the man in surprise and a doubt passed over his\r\nface. “Nay, I am not mad,” urged the recluse, with a slight smile.\r\n“Listen: to-night, disturbed for the future of your country, and unable\r\nto sleep, you mounted horse and rode into the night air to think on the\r\nquestion that cannot be kept out of your mind, Is it lawful for the\r\nsubject to draw sword against his king? The horse wandered, you knew and\r\ncared not whither, until he brought you here.”\r\n\r\n“How do you know this?” asked the stranger, in amazement.\r\n\r\n“Be not surprised, but kneel while I anoint thee deliverer of this land.”\r\n\r\nMoved and impressed, the man bowed his knee before one of his fellows for\r\nthe first time in his life. The monk touched his finger with oil, and\r\nlaying it on the brow of the stranger said, “Do you promise, when the\r\nhour shall strike, to take the sword in defence of your country? Do you\r\npromise, when you shall see your soldiers suffer for bread and fire, and\r\nwhen the people you have led to victory shall bow before you, to remember\r\nthat you are but the minister of God in the work of a nation's freedom?”\r\n\r\nWith a new light burning in his eyes, the stranger bent his head.\r\n\r\n“Then, in His name, I consecrate thee deliverer of this oppressed people.\r\nWhen the time comes, go forth to victory, for, as you are faithful, be\r\nsure that God will grant it. Wear no crown, but the blessings and honor\r\nof a free people, save this.” As he finished, his daughter, a girl of\r\nseventeen, came forward and put a wreath of laurel on the brow of the\r\nkneeling man. “Rise,” continued the prophet, “and take my hand, which I\r\nhave never before offered to any man, and accept my promise to be\r\nfaithful to you and to this country, even if it cost my life.”\r\n\r\nAs he arose, the son of the priest stepped to him and girt a sword upon\r\nhis hip, and the old man held up his hands in solemn benediction. The\r\nstranger laid his hand on the book that stood open on the altar and\r\nkissed the hilt of his sword. “I will keep the faith,” said he. At dawn\r\nhe went his way again, and no one knew his name, but when the fires of\r\nbattle lighted the western world America looked to him for its\r\ndeliverance from tyranny. Years later it was this spot that he revisited,\r\nalone, to pray, and here Sir William Howe offered to him, in the name of\r\nhis king, the title of regent of America. He took the parchment and\r\nground it into a rag in the earth at his feet. For this was Washington.\r\nMARION\r\n\r\nBlooming and maidenly, though she dressed in leather and used a rifle\r\nlike a man, was Marion, grand-daughter of old Abraham, who counted his\r\nyears as ninety, and who for many of those years had lived with his books\r\nin the tidy cabin where the Youghiogheny and Monongahela come together.\r\nThis place stood near the trail along which Braddock marched to his\r\ndefeat, and it was one of the stragglers from this command, a bony\r\nhalf-breed with red hair, called Red Wolf, that knocked at the door and\r\nasked for water. Seeing no one but Marion he ventured in, and would have\r\ntried not only to make free with the contents of the little house but\r\nwould have kissed the girl as well, only that she seized her rifle and\r\nheld him at bay. Still, the fellow would have braved a shot, had not a\r\nyoung officer in a silver-laced uniform glanced through the open door in\r\npassing and discovered the situation. He doffed his chapeau to Marion,\r\nthen said sternly to the rogue, “Retire. Your men are waiting for you.”\r\n Red Wolf slunk away, and Washington, for it was he, begged that he might\r\nrest for a little time under the roof.\r\n\r\nThis request was gladly complied with, both by the girl and by her\r\ngrandfather, who presently appeared, and the fever that threatened the\r\nyoung soldier was averted by a day of careful nursing. Marion's innate\r\nrefinement, her gentleness, her vivacity, could not fail to interest\r\nWashington, and the vision of her face was with him for many a day. He\r\npromised to return, then he rode forward and caught up with the troops.\r\nHe survived the battle in which seven hundred of his comrades were shot\r\nor tomahawked and scalped. One Indian fired at him eleven times, and five\r\nof the bullets scratched him; after that the savage forbore, believing\r\nthat the officer was under Manitou's protection. When the retreating\r\ncolumn approached the place where Marion lived he hastened on in advance\r\nto see her. The cabin was in ashes. He called, but there was no answer.\r\nWhen he turned away, with sad and thoughtful mien, a brown tress was\r\nwrapped around his finger, and in his cabinet he kept it until his death,\r\nfolded in a paper marked “Marion, July 11, 1755.”\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTALES OF PURITAN LAND\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEVANGALINE\r\n\r\nThe seizure by England of the country that soon afterward was\r\nrechristened Nova Scotia was one of the cruellest events in history. The\r\nland was occupied by a good and happy people who had much faith and few\r\nlaws, plenty to eat and drink, no tax collectors nor magistrates, in\r\nbrief, a people who were entitled to call themselves Acadians, for they\r\nmade their land an Arcady. Upon them swooped the British ships, took them\r\nunarmed and unoffending, crowded them aboard their transports,--often\r\nseparating husband and wife, parents and children,--scattered them far\r\nand wide, beyond hope of return, and set up the cross of St. George on\r\nthe ruins of prosperity and peace. On the shore of the Basin of Minas can\r\nstill be traced the foundations of many homes that were perforce deserted\r\nat that time, and among them are the ruins of Grand Pre.\r\n\r\nHere lived Evangeline Bellefontaine and Gabriel Lajeunesse, who were\r\nbetrothed with the usual rejoicings just before the coming of the\r\nEnglish. They had expected, when their people were arrested, to be sent\r\naway together; but most of the men were kept under guard, and Gabriel was\r\nat sea, bound neither he nor she knew whither, when Evangeline found\r\nherself in her father's house alone, for grief and excitement had been\r\nmore than her aged parent could bear, and he was buried at the shore just\r\nbefore the women of the place were crowded on board of a transport. As\r\nthe ship set off her sorrowing passengers looked behind them to see their\r\nhomes going up in flame and smoke, and Acadia knew them no more. The\r\nEnglish had planned well to keep these people from coming together for\r\nconspiracy or revenge: they scattered them over all America, from\r\nNewfoundland to the southern savannas.\r\n\r\nEvangeline was not taken far away, only to New England; but without\r\nGabriel all lands were drear, and she set off in the search for him,\r\nworking here and there, sometimes looking timidly at the headstones on\r\nnew graves, then travelling on. Once she heard that he was a _coureur des\r\nbois_ on the prairies, again that he was a voyageur in the Louisiana\r\nlowlands; but those of his people who kept near her inclined to jest at\r\nher faith and urged her to marry Leblanc, the notary's son, who truly\r\nloved her. To these she only replied, “I cannot.”\r\n\r\nDown the Ohio and Mississippi she went--on a raft--with a little band of\r\nthose who were seeking the French settlements, where the language,\r\nreligion, and simplicity of life recalled Acadia. They found it on the\r\nbanks of the Teche, and they reached the house of the herdsman Gabriel on\r\nthe day that he had departed for the north to seek Evangeline. She and\r\nthe good priest who had been her stay in a year of sorrow turned back in\r\npursuit, and for weary months, over prairie and through forest, skirting\r\nmountain and morass, going freely among savages, they followed vain\r\nclues, and at last arrived in Philadelphia. Broken in spirit then, but\r\nnot less sweet of nature for the suffering that she had known, she who\r\nhad been named for the angels became a minister of mercy, and in the\r\nblack robe of a nun went about with comforts to the sick and poor. A\r\npestilence was sweeping through the city, and those who had no friends\r\nnor attendants were taken to the almshouse, whither, as her way was,\r\nEvangeline went on a soft Sabbath morning to calm the fevered and\r\nbrighten the hearts of the dying.\r\n\r\nSome of the patients of the day before had gone and new were in their\r\nplaces. Suddenly she turned white and sank on her knees at a bedside,\r\nwith a cry of “Gabriel, my beloved!” breathed into the ears of a\r\nprematurely aged man who lay gasping in death before her. He came out of\r\nhis stupor, slowly, and tried to speak her name. She drew his head to her\r\nbosom, kissed him, and for one moment they were happy. Then the light\r\nwent out of his eyes and the warmth from his heart. She pressed his\r\neyelids down and bowed her head, for her way was plainer now, and she\r\nthanked God that it was so.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SNORING OF SWUNKSUS\r\n\r\nThe original proprietor of Deer Isle, off the coast of Maine--at least,\r\nthe one who was in possession one hundred and thirty years ago--had the\r\nliquid name of Swunksus. His name was not the only liquid thing in the\r\nneighborhood, however, for, wherever Swunksus was, fire-water was not\r\nfar. Shortly before the Revolution a renegade from Boston, one Conary,\r\nmoved up to the island and helped himself to as much of it as he chose,\r\nbut the longer he lived there the more he wanted. Swunksus was willing\r\nenough to divide his domain with the white intruder, but Conary was not\r\nsatisfied with half. He did not need it all; he just wanted it. Moreover,\r\nhe grew quarrelsome and was continually nagging poor Swunksus, until at\r\nlast he forced the Indian to accept a challenge, not to immediate combat,\r\nbut to fight to the death should they meet thereafter.\r\n\r\nThe red man retired to his half of the island and hid among the bushes\r\nnear his home to await the white man, but in this little fastness he\r\ndiscovered a jug of whiskey that either fate or Conary had placed there.\r\nBefore an hour was over he was “as full and mellow as a harvest moon,”\r\n and it was then that his enemy appeared. There was no trouble in finding\r\nSwunksus, for he was snoring like a fog horn, and walking boldly up to\r\nhim, Conary blew his head off with a load of slugs. Then he took\r\npossession of the place and lived happily ever after. Swunksus takes his\r\ndeposition easily, for, although he has more than once paraded along the\r\nbeaches, his ghost spends most of the time in slumber, and terrific\r\nsnores have been heard proceeding from the woods in daylight.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LEWISTON HERMIT\r\n\r\nOn an island above the falls of the Androscoggin, at Lewiston, Maine,\r\nlived a white recluse at the beginning of the eighteenth century. The\r\nnatives, having had good reason to mistrust all palefaces, could think no\r\ngood of the man who lived thus among but not with them. Often they\r\ngathered at the bank and looked across at his solitary candle twinkling\r\namong the leaves, and wondered what manner of evil he could be planning\r\nagainst them. Wherever there are many conspirators one will be a gabbler\r\nor a traitor; so, when the natives had resolved on his murder, he,\r\nsomehow, learned of their intent and set himself to thwart it. So great\r\nwas their fear of this lonely man, and of the malignant powers he might\r\nconjure to his aid, that nearly fifty Indians joined the expedition, to\r\ngive each other courage.\r\n\r\nTheir plan was to go a little distance up the river and come down with\r\nthe current, thus avoiding the dip of paddles that he might hear in a\r\ndirect crossing. When it was quite dark they set off, and keeping headway\r\non their canoes aimed them toward the light that glimmered above the\r\nwater. But the cunning hermit had no fire in his cabin that night. It was\r\nburning on a point below his shelter, and from his hiding-place among the\r\nrocks he saw their fleet, as dim and silent as shadows, go by him on the\r\nway to the misguiding beacon.\r\n\r\nPresently a cry arose. The savages had passed the point of safe sailing;\r\ntheir boats had become unmanageable. Forgetting their errand, their only\r\nhope now was to save themselves, but in vain they tried to reach the\r\nshore: the current was whirling them to their doom. Cries and death-songs\r\nmingled with the deepening roar of the waters, the light barks reached\r\nthe cataract and leaped into the air. Then the night was still again,\r\nsave for the booming of the flood. Not one of the Indians who had set out\r\non this errand of death survived the hermit's stratagem.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL\r\n\r\nAt times the fisher-folk of Maine are startled to see the form of a ship,\r\nwith gaunt timbers showing through the planks, like lean limbs through\r\nrents in a pauper's garb, float shoreward in the sunset. She is a ship of\r\nancient build, with tall masts and sails of majestic spread, all torn;\r\nbut what is her name, her port, her flag, what harbor she is trying to\r\nmake, no man can tell, for on her deck no sailor has ever been seen to\r\nrun up colors or heard to answer a hail. Be it in calm or storm, in-come\r\nor ebb of tide, the ship holds her way until she almost touches shore.\r\n\r\nThere is no creak of spars or whine of cordage, no spray at the bow, no\r\nripple at the stern--no voice, and no figure to utter one. As she nears\r\nthe rocks she pauses, then, as if impelled by a contrary current, floats\r\nrudder foremost off to sea, and vanishes in twilight. Harpswell is her\r\nfavorite cruising-ground, and her appearance there sets many heads to\r\nshaking, for while it is not inevitable that ill luck follows her visits,\r\nit has been seen that burial-boats have sometimes had occasion to cross\r\nthe harbor soon after them, and that they were obliged by wind or tide or\r\ncurrent to follow her course on leaving the wharf.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SCHOOLMASTER HAD NOT REACHED ORRINGTON.\r\n\r\nThe quiet town of Orrington, in Maine, was founded by Jesse Atwood, of\r\nWellfleet, Cape Cod, in 1778, and has become known, since then, as a\r\nplace where skilful farmers and brave sailors could always be found. It\r\nalso kept Maine supplied for years with oldest inhabitants. It is said\r\nthat the name was an accident of illiteracy, and that it is the only\r\nplace in the world that owes its title to bad spelling. The settlers who\r\nfollowed Atwood there were numerous enough to form a township after ten\r\nyears, and the name they decided on for their commonwealth was\r\nOrangetown, so called for a village in Maryland where some of the people\r\nhad associations, but the clerk of the town meeting was not a college\r\ngraduate and his spelling of Orange was Orring, and of town, ton. His\r\ndraft of the resolutions went before the legislature, and the people\r\ndirectly afterward found themselves living in Orrington.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nJACK WELCH'S DEATH LIGHT\r\n\r\nPond Cove, Maine, is haunted by a light that on a certain evening, every\r\nsummer, rises a mile out at sea, drifts to a spot on shore, then whirls\r\nwith a buzz and a glare to an old house, where it vanishes. Its first\r\nappearance was simultaneous with the departure of Jack Welch, a\r\nfisherman. He was seen one evening at work on his boat, but in the\r\nmorning he was gone, nor has he since shown himself in the flesh.\r\n\r\nOn the tenth anniversary of this event three fishermen were hurrying up\r\nthe bay, hoping to reach home before dark, for they dreaded that uncanny\r\nlight, but a fog came in and it was late before they reached the wharf.\r\nAs they were tying their boat a channel seemed to open through the mist,\r\nand along that path from the deep came a ball of pallid flame with the\r\nrush of a meteor. There was one of the men who cowered at the bottom of\r\nthe boat with ashen face and shaking limbs, and did not watch the light,\r\neven though it shot above his head, played through the rigging, and after\r\na wide sweep went shoreward and settled on his house. Next day one of his\r\ncomrades called for him, but Tom Wright was gone, gone, his wife said,\r\nbefore the day broke. Like Jack Welch's disappearance, this departure was\r\nunexplained, and in time he was given up for dead.\r\n\r\nTwenty years had passed, when Wright's presumptive widow was startled by\r\nthe receipt of a letter in a weak, trembling hand, signed with her\r\nhusband's name. It was written on his death-bed, in a distant place, and\r\nheld a confession. Before their marriage, Jack Welch had been a suitor\r\nfor her hand, and had been the favored of the two. To remove his rival\r\nand prosper in his place, Wright stole upon the other at his work, killed\r\nhim, took his body to sea, and threw it overboard. Since that time the\r\ndead man had pursued him, and he was glad that the end of his days was\r\ncome. But, though Tom Wright is no more, his victim's light comes yearly\r\nfrom the sea, above the spot where his body sank, floats to the scene of\r\nthe murder on the shore, then flits to the house where the assassin lived\r\nand for years simulated the content that comes of wedded life.\r\nMOGG MEGONE\r\n\r\nHapless daughter of a renegade is Ruth Bonython. Her father is as unfair\r\nto his friends as to his enemies, but to neither of them so merciless as\r\nto Ruth. Although he knows that she loves Master Scammon--in spite of his\r\ndesertion and would rather die than wed another, he has promised her to\r\nMogg Megone, the chief who rules the Indians at the Saco mouth. He,\r\nblundering savage, fancies that he sees to the bottom of her grief, and\r\none day, while urging his suit, he opens his blanket and shows the scalp\r\nof Scammon, to prove that he has avenged her. She looks in horror, but\r\nwhen he flings the bloody trophy at her feet she baptizes it with a\r\nforgiving tear. What villainy may this lead to? Ah, none for him, for\r\nBonython now steps in and plies him with flattery and drink, gaining from\r\nthe chief, at last, his signature--the bow totem--to a transfer of the\r\nland for which he is willing to sell his daughter. Ruth, maddened at her\r\nfather's meanness and the Indian's brutality, rushes on the imbruted\r\nsavage, grasps from his belt the knife that has slain her lover, cleaves\r\nhis heart in twain, and flies into the wood, leaving Bonython stupid with\r\namazement.\r\n\r\nFather Rasles, in his chapel at Norridgewock, is affecting his Indian\r\nconverts against the Puritans, who settled to the southward of him fifty\r\nyears before. To him comes a woman with torn garments and frightened\r\nface. Her dead mother stood before her last night, she says, and looked\r\nat her reprovingly, for she had killed Mogg Megone. The priest starts\r\nback in wrath, for Mogg was a hopeful agent of the faith, and bids her\r\ngo, for she can ask no pardon. Brooding within his chapel, then, he is\r\nstartled by the sound of shot and hum of arrows. Harmon and Moulton are\r\nadvancing with their men and crying, “Down with the beast of Rome! Death\r\nto the Babylonish dog!” Ruth, knowing not what this new misfortune may\r\nmean, runs from the church and disappears.\r\n\r\nSome days later, old Baron Castine, going to Norridgewock to bury and\r\nrevenge the dead, finds a woman seated on the earth and gazing over a\r\nfield strewn with ashes and with human bones. He touches her. She is\r\ncold. There has been no life for days. It is Ruth.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LADY URSULA\r\n\r\nIn 1690 a stately house stood in Kittery, Maine, a strongly guarded place\r\nwith moat and drawbridge (which was raised at night) and a moated grange\r\nadjacent where were cattle, sheep, and horses. Here, in lonely dignity,\r\nlived Lady Ursula, daughter of the lord of Grondale Abbey, across the\r\nwater, whose distant grandeurs were in some sort reflected in this manor\r\nof the wilderness. Silver, mahogany, paintings, tapestries, waxed floors,\r\nand carven chests of linen represented wealth; prayers were said by a\r\nchaplain every morning and evening in the chapel, and, though the main\r\nhall would accommodate five hundred people, the lady usually sat at meat\r\nthere with her thirty servants, her part of the table being raised two\r\nfeet above theirs.\r\n\r\nIt was her happiness to believe that Captain Fowler, now absent in\r\nconflict with the French, would return and wed her according to his\r\npromise, but one day came a tattered messenger with bitter news of the\r\ncaptain's death. She made no talk of her grief, and, while her face was\r\npale and step no longer light, she continued in the work that custom\r\nexacted from women of that time: help for the sick, alms for the poor,\r\nteaching for the ignorant, religion for the savage. Great was her joy,\r\nthen, when a ship came from England bringing a letter from Captain Fowler\r\nhimself, refuting the rumor of defeat and telling of his coming. Now the\r\nhall took on new life, reflecting the pleasure of its mistress; color\r\ncame back to her cheek and sparkle to her eye, and she could only control\r\nher impatience by more active work and more aggressive charities. The day\r\nwas near at hand for the arrival of her lover, when Ursula and her\r\nservants were set upon by Indians, while away from the protection of the\r\nmanor, and slain. They were buried where they fell, and Captain Fowler\r\nfound none to whom his love or sorrow could be told.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nFATHER MOODY'S BLACK VEIL\r\n\r\nIn 1770 the Reverend Joseph Moody died at York, Maine, where he had long\r\nheld the pastorate of a church, and where in his later years his face was\r\nnever seen by friend or relative. At home, when any one was by, on the\r\nstreet, and in the pulpit his visage was concealed by a double fold of\r\ncrape that was knotted above his forehead and fell to his chin, the lower\r\nedge of it being shaken by his breath. When first he presented himself to\r\nhis congregation with features masked in black, great was the wonder and\r\nlong the talk about it. Was he demented? His sermons were too logical for\r\nthat. Had he been crossed in love? He could smile, though the smile was\r\nsad. Had he been scarred by accident or illness? If so, no physician knew\r\nof it.\r\n\r\nAfter a time it was given out that his eyes were weakened by reading and\r\nwriting at night, and the wonder ceased, though the veiled parson was\r\nless in demand for weddings, christenings, and social gatherings, and\r\nmore besought for funerals than he had been. If asked to take off his\r\ncrape he only replied, “We all wear veils of one kind or another, and the\r\nheaviest and darkest are those that hang about our hearts. This is but a\r\nmaterial veil. Let it stay until the hour strikes when all faces shall be\r\nseen and all souls reveal their secrets.”\r\n\r\nLittle by little the clergyman felt himself enforced to withdraw from the\r\npublic gaze. There were rough people who were impertinent and timid\r\npeople who turned out of their road to avoid him, so that he found his\r\nout-door walks and meditations almost confined to the night, unless he\r\nchose the grave-yard for its seclusion or strolled on the beach and\r\nlistened to the wallowing and grunting of the Black Boars--the rocks off\r\nshore that had laughed on the night when the York witch went up the\r\nchimney in a gale. But his life was long and kind and useful, and when at\r\nlast the veiled head lay on the pillow it was never to rise from\r\nconsciously, a fellow-clergyman came to soothe his dying moments and\r\ncommend his soul to mercy.\r\n\r\nTo him, one evening, Father Moody said, “Brother, my hour is come and the\r\nveil of eternal darkness is falling over my eyes. Men have asked me why I\r\nwear this piece of crape about my face, as if it were not for them a\r\nreminder and a symbol, and I have borne the reason so long within me that\r\nonly now have I resolved to tell it. Do you recall the finding of young\r\nClark beside the river, years ago? He had been shot through the head. The\r\nman who killed him did so by accident, for he was a bosom friend; yet he\r\ncould never bring himself to confess the fact, for he dreaded the blame\r\nof his townsmen, the anguish of the dead man's parents, the hate of his\r\nbetrothed. It was believed that the killing was a murder, and that some\r\nroving Indian had done it. After years of conscience-darkened life, in\r\nwhich the face of his dead friend often arose accusingly before him, the\r\nunhappy wretch vowed that he would never again look his fellows openly in\r\nthe face: he would pay a penalty and conceal his shame. Then it was that\r\nI put a veil between myself and the world.”\r\n\r\nJoseph Moody passed away and, as he wished, the veil still hid his face\r\nin the coffin, but the clergyman who had raised it for a moment to\r\ncompose his features, found there a serenity and a beauty that were\r\nmajestic.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HOME OF THUNDER\r\n\r\nSome Indians believe that the Thunder Bird is the agent of storm; that\r\nthe flashes of his eyes cause lightning and the flapping of his\r\ncloud-vast wings make thunder. Not so the Passamaquoddies, for they hold\r\nthat Katahdin's spirit children are Thunders, and in this way an Indian\r\nfound them: He had been seeking game along the Penobscot and for weeks\r\nhad not met one of his fellow creatures. On a winter day he came on the\r\nprint of a pair of snow-shoes; next morning the tracks appeared in\r\nanother part of the forest, and so for many days he found them.\r\n\r\nAfter a time it occurred to him to see where these tracks went to, and he\r\nfollowed them until they merged with others in a travelled road, ending\r\nat a precipice on the side of Katahdin (Great Mountain).\r\n\r\nWhile lost in wonder that so many tracks should lead nowhere, he was\r\nroused by a footfall, and a maiden stepped from the precipice to the\r\nledge beside him. Though he said nothing, being in awe of her stateliness\r\nand beauty, she replied in kind words to every unspoken thought and bade\r\nhim go with her. He approached the rock with fear, but at a touch from\r\nthe woman it became as mist, and they entered it together.\r\n\r\nPresently they were in a great cave in the heart of Katahdin, where sat\r\nthe spirit of the mountain, who welcomed them and asked the girl if her\r\nbrothers had come. “I hear them coming,” she replied. A blinding flash, a\r\nroar of thunder, and there stepped into the cave two men of giant size\r\nand gravely beautiful faces, hardened at the cheeks and brows to stone.\r\n“These,” said the girl to the hunter, “are my brothers, the Thunder and\r\nthe Lightning. My father sends them forth whenever there is wrong to\r\nredress, that those who love us may not be smitten. When you hear\r\nThunder, know that they are shooting at our enemies.”\r\n\r\nAt the end of that day the hunter returned to his home, and behold, he\r\nhad been gone seven years. Another legend says that the stone-faced sons\r\nof the mountain adopted him, and that for seven years he was a roaming\r\nThunder, but at the end of that time while a storm was raging he was\r\nallowed to fall, unharmed, into his own village.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PARTRIDGE WITCH\r\n\r\nTwo brothers, having hunted at the head of the Penobscot until their\r\nsnow-shoes and moccasins gave out, looked at each other ruefully and\r\ncried, “Would that there was a woman to help us!” The younger brother\r\nwent to the lodge that evening earlier than the elder, in order to\r\nprepare the supper, and great was his surprise on entering the wigwam to\r\nfind the floor swept, a fire built, a pot boiling, and their clothing\r\nmended. Returning to the wood he watched the place from a covert until he\r\nsaw a graceful girl enter the lodge and take up the tasks of\r\nhousekeeping.\r\n\r\nWhen he entered she was confused, but he treated her with respect, and\r\nallowed her to have her own way so far as possible, so that they became\r\nwarm friends, sporting together like children when the work of the day\r\nwas over. But one evening she said, “Your brother is coming. I fear him.\r\nFarewell.” And she slipped into the wood. When the young man told his\r\nelder brother what had happened there--the elder having been detained for\r\na few days in the pursuit of a deer--he declared that he would wish the\r\nwoman to come back, and presently, without any summons, she returned,\r\nbringing a toboggan-load of garments and arms. The luck of the hunters\r\nimproved, and they remained happily together until spring, when it was\r\ntime to return with their furs.\r\n\r\nThey set off down the Penobscot in their canoe and rowed merrily along,\r\nbut as they neared the home village the girl became uneasy, and presently\r\n“threw out her soul”--became clairvoyant--and said, “Let me land here. I\r\nfind that your father would not like me, so do not speak to him about\r\nme.” But the elder brother told of her when they reached home, whereon\r\nthe father exclaimed, “I had feared this. That woman is a sister of the\r\ngoblins. She wishes to destroy men.”\r\n\r\nAt this the elder brother was afraid, lest she should cast a spell on\r\nhim, and rowing up the river for a distance he came upon her as she was\r\nbathing and shot at her. The arrow seemed to strike, for there was a\r\nflutter of feathers and the woman flew away as a partridge. But the\r\nyounger did not forget the good she had done and sought her in the wood,\r\nwhere for many days they played together as of old.\r\n\r\n“I do not blame your father: it is an affair of old, this hate he bears\r\nme,” she said. “He will choose a wife for you soon, but do not marry her,\r\nelse all will come to an end for you.” The man could not wed the witch,\r\nand he might not disobey his father, in spite of this adjuration; so when\r\nthe old man said to him, “I have a wife for you, my son,” he answered,\r\n“It is well.”\r\n\r\nThey brought the bride to the village, and for four days the\r\nwedding-dance was held, with a feast that lasted four days more. Then\r\nsaid the young man, “Now comes the end,” and lying down on a bear-skin he\r\nsighed a few times and his spirit ascended to the Ghosts' road--the milky\r\nway. The father shook his head, for he knew that this was the witch's\r\nwork, and, liking the place no longer, he went away and the tribe was\r\nscattered.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MARRIAGE OF MOUNT KATAHDIN\r\n\r\nAn Indian girl gathering berries on the side of Mount Katahdin looked up\r\nat its peak, rosy in the afternoon light, and sighed, “I wish that I had\r\na husband. If Katahdin were a man he might marry me.” Her companions\r\nlaughed at this quaint conceit, and, filled with confusion at being\r\noverheard, she climbed higher up the slope and was lost to sight. For\r\nthree years her tribe lost sight of her; then she came back with a child\r\nin her arms a beautiful boy with brows of stone. The boy had wonderful\r\npower: he had only to point at a moose or a duck or a bear, and it fell\r\ndead, so that the tribe never wanted food. For he was the son of the\r\nIndian girl and the spirit of the mountain, who had commanded her not to\r\nreveal the boy's paternity. Through years she held silence on this point,\r\nholding in contempt, like other Indians, the prying inquiries of gossips\r\nand the teasing of young people, and knowing that Katahdin had designed\r\nthe child for the founder of a mighty race, with the sinews of the very\r\nmountains in its frame, that should fill and rule the earth. Yet, one\r\nday, in anger at some slight, the mother spoke: “Fools! Wasps who sting\r\nthe fingers that pick you from the water! Why do you torment me about\r\nwhat you might all see? Look at the boy's face--his brows: in them do you\r\nnot see Katahdin? Now you have brought the curse upon yourselves, for you\r\nshall hunt your own venison from this time forth.” Leading the child by\r\nthe hand she turned toward the mountain and went out from their sight.\r\nAnd since then the Indians who could not hold their tongues, and who\r\nmight otherwise have been great, have dwindled to a little people.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MOOSE OF MOUNT KINEO\r\n\r\nEastern traditions concerning Hiawatha differ in many respects from those\r\nof the West. In the East he is known as Glooskap, god of the\r\nPassamaquoddies, and his marks are left in many places in the maritime\r\nprovinces and Maine. It was he who gave names to things, created men,\r\nfilled them with life, and moved their wonder with storms. He lived on\r\nthe rocky height of Blomidon, at the entrance to Minas Basin, Nova\r\nScotia, and the agates to be found along its foot are jewels that he made\r\nfor his grandmother's necklace, when he restored her youth. He threw up a\r\nridge between Fort Cumberland and Parrsboro, Nova Scotia, that he might\r\ncross, dry shod, the lake made by the beavers when they dammed the strait\r\nat Blomidon, but he afterward killed the beavers, and breaking down their\r\ndam he let the lake flow into the sea, and went southward on a hunting\r\ntour. At Mount Desert he killed a moose, whose bones he flung to the\r\nground at Bar Harbor, where they are still to be seen, turned to stone,\r\nwhile across the bay he threw the entrails, and they, too, are visible as\r\nrocks, dented with his arrow-points. Mount Kineo was anciently a cow\r\nmoose of colossal size that he slew and turned into a height of land, and\r\nthe Indians trace the outline of the creature in the uplift to this day.\r\nLittle Kineo was a calf moose that he slew at the same time, and Kettle\r\nMountain is his camp-caldron that he flung to the ground in the ardor of\r\nthe chase.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE OWL TREE\r\n\r\nOne day in October, 1827, Rev. Charles Sharply rode into Alfred, Maine,\r\nand held service in the meeting-house. After the sermon he announced that\r\nhe was going to Waterborough to preach, and that on his circuit he had\r\ncollected two hundred and seventy dollars to help build a church in that\r\nvillage. Would not his hearers add to that sum? They would and did, and\r\nthat evening the parson rode away with over three hundred dollars in his\r\nsaddlebags. He never appeared in Waterborough. Some of the country people\r\ngave tongue to their fear that the possession of the money had made him\r\nforget his sacred calling and that he had fled the State.\r\n\r\nOn the morning after his disappearance, however, Deacon Dickerman\r\nappeared in Alfred riding on a horse that was declared to be the\r\nminister's, until the tavern hostler affirmed that the minister's horse\r\nhad a white star on forehead and breast, whereas this horse was all\r\nblack. The deacon said that he found the horse grazing in his yard at\r\ndaybreak, and that he would give it to whoever could prove it to be his\r\nproperty. Nobody appeared to demand it, and people soon forgot that it\r\nwas not his. He extended his business at about that time and prospered;\r\nhe became a rich man for a little place; though, as his wealth increased,\r\nhe became morose and averse to company.\r\n\r\nOne day a rumor went around that a belated traveller had seen a misty\r\nthing under “the owl tree” at a turn of a road where owls were hooting,\r\nand that it took on a strange likeness to the missing clergyman.\r\nDickerman paled when he heard this story, but he shook his head and\r\nmuttered of the folly of listening to boy nonsense. Ten years had gone\r\nby-during that time the boys had avoided the owl tree after dark--when a\r\nclergyman of the neighborhood was hastily summoned to see Mr. Dickerman,\r\nwho was said to be suffering from overwork. He found the deacon in his\r\nhouse alone, pacing the floor, his dress disordered, his cheek hectic.\r\n\r\n“I have not long to live,” said he, “nor would I live longer if I could.\r\nI am haunted day and night, and there is no peace, no rest for me on\r\nearth. They say that Sharply's spirit has appeared at the owl tree. Well,\r\nhis body lies there. They accused me of taking his horse. It is true. A\r\nlittle black dye on his head and breast was all that was needed to\r\ndeceive them. Pray for me, for I fear my soul is lost. I killed Sharply.”\r\n The clergyman recoiled. “I killed him,” the wretched man went on, “for\r\nthe money that he had. The devil prospered me with it. In my will I leave\r\ntwo thousand dollars to his widow and five thousand dollars to the church\r\nhe was collecting for. Will there be mercy for me there? I dare not think\r\nit. Go and pray for me.” The clergyman hastened away, but was hardly\r\noutside the door when the report of a pistol brought him back. Dickerman\r\nlay dead on the floor. Sharply's body was exhumed from the shade of the\r\nowl tree, and the spot was never haunted after.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA CHESTNUT LOG\r\n\r\nThere is no doubt that farmer Lovel had read ancient history or he would\r\nnot have been so ready in the emergency that befell him one time in the\r\nlast century. He had settled among the New Hampshire hills near the site\r\nthat is now occupied by the village of Washington and had a real good\r\ntime there with bears and Indians. It was when he was splitting rails on\r\nLovel Mountain--they named it for him afterward--that he found himself\r\nsurrounded by six Indians, who told him that he was their prisoner. He\r\nagreed that they had the advantage over him and said that he would go\r\nquietly along if they would allow him to finish the big chestnut log that\r\nhe was at work on. As he was a powerful fellow and was armed with an axe\r\nworth any two of their tomahawks, and as he would be pretty sure to have\r\nthe life of at least one of them if they tried to drive him faster than\r\nhe wanted to go, they consented. He said that he would be ready all the\r\nsooner if they would help him to pull the big log apart, and they agreed\r\nto help him. Driving a wedge into the long split he asked them to take\r\nhold, and when they had done this he knocked out the wedge with a single\r\nblow and the twelve hands were caught tight in the closing wood. Struggle\r\nas the savages might, they could not get free, and after calmly enjoying\r\nthe situation for a few minutes he walked slowly from one to the other\r\nand split open the heads of all six. Then he went to work again splitting\r\nup more chestnuts.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WATCHER ON WHITE ISLAND\r\n\r\nThe isles of Shoals, a little archipelago of wind and wave-swept rocks\r\nthat may be seen on clear days from the New Hampshire coast, have been\r\nthe scene of some mishaps and some crimes. On Boone Island, where the\r\nNottingham galley went down one hundred and fifty years ago, the\r\nsurvivors turned cannibals to escape starvation, while Haley's Island is\r\npeopled by shipwrecked Spanish ghosts that hail vessels and beg for\r\npassage back to their country. The pirate Teach, or Blackbeard, used to\r\nput in at these islands to hide his treasure, and one of his lieutenants\r\nspent some time on White Island with a beautiful girl whom he had\r\nabducted from her home in Scotland and who, in spite of his rough life,\r\nhad learned to love him. It was while walking with her on this rock,\r\nforgetful of his trade and the crimes he had been stained with, that one\r\nof his men ran up to report a sail that was standing toward the islands.\r\nThe pirate ship was quickly prepared for action, but before embarking,\r\nmindful of possible flight or captivity, the lieutenant made his mistress\r\nswear that she would guard the buried treasure if it should be till\r\ndoomsday.\r\n\r\nThe ship he was hurrying to meet came smoothly on until the pirate craft\r\nwas well in range, when ports flew open along the stranger's sides, guns\r\nwere run out, and a heavy broadside splintered through the planks of the\r\nrobber galley. It was a man-of-war, not a merchantman, that had run\r\nBlackbeard down. The war-ship closed and grappled with the corsair, but\r\nwhile the sailors were standing at the chains ready to leap aboard and\r\ncomplete the subjugation of the outlaws a mass of flame burst from the\r\npirate ship, both vessels were hurled in fragments through the air, and a\r\nroar went for miles along the sea. Blackbeard's lieutenant had fired the\r\nmagazine rather than submit to capture, and had blown the two ships into\r\na common ruin. A few of both crews floated to the islands on planks, sore\r\nfrom burns and bruises, but none survived the cold and hunger of the\r\nwinter. The pirate's mistress was among the first to die; still, true to\r\nher promise, she keeps her watch, and at night is dimly seen on a rocky\r\npoint gazing toward the east, her tall figure enveloped in a cloak, her\r\ngolden hair unbound upon her shoulders, her pale face still as marble.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCHOCORUA\r\n\r\nThis beautiful alp in the White Mountains commemorates in its name a\r\nprophet of the Pequawket tribe who, prior to undertaking a journey, had\r\nconfided his son to a friendly settler, Cornelius Campbell, of Tamworth.\r\nThe boy found some poison in the house that had been prepared for foxes,\r\nand, thinking it to be some delicacy, he drank of it and died. When\r\nChocorua returned he could not be persuaded that his son had fallen\r\nvictim to his own ignorance, but ascribed his death to the white man's\r\ntreachery, and one day, when Campbell entered his cabin from the fields,\r\nhe found there the corpses of his wife and children scalped and mangled.\r\n\r\nHe was not a man to lament at such a time: hate was stronger than sorrow.\r\nA fresh trail led from his door. Seizing his rifle he set forth in\r\npursuit of the murderer. A mark in the dust, a bent grass blade, a torn\r\nleaf-these were guides enough, and following on through bush and swamp\r\nand wood they led him to this mountain, and up the slope he scrambled\r\nbreathlessly. At the summit, statue-like, Chocorua stood. He saw the\r\navenger coming, and knew himself unarmed, but he made no attempt to\r\nescape his doom. Drawing himself erect and stretching forth his hands he\r\ninvoked anathema on his enemies in these words: “A curse upon you, white\r\nmen! May the Great Spirit curse you when he speaks in the clouds, and his\r\nwords are fire! Chocorua had a son and you killed him while the sky\r\nlooked bright. Lightning blast your crops! Winds and fire destroy your\r\ndwellings! The Evil One breathe death upon your cattle! Your graves lie\r\nin the war-path of the Indian! Panthers howl and wolves fatten over your\r\nbones! Chocorua goes to the Great Spirit. His curse stays with the white\r\nman.”\r\n\r\nThe report of Campbell's rifle echoed from the ledges and Chocorua leaped\r\ninto the air, plunging to the rocks below. His mangled remains were\r\nafterward found and buried near the Tamworth path. The curse had its\r\neffect, for pestilence and storm devastated the surrounding country and\r\nthe smaller settlements were abandoned. Campbell became a morose hermit,\r\nand was found dead in his bed two years afterward.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPASSACONAWAY'S RIDE TO HEAVEN\r\n\r\nThe personality of Passaconaway, the powerful chief and prophet, is\r\ninvolved in doubt, but there can be no misprision of his wisdom. By some\r\nhistorians he has been made one with St. Aspenquid, the earliest of\r\nnative missionaries among the Indians, who, after his conversion by\r\nFrench Jesuits, travelled from Maine to the Pacific, preaching to\r\nsixty-six tribes, healing the sick and working miracles, returning to die\r\nat the age of ninety-four. He was buried on the top of Agamenticus,\r\nMaine, where his manes were pacified with offerings of three thousand\r\nslain animals, and where his tombstone stood for a century after, bearing\r\nthe legend, “Present, useful; absent, wanted; living, desired; dying,\r\nlamented.”\r\n\r\nBy others Passaconaway is regarded as a different person. The Child of\r\nthe Bear--to English his name--was the chief of the Merrimacs and a\r\nconvert of the apostle Eliot. Natives and colonists alike admired him for\r\nhis eloquence, his bravery, and his virtue. Before his conversion he was\r\na reputed wizard who sought by magic arts to repel the invasion of his\r\nwoods and mountains by the white men, invoking the spirits of nature\r\nagainst them from the topmost peak of the Agiochooks, and his native\r\nfollowers declared that in pursuance of this intent he made water burn,\r\nrocks move, trees dance, and transformed himself into a mass of flame.\r\n\r\nSuch was his power over the forces of the earth that he could burn a tree\r\nin winter and from its ashes bring green leaves; he made dead wood\r\nblossom and a farmer's flail to bud, while a snake's skin he could cause\r\nto run. At the age of one hundred and twenty he retired from his tribe\r\nand lived in a lonely wigwam among the Pennacooks. One winter night the\r\nhowling of wolves was heard, and a pack came dashing through the village\r\nharnessed by threes to a sledge of hickory saplings that bore a tall\r\nthrone spread with furs. The wolves paused at Passaconaway's door. The\r\nold chief came forth, climbed upon the sledge, and was borne away with a\r\ntriumphal apostrophe that sounded above the yelping and snarling of his\r\ntrain. Across Winnepesaukee's frozen surface they sped like the wind, and\r\nthe belated hunter shrank aside as he saw the giant towering against the\r\nnorthern lights and heard his death-song echo from the cliffs. Through\r\npathless woods, across ravines, the wolves sped on, with never slackened\r\nspeed, into the mazes of the Agiochooks to that highest peak we now call\r\nWashington. Up its steep wilderness of snow the ride went furiously; the\r\nsummit was neared, the sledge burst into flame, still there was no pause;\r\nthe height was gained, the wolves went howling into darkness, but the\r\ncar, wrapped in sheaves of fire, shot like a meteor toward the sky and\r\nwas lost amid the stars of the winter night. So passed the Indian king to\r\nheaven.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BALL GAME BY THE SACO\r\n\r\nWater-Goblins from the streams about Katahdin had left their birthplace\r\nand journeyed away to the Agiochooks, making their presence known to the\r\nIndians of that region by thefts and loss of life. When the manitou,\r\nGlooskap, learned that these goblins were eating human flesh and\r\ncommitting other outrages, he took on their own form, turning half his\r\nbody into stone, and went in search of them. The wigwam had been pitched\r\nnear the Home of the Water Fairies,--a name absurdly changed by the\r\npeople of North Conway to Diana's Bath,--and on entering he was invited\r\nto take meat. The tail of a whale was cooked and offered to him, but\r\nafter he had taken it upon his knees one of the goblins exclaimed, “That\r\nis too good for a beggar like you,” and snatched it away. Glooskap had\r\nmerely to wish the return of the dainty when it flew back into his\r\nplatter. Then he took the whale's jaw, and snapped it like a reed; he\r\nfilled his pipe and burned the tobacco to ashes in one inhalation; when\r\nhis hosts closed the wigwam and smoked vigorously, intending to foul the\r\nair and stupefy him, he enjoyed it, while they grew sick; so they\r\nwhispered to each other, “This is a mighty magician, and we must try his\r\npowers in another way.”\r\n\r\nA game of ball was proposed, and, adjourning to a sandy level at the bend\r\nof the Saco, they began to play, but Glooskap found that the ball was a\r\nhideous skull that rolled and snapped at him and would have torn his\r\nflesh had it not been immortal and immovable from his bones. He crushed\r\nit at a blow, and breaking off the bough of a tree he turned it by a word\r\ninto a skull ten times larger than the other that flew after the wicked\r\npeople as a wildcat leaps upon a rabbit. Then the god stamped on the\r\nsands and all the springs were opened in the mountains, so that the Saco\r\ncame rising through the valley with a roar that made the nations tremble.\r\nThe goblins were caught in the flood and swept into the sea, where\r\nGlooskap changed them into fish.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WHITE MOUNTAINS\r\n\r\nFrom times of old these noble hills have been the scenes of supernatural\r\nvisitations and mysterious occurrences. The tallest peak of the\r\nAgiochooks--as they were, in Indian naming--was the seat of God himself,\r\nand the encroachment there of the white man was little liked. Near\r\nFabyan's was once a mound, since levelled by pick and spade, that was\r\nknown as the Giant's Grave. Ethan Allen Crawford, a skilful hunter,\r\ndaring explorer, and man of herculean frame, lived, died, and is buried\r\nhere, and near the ancient hillock he built one of the first public\r\nhouses in the mountains. It was burned. Another, and yet another hostelry\r\nwas builded on the site, but they likewise were destroyed by fire. Then\r\nthe enterprise was abandoned, for it was remembered that an Indian once\r\nmounted this grave, waved a torch from its top, and cried in a loud\r\nvoice, “No pale-face shall take root on this spot. This has the Great\r\nSpirit whispered in my ear.”\r\n\r\nGovernor Wentworth, while on a lonely tour through his province, found\r\nthis cabin of Crawford's and passed a night there, tendering many\r\ncompliments to the austere graces of the lady of the house and drinking\r\nhimself into the favor of the husband, who proclaimed him the prince of\r\ngood fellows. On leaving, the guest exacted of Crawford a visit to\r\nWolfeborough, where he was to inquire for “Old Wentworth.” This visit was\r\nundertaken soon after, and the sturdy frontiersman was dismayed at\r\nfinding himself in the house of the royal governor; but his reception was\r\nhearty enough to put him at his ease, and when he returned to the\r\nmountains he carried in his pocket a deed of a thousand acres of forest\r\nabout his little farm. The family that he founded became wealthy and\r\nincreased, by many an acre, the measure of that royal grant.\r\n\r\nNot far below this spot, in the wildest part of the Notch, shut in by\r\nwalls of rock thousands of feet high, is the old Willey House, and this,\r\ntoo, was the scene of a tragedy, for in 1826 a storm loosened the soil on\r\nMount Willey and an enormous landslide occurred. The people in the house\r\nrushed forth on hearing the approach of the slide and met death almost at\r\ntheir door. Had they remained within they would have been unharmed, for\r\nthe avalanche was divided by a wedge of rock behind the house, and the\r\nlittle inn was saved. Seven people are known to have been killed, and it\r\nwas rumored that there was another victim in a young man whose name was\r\nunknown and who was walking through the mountains to enjoy their beauty.\r\nThe messenger who bore the tidings of the destruction of the family was\r\nbarred from reaching North Conway by the flood in the Saco, so he stood\r\nat the brink of the foaming river and rang a peal on a trumpet. This\r\nblast echoing around the hills in the middle of the night roused several\r\nmen from their beds to know its meaning. The dog belonging to the inn is\r\nsaid to have given first notice to people below the Notch that something\r\nwas wrong, but his moaning and barking were misunderstood, and after\r\nrunning back and forth, as if to summon help, he disappeared. At the hour\r\nof the accident James Willey, of Conway, had a dream in which he saw his\r\ndead brother standing by him. He related the story of the catastrophe to\r\nthe sleeping man and said that when “the world's last knell” sounded they\r\nwere going for safety to the foot of the steep mountain, for the Saco had\r\nrisen twenty-four feet in seven hours and threatened to ingulf them in\r\nfront.\r\n\r\nAnother spot of interest in the Notch is Nancy's Brook. It was at the\r\npoint where this stream comes foaming from Mount Nancy into the great\r\nravine that the girl whose name is given to it was found frozen to death\r\nin a shroud of snow in the fall of 1788. She had set out alone from\r\nJefferson in search of a young farmer who was to have married her, and\r\nwalked thirty miles through trackless snow between sunset and dawn. Then\r\nher strength gave out and she sank beside the road never to rise again.\r\nHer recreant lover went mad with remorse when he learned the manner of\r\nher death and did not long survive her, and men who have traversed the\r\nsavage passes of the Notch on chill nights in October have fancied that\r\nthey heard, above the clash of the stream and whispering of the woods,\r\nlong, shuddering groans mingled with despairing cries and gibbering\r\nlaughter.\r\n\r\nThe birth of Peabody River came about from a cataclysm of less violent\r\nnature than some of the avalanches that have so scarred the mountains. In\r\nWhite's “History of New England,” Mr. Peabody, for whom the stream is\r\nnamed, is reported as having taken shelter in an Indian cabin on the\r\nheights where the river has its source. During the night a loud roaring\r\nwaked the occupants of the hut and they sprang forth, barely in time to\r\nsave their lives; for, hardly had they gained the open ground before a\r\ncavern burst open in the hill and a flood of water gushed out, sweeping\r\naway the shelter and cutting a broad swath through the forest.\r\n\r\nAlthough the Pilot Mountains are supposed to have taken their name from\r\nthe fact that they served as landmarks to hunters who were seeking the\r\nConnecticut River from the Lancaster district, an old story is still told\r\nof one Willard, who was lost amid the defiles of this range, and nearly\r\nperished with hunger. While lying exhausted on the mountainside his dog\r\nwould leave him every now and then and return after a couple of hours.\r\nThough Willard was half dead, he determined to use his last strength in\r\nfollowing the animal, and as a result was led by a short cut to his own\r\ncamp, where provisions were plenty, and where the intelligent creature\r\nhad been going for food. The dog was christened Pilot, in honor of this\r\nservice, and the whole range is thought by many to be named in his honor.\r\n\r\nWaternomee Falls, on Hurricane Creek, at Warren, are bordered with rich\r\nmoss where fairies used to dance and sing in the moonlight. These sprites\r\nwere the reputed children of Indians that had been stolen from their\r\nwigwams and given to eat of fairy bread, that dwarfed and changed them in\r\na moment. Barring their kidnapping practices the elves were an innocent\r\nand joyous people, and they sought more distant hiding-places in the\r\nwilderness when the stern churchmen and cruel rangers penetrated their\r\nsylvan precincts.\r\n\r\nAn old barrack story has it that Lieutenant Chamberlain, who fought under\r\nLovewell, was pursued along the base of Melvin Peak by Indians and was\r\nalmost in their grasp when he reached Ossipee Falls. It seemed as if\r\nthere were no alternative between death by the tomahawk and death by a\r\nfall to the rocks below, for the chasm here is eighteen feet wide; but\r\nwithout stopping to reckon chances he put his strength into a running\r\njump, and to the amazement of those in pursuit and perhaps to his own\r\nsurprise he cleared the gap and escaped into the woods. The foremost of\r\nthe Indians attempted the leap, but plunged to his death in the ravine.\r\n\r\nThe Eagle Range was said to be the abode, two hundred years ago, of a man\r\nof strange and venerable appearance, whom the Indians regarded with\r\nsuperstitious awe and never tried to molest. He slept in a cave on the\r\nsouth slope and ranged the forest in search of game, muttering and\r\ngesturing to himself. He is thought to be identified with Thomas Crager,\r\nwhose wife had been hanged in Salem as a witch, and whose only child had\r\nbeen stolen by Indians. After a long, vain search for the little one he\r\ngave way to a bitter moroseness, and avoided the habitations of civilized\r\nman and savages alike. It is a satisfaction to know that before he died\r\nhe found his daughter, though she was the squaw of an Indian hunter and\r\nwas living with his tribe on the shore of the St. Lawrence.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE VISION ON MOUNT ADAMS\r\n\r\nThere are many traditions connected with Mount Adams that have faded out\r\nof memory. Old people remember that in their childhood there was talk of\r\nthe discovery of a magic stone; of an Indian's skeleton that appeared in\r\na speaking storm; of a fortune-teller that set off on a midnight quest,\r\nfar up among the crags and eyries. In October, 1765, a detachment of nine\r\nof Rogers's Rangers began the return from a Canadian foray, bearing with\r\nthem plate, candlesticks, and a silver statue that they had rifled from\r\nthe Church of St. Francis. An Indian who had undertaken to guide the\r\nparty through the Notch proved faithless, and led them among labyrinthine\r\ngorges to the head of Israel's River, where he disappeared, after\r\npoisoning one of the troopers with a rattlesnake's fang. Losing all\r\nreckoning, the Rangers tramped hither and thither among the snowy hills\r\nand sank down, one by one, to die in the wilderness, a sole survivor\r\nreaching a settlement after many days, with his knapsack filled with\r\nhuman flesh.\r\n\r\nIn 1816 the candlesticks were recovered near Lake Memphremagog, but the\r\nstatue has never been laid hold upon. The spirits of the famished men\r\nwere wont, for many winters, to cry in the woods, and once a hunter,\r\ncamped on the side of Mount Adams, was awakened at midnight by the notes\r\nof an organ. The mists were rolling off, and he found that he had gone to\r\nsleep near a mighty church of stone that shone in soft light. The doors\r\nwere flung back, showing a tribe of Indians kneeling within. Candles\r\nsparkled on the altar, shooting their rays through clouds of incense, and\r\nthe rocks shook with thunder-gusts of music. Suddenly church, lights,\r\nworshippers vanished, and from the mists came forth a line of uncouth\r\nforms, marching in silence. As they started to descend the mountain a\r\nsilver image, floating in the air, spread a pair of gleaming pinions and\r\ntook flight, disappearing in the chaos of battlemented rocks above.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE GREAT CARBUNCLE\r\n\r\nHigh on the eastern face of Mount Monroe shone the Great Carbuncle, its\r\nflash scintillating for miles by day, its dusky crimson glowing among the\r\nledges at night. The red men said that it hung in the air, and that the\r\nsoul of an Indian--killed, that he might guard the spot--made approach\r\nperilous to men of all complexions and purposes. As late as Ethan\r\nCrawford's time one search band took a “good man” to lay the watcher,\r\nwhen they strove to scale the height, but they returned “sorely bruised,\r\ntreasureless, and not even saw that wonderful sight.” The value of the\r\nstone tempted many, but those who sought it had to toil through a dense\r\nforest, and on arriving at the mountain found its glories eclipsed by\r\nintervening abutments, nor could they get near it. Rocks covered with\r\ncrystals, at first thought to be diamonds, were readily despoiled of\r\ntheir treasure, but the Great Carbuncle burned on, two thousand feet\r\nabove them, at the head of the awful chasm of Oakes Gulf, and baffled\r\nseekers likened it to the glare of an evil eye.\r\n\r\nThere was one who had grown old in searching for this gem, often\r\nscrambling over the range in wind and snow and cloud, and at last he\r\nreached a precipitous spot he had never attained before. Great was his\r\njoy, for the Carbuncle was within his reach, blazing into his eyes in the\r\nnoon sunlight as if it held, crystallized in its depths, the brightness\r\nof all the wine that had ever gladdened the tired hearts of men. There\r\nwere rivals in the search, and on reaching the plateau they looked up and\r\nsaw him kneeling on a narrow ledge with arms extended as in rapture. They\r\ncalled to him. He answered not. He was dead--dead of joy and triumph.\r\nWhile they looked a portion of the crag above him fell away and rolled\r\nfrom rock to rock, marking its course with flashes of bloody fire, until\r\nit reached the Lake of the Clouds, and the waters of that tarn drowned\r\nits glory. Yet those waters are not always black, and sometimes the\r\nhooked crest of Mount Monroe is outlined against the night sky in a ruddy\r\nglow.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSKINNER'S CAVE\r\n\r\nThe abhorrence to paying taxes and duties--or any other levy from which\r\nan immediate and personal good is not promised--is too deeply rooted in\r\nhuman nature to be affected by statutes, and whenever it is possible to\r\nbuy commodities that have escaped the observation of the revenue officers\r\nmany are tempted to do so for the mere pleasure of defying the law. In\r\nthe early part of this century the northern farmers and their wives were,\r\nin a way, providing themselves with laces, silver-ware, brandy, and other\r\nprotected and dreadful articles, on which it was evident that somebody\r\nhad forgotten to pay duty. The customs authorities on the American side\r\nof the border were long puzzled by the irruption of these forbidden\r\nthings, but suspicion ultimately fell on a fellow of gigantic size, named\r\nSkinner.\r\n\r\nIt was believed that this outlaw carried on the crime of free trade after\r\nsunset, hiding his merchandise by day on the islands of Lake\r\nMemphremagog. This delightful sheet of water lies half in Canada and half\r\nin Vermont--agreeably to the purpose of such as he. Province Island is\r\nstill believed to contain buried treasure, but the rock that contains\r\nSkinner's Cave was the smuggler's usual haunt, and when pursued he rowed\r\nto this spot and effected a disappearance, because he entered the cave on\r\nthe northwest side, where it was masked by shrubbery. One night the\r\nofficers landed on this island after he had gone into hiding, and after\r\ndiligent search discovered his boat drawn up in a covert. They pushed it\r\ninto the lake, where the winds sent it adrift, and, his communication\r\nwith the shore thus cut off, the outlaw perished miserably of hunger. His\r\nskeleton was found in the cavern some years later.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nYET THEY CALL IT LOVER'S LEAP\r\n\r\nIn the lower part of the township of Cavendish, Vermont, the Black River\r\nseeks a lower level through a gorge in the foot-hills of the Green\r\nMountains. The scenery here is romantic and impressive, for the river\r\nmakes its way along the ravine in a series of falls and rapids that are\r\noverhung by trees and ledges, while the geologist finds something worth\r\nlooking at in the caves and pot-holes that indicate an older level of the\r\nriver. At a turn in the ravine rises the sheer precipice of Lover's Leap.\r\nIt is a vertical descent of about eighty feet, the water swirling at its\r\nfoot in a black and angry maelstrom. It is a spot whence lovers might\r\neasily step into eternity, were they so disposed, and the name fits\r\ndelightfully into the wild and somber scene; but ask any good villager\r\nthereabout to relate the legend of the place and he will tell you this:\r\n\r\nAbout forty years ago a couple of young farmers went to the Leap--which\r\nthen had no name--to pry out some blocks of the schistose rock for a\r\nfoundation wall. They found a good exposure of the rock beneath the turf\r\nand began to quarry it. In the earnestness of the work one of the men\r\nforgot that he was standing on the verge of a precipice, and through a\r\nslip of his crowbar he lost his balance and went reeling into the gulf.\r\nHis horrified companion crept to the edge, expecting to see his mangled\r\ncorpse tossing in the whirlpool, but, to his amazement, the unfortunate\r\nwas crawling up the face of a huge table of stone that had fallen from\r\nthe opposite wall and lay canted against it.\r\n\r\n“Hello!” shouted the man overhead. “Are you hurt much?”\r\n\r\nThe victim of the accident slowly got upon his feet, felt cautiously of\r\nhis legs and ribs, and began to search through his pockets, his face\r\nbetraying an anxiety that grew deeper and deeper as the search went on.\r\nIn due time the answer came back, deliberate, sad, and nasal, but\r\ndistinct above the roar of the torrent: “Waal, I ain't hurt much, but\r\nI'll be durned if I haven't lost my jack-knife!”\r\n\r\nAnd he was pulled out of the gorge without it.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSALEM AND OTHER WITCHCRAFT\r\n\r\nThe extraordinary delusion recorded as Salem witchcraft was but a\r\nreflection of a kindred insanity in the Old World that was not extirpated\r\nuntil its victims had been counted by thousands. That human beings should\r\nbe accused of leaguing themselves with Satan to plague their fellows and\r\noverthrow the powers of righteousness is remarkable, but that they should\r\nadmit their guilt is incomprehensible, albeit the history of every\r\npopular delusion shows that weak minds are so affected as to lose control\r\nof themselves and that a whimsey can be as epidemic as small-pox.\r\n\r\nSuch was the case in 1692 when the witchcraft madness, which might have\r\nbeen stayed by a seasonable spanking, broke out in Danvers,\r\nMassachusetts, the first victim being a wild Irishwoman, named Glover,\r\nand speedily involved the neighboring community of Salem. The mischiefs\r\ndone by witches were usually trifling, and it never occurred to their\r\nprosecutors that there was an inconsistency between their pretended\r\npowers and their feeble deeds, or that it was strange that those who\r\nmight live in regal luxury should be so wretchedly poor. Aches and pains,\r\nblight of crops, disease of cattle, were charged to them; children\r\ncomplained of being pricked with thorns and pins (the pins are still\r\npreserved in Salem), and if hysterical girls spoke the name of any feeble\r\nold woman, while in flighty talk, they virtually sentenced her to die.\r\nThe word of a child of eleven years sufficed to hang, burn, or drown a\r\nwitch.\r\n\r\nGiles Corey, a blameless man of eighty, was condemned to the mediaeval\r\n_peine forte et dure_, his body being crushed beneath a load of rocks and\r\ntimbers. He refused to plead in court, and when the beams were laid upon\r\nhim he only cried, “More weight!” The shade of the unhappy victim haunted\r\nthe scene of his execution for years, and always came to warn the people\r\nof calamities. A child of five and a dog were also hanged after formal\r\ncondemnation. Gallows Hill, near Salem, witnessed many sad tragedies, and\r\nthe old elm that stood on Boston Common until 1876 was said to have\r\nserved as a gallows for witches and Quakers. The accuser of one day was\r\nthe prisoner of the next, and not even the clergy were safe.\r\n\r\nA few escapes were made, like that of a blue-eyed maid of Wenham, whose\r\nlover aided her to break the wooden jail and carried her safely beyond\r\nthe Merrimac, finding a home for her among the Quakers; and that of Miss\r\nWheeler, of Salem, who had fallen under suspicion, and whose brothers\r\nhurried her into a boat, rowed around Cape Ann, and safely bestowed her\r\nin “the witch house” at Pigeon Cove. Many, however, fled to other towns\r\nrather than run the risk of accusation, which commonly meant death.\r\n\r\nWhen the wife of Philip English was arrested he, too, asked to share her\r\nfate, and both were, through friendly intercession, removed to Boston,\r\nwhere they were allowed to have their liberty by day on condition that\r\nthey would go to jail every night. Just before they were to be taken back\r\nto Salem for trial they went to church and heard the Rev. Joshua Moody\r\npreach from the text, “If they persecute you in one city, flee unto\r\nanother.” The good clergyman not only preached goodness, but practised\r\nit, and that night the door of their prison was opened. Furnished with an\r\nintroduction from Governor Phipps to Governor Fletcher, of New York, they\r\nmade their way to that settlement, and remained there in safe and\r\ncourteous keeping until the people of Salem had regained their senses,\r\nwhen they returned. Mrs. English died, soon after, from the effects of\r\ncruelty and anxiety, and although Mr. Moody was generally commended for\r\nhis substitution of sense and justice for law, there were bigots who\r\npersecuted him so constantly that he removed to Plymouth.\r\n\r\nAccording to the belief of the time a witch or wizard compacted with\r\nSatan for the gift of supernatural power, and in return was to give up\r\nhis soul to the evil one after his life was over. The deed was signed in\r\nblood of the witch and horrible ceremonies confirmed the compact. Satan\r\nthen gave his ally a familiar in the form of a dog, ape, cat, or other\r\nanimal, usually small and black, and sometimes an undisguised imp. To\r\nsuckle these “familiars” with the blood of a witch was forbidden in\r\nEnglish law, which ranked it as a felony; but they were thus nourished in\r\nsecret, and by their aid the witch might raise storms, blight crops,\r\nabort births, lame cattle, topple over houses, and cause pains,\r\nconvulsions, and illness. If she desired to hurt a person she made a clay\r\nor waxen image in his likeness, and the harms and indignities wreaked on\r\nthe puppet would be suffered by the one bewitched, a knife or needle\r\nthrust in the waxen body being felt acutely by the living one, no matter\r\nhow far distant he might be. By placing this image in running water, hot\r\nsunshine, or near a fire, the living flesh would waste as this melted or\r\ndissolved, and the person thus wrought upon would die. This belief is\r\nstill current among negroes affected by the voodoo superstitions of the\r\nSouth. The witch, too, had the power of riding winds, usually with a\r\nbroomstick for a conveyance, after she had smeared the broom or herself\r\nwith magic ointment, and the flocking of the unhallowed to their sabbaths\r\nin snaky bogs or on lonely mountain tops has been described minutely by\r\nthose who claim to have seen the sight. Sometimes they cackled and\r\ngibbered through the night before the houses of the clergy, and it was\r\nonly at Christmas that their power failed them. The meetings were devoted\r\nto wild and obscene orgies, and the intercourse of fiends and witches\r\nbegot a progeny of toads and snakes.\r\n\r\nNaturally the Indians were accused, for they recognized the existence of\r\nboth good and evil spirits, their medicine-men cured by incantations in\r\nthe belief that devils were thus driven out of their patients, and in the\r\nearly history of the country the red man was credited by white settlers\r\nwith powers hardly inferior to those of the oriental and European\r\nmagicians of the middle ages. Cotton Mather detected a relation between\r\nSatan and the Indians, and he declares that certain of the Algonquins\r\nwere trained from boyhood as powahs, powwows, or wizards, acquiring\r\npowers of second sight and communion with gods and spirits through\r\nabstinence from food and sleep and the observance of rites. Their severe\r\ndiscipline made them victims of nervous excitement and the\r\nresponsibilities of conjuration had on their minds an effect similar to\r\nthat produced by gases from the rift in Delphos on the Apollonian\r\noracles, their manifestations of insanity or frenzy passing for deific or\r\ninfernal possession. When John Gibb, a Scotchman, who had gone mad\r\nthrough religious excitement, was shipped to this country by his tired\r\nfellow-countrymen, the Indians hailed him as a more powerful wizard than\r\nany of their number, and he died in 1720, admired and feared by them\r\nbecause of the familiarity with spirits out of Hobbomocko (hell) that his\r\nravings and antics were supposed to indicate. Two Indian servants of the\r\nReverend Mr. Purvis, of Salem, having tried by a spell to discover a\r\nwitch, were executed as witches themselves. The savages, who took Salem\r\nwitchcraft at its worth, were astonished at its deadly effect, and the\r\nEnglish may have lost some influence over the natives in consequence of\r\nthis madness. “The Great Spirit sends no witches to the French,” they\r\nsaid. Barrow Hill, near Amesbury, was said to be the meeting-place for\r\nIndian powwows and witches, and at late hours of the night the light of\r\nfires gleamed from its top, while shadowy forms glanced athwart it. Old\r\nmen say that the lights are still there in winter, though modern doubters\r\ndeclare that they were the aurora borealis.\r\n\r\nBut the belief in witches did not die even when the Salem people came to\r\ntheir senses. In the Merrimac valley the devil found converts for many\r\nyears after: Goody Mose, of Rocks village, who tumbled down-stairs when a\r\nbig beetle was killed at an evening party, some miles away, after it had\r\nbeen bumping into the faces of the company; Goody Whitcher, of Ameshury,\r\nwhose loom kept banging day and night after she was dead; Goody Sloper,\r\nof West Newbury, who went home lame directly that a man had struck his\r\naxe into the beam of a house that she had bewitched, but who recovered\r\nher strength and established an improved reputation when, in 1794, she\r\nswam out to a capsized boat and rescued two of the people who were in\r\nperil; Goodman Nichols, of Rocks village, who “spelled” a neighbor's son,\r\ncompelling him to run up one end of the house, along the ridge, and down\r\nthe other end, “troubling the family extremely by his strange\r\nproceedings;” Susie Martin, also of Rocks, who was hanged in spite of her\r\ndevotions in jail, though the rope danced so that it could not be tied,\r\nbut a crow overhead called for a withe and the law was executed with\r\nthat; and Goody Morse, of Market and High Streets, Newburyport, whose\r\nbaskets and pots danced through her house continually and who was seen\r\n“flying about the sun as if she had been cut in twain, or as if the devil\r\ndid hide the lower part of her.” The hill below Easton, Pennsylvania,\r\ncalled Hexenkopf (Witch's head), was described by German settlers as a\r\nplace of nightly gathering for weird women, who whirled about its top in\r\n“linked dances” and sang in deep tones mingled with awful laughter. After\r\none of these women, in Williams township, had been punished for\r\nenchanting a twenty-dollar horse, their sabbaths were held more quietly.\r\nMom Rinkle, whose “rock” is pointed out beside the Wissahickon, in\r\nPhiladelphia, “drank dew from acorn-cups and had the evil eye.” Juan\r\nPerea, of San Mateo, New Mexico, would fly with his chums to meetings in\r\nthe mountains in the shape of a fire-ball. During these sallies he left\r\nhis own eyes at home and wore those of some brute animal. It was because\r\nhis dog ate his eyes when he had carelessly put them on a table that he\r\nhad always afterward to wear those of a cat. Within the present century\r\nan old woman who lived in a hut on the Palisades of the Hudson was held\r\nto be responsible for local storms and accidents. As late as 1889 two\r\nZuni Indians were hanged on the wall of an old Spanish church near their\r\npueblo in Arizona on a charge of having blown away the rainclouds in a\r\ntime of drouth. It was held that there was something uncanny in the event\r\nthat gave the name of Gallows Hill to an eminence near Falls Village,\r\nConnecticut, for a strange black man was found hanging, dead, to a tree\r\nnear its top one morning.\r\n\r\nMoll Pitcher, a successful sorcerer and fortune-teller of old Lynn, has\r\nfigured in obsolete poems, plays, and romances. She lived in a cottage at\r\nthe foot of High Rock, where she was consulted, not merely by people of\r\nrespectability, but by those who had knavish schemes to prosecute and who\r\nwanted to learn in advance the outcome of their designs. Many a ship was\r\ndeserted at the hour of sailing because she boded evil of the voyage. She\r\nwas of medium height, big-headed, tangle-haired, long-nosed, and had a\r\nsearching black eye. The sticks that she carried were cut from a hazel\r\nthat hung athwart a brook where an unwedded mother had drowned her child.\r\nA girl who went to her for news of her lover lost her reason when the\r\nwitch, moved by a malignant impulse, described his death in a fiercely\r\ndramatic manner. One day the missing ship came bowling into port, and the\r\nshock of joy that the girl experienced when the sailor clasped her in his\r\narms restored her erring senses. When Moll Pitcher died she was attended\r\nby the little daughter of the woman she had so afflicted.\r\n\r\nJohn, or Edward, Dimond, grandfather of Moll Pitcher, was a benevolent\r\nwizard. When vessels were trying to enter the port of Marblehead in a\r\nheavy gale or at night, their crews were startled to hear a trumpet voice\r\npealing from the skies, plainly audible above the howling and hissing of\r\nany tempest, telling them how to lay their course so as to reach smooth\r\nwater. This was the voice of Dimond, speaking from his station, miles\r\naway in the village cemetery. He always repaired to this place in\r\ntroublous weather and shouted orders to the ships that were made visible\r\nto him by mystic power as he strode to and fro among the graves. When\r\nthieves came to him for advice he charmed them and made them take back\r\ntheir plunder or caused them to tramp helplessly about the streets\r\nbearing heavy burdens.\r\n\r\n“Old Mammy Redd, of Marblehead, Sweet milk could turn to mould in churn.”\r\n\r\nBeing a witch, and a notorious one, she could likewise curdle the milk as\r\nit came from the cow, and afterward transform it into blue wool. She had\r\nthe evil eye, and, if she willed, her glance or touch could blight like\r\npalsy. It only needed that she should wish a bloody cleaver to be found\r\nin a cradle to cause the little occupant to die, while the whole town\r\nascribed to her the annoyances of daily housework and business. Her\r\nunpleasant celebrity led to her death at the hands of her fellow-citizens\r\nwho had been “worrited” by no end of queer happenings: ships had appeared\r\njust before they were wrecked and had vanished while people looked at\r\nthem; men were seen walking on the water after they had been comfortably\r\nburied; the wind was heard to name the sailors doomed never to return;\r\nfootsteps and voices were heard in the streets before the great were to\r\ndie; one man was chased by a corpse in its coffin; another was pursued by\r\nthe devil in a carriage drawn by four white horses; a young woman who had\r\njust received a present of some fine fish from her lover was amazed to\r\nsee him melt into the air, and was heart-broken when she learned next\r\nmorning that he had died at sea. So far away as Amesbury the devil's\r\npower was shown by the appearance of a man who walked the roads carrying\r\nhis head under his arm, and by the freak of a windmill that the miller\r\nalways used to shut up at sundown but that started by itself at midnight.\r\nEvidently it was high time to be rid of Mammy Redd.\r\n\r\nMargaret Wesson, “old Meg,” lived in Gloucester until she came to her\r\ndeath by a shot fired at the siege of Louisburg, five hundred miles away,\r\nin 1745. Two soldiers of Gloucester, while before the walls of the French\r\ntown, were annoyed by a crow, that flew over and around them, cawing\r\nharshly and disregarding stones and shot, until it occurred to them that\r\nthe bird could be no other than old Meg in another form, and, as silver\r\nbullets are an esteemed antidote for the evils of witchcraft, they cut\r\ntwo silver buttons from their uniforms and fired them at the crow. At the\r\nfirst shot its leg was broken; at the second, it fell dead. On returning\r\nto Gloucester they learned that old Meg had fallen and broken her leg at\r\nthe moment when the crow was fired on, and that she died quickly after.\r\nAn examination of her body was made, and the identical buttons were\r\nextracted from her flesh that had been shot into the crow at Louisburg.\r\n\r\nAs a citizen of New Haven was riding home--this was at the time of the\r\ngoings on at Salem--he saw shapes of women near his horse's head,\r\nwhispering earnestly together and keeping time with the trot of his\r\nanimal without effort of their own. “In the name of God, tell me who you\r\nare,” cried the traveller, and at the name of God they vanished. Next day\r\nthe man's orchard was shaken by viewless hands and the fruit thrown down.\r\nHogs ran about the neighborhood on their hind legs; children cried that\r\nsomebody was sticking pins into them; one man would roll across the floor\r\nas if pushed, and he had to be watched lest he should go into the fire;\r\nwhen housewives made their bread they found it as full of hair as food in\r\na city boarding-house; when they made soft soap it ran from the kettle\r\nand over the floor like lava; stones fell down chimneys and smashed\r\ncrockery. One of the farmers cut off an ear from a pig that was walking\r\non its hind legs, and an eccentric old body of the neighborhood appeared\r\npresently with one of her ears in a muffle, thus satisfying that\r\ncommunity that she had caused the troubles. When a woman was making\r\npotash it began to leap about, and a rifle was fired into the pot,\r\ncausing a sudden calm. In the morning the witch was found dead on her\r\nfloor. Yet killing only made her worse, for she moved to a deserted house\r\nnear her own, and there kept a mad revel every night; fiddles were heard,\r\nlights flashed, stones were thrown, and yells gave people at a distance a\r\nseries of cold shivers; but the populace tried the effect of tearing down\r\nthe house, and quiet was brought to the town.\r\n\r\nIn the early days of this century a skinny old woman known as Aunt\r\nWoodward lived by herself in a log cabin at Minot Corner, Maine, enjoying\r\nthe awe of the people in that secluded burg. They moved around but little\r\nat night, on her account, and one poor girl was in mortal fear lest by\r\nmysterious arts she should be changed, between two days, into a white\r\nhorse. One citizen kept her away from his house by nailing a horseshoe to\r\nhis door, while another took the force out of her spells by keeping a\r\nbranch of “round wood” at his threshold. At night she haunted a big,\r\nsquare house where the ghost of a murdered infant was often heard to cry,\r\nand by day she laid charms on her neighbors' provisions and utensils, and\r\nturned their cream to buttermilk. “Uncle” Blaisdell hurried into the\r\nsettlement to tell the farmers that Aunt Woodward had climbed into his\r\nsled in the middle of the road, and that his four yoke of oxen could not\r\nstir it an inch, but that after she had leaped down one yoke of cattle\r\ndrew the load of wood without an effort. Yet she died in her bed.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE GLOUCESTER LEAGUERS\r\n\r\nStrange things had been reported in Gloucester. On the eve of King\r\nPhilip's War the march of men was heard in its streets and an Indian bow\r\nand scalp were seen on the face of the moon, while the boom of cannon and\r\nroll of drums were heard at Malden and the windows of Plymouth rattled to\r\nthe passage of unseen horsemen. But the strangest thing was the arrival\r\non Cape Ann of a force of French and Indians that never could be caught,\r\nkilled, or crippled, though two regiments were hurried into Gloucester\r\nand battled with them for a fortnight. Thus, the rumor went around that\r\nthese were not an enemy of flesh and blood, but devils who hoped to work\r\na moral perversion of the colony. From 1692, when they appeared, until\r\nSalem witchcraft was at an end, Cape Ann was under military and spiritual\r\nguard against “the spectre leaguers.”\r\n\r\nAnother version of the episode, based on sworn evidence, has it that\r\nEbenezer Babson, returning late on a summer night, saw two men run from\r\nhis door and vanish in a field. His family denied that visitors had\r\ncalled, so he gave chase, for he believed the men to have a mischievous\r\nintention. As he left the threshold they sprang from behind a log, one\r\nsaying to the other, “The master of the house is now come, else we might\r\nhave taken the house,” and again they disappeared in a swamp. Babson woke\r\nthe guard, and on entering the quarters of the garrison the sound of many\r\nfeet was heard without, but when the doors were flung open only the two\r\nmen were visible and they were retreating. Next evening the yeoman was\r\nchased by these elusive gentry, who were believed to be scouts of the\r\nenemy, for they wore white breeches and waistcoats and carried bright\r\nguns.\r\n\r\nFor several nights they appeared, and on the 4th of July half a dozen of\r\nthem were seen so plainly that the soldiers made a sally, Babson bringing\r\nthree of “ye unaccountable troublers” to the ground with a single shot,\r\nand getting a response in kind, for a bullet hissed by his ear and buried\r\nitself in a tree. When the company approached the place where lay the\r\nvictims of that remarkable shot, behold, they arose and scampered away as\r\nblithely as if naught had happened to them. One of the trio was cornered\r\nand shot anew, but when they would pick him up he melted into air. There\r\nwas fierce jabbering in an unknown tongue, through all the swamp, and by\r\nthe time the garrison had returned the fellows were skulking in the\r\nshrubbery again. Richard Dolliver afterward came on eleven of them\r\nengaged in incantations and scattered them with a gunshot, but they would\r\nnot down. They lurked about the cape until terror fell on all the people,\r\nremaining for “the best part of a month together,” so it was deemed that\r\n“Satan had set ambushments against the good people of Gloucester, with\r\ndemons in the shape of armed Indians and Frenchmen.”\r\n\r\nStones were thrown, barns were beaten with clubs, the marching of unseen\r\nhosts was heard after dark, the mockers grew so bold that they ventured\r\nclose to the redoubtable Babson, gazed scornfully down the barrel of his\r\ngun, and laid a charm on the weapon, so that, no matter how often he\r\nsnapped it at them, it flashed in the pan. Neighboring garrisons were\r\nsummoned, but all battling with goblins was fruitless. One night a dark\r\nand hostile throng emerged from the wood and moved toward the blockhouse,\r\nwhere twenty musketeers were keeping guard. “If you be ghosts or devils I\r\nwill foil you,” cried the captain, and tearing a silver button from his\r\ndoublet he rammed it into his gun and fired on the advancing host. Even\r\nas the smoke of his musket was blown on the wind, so did the beleaguering\r\narmy vanish, the silver bullet proving that they were not of human kind.\r\nThe night was wearing on when a cry went out that the devils were coming\r\nagain. Arms were laid aside this time, and the watchers sank to their\r\nknees in prayer. Directly that the name of God was uttered the marching\r\nceased and heaven rang with the howls of the angry fiends. Never again\r\nwere leaguers seen in Gloucester.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSATAN AND HIS BURIAL-PLACE\r\n\r\nSatan appears to have troubled the early settlers in America almost as\r\ngrievously as he did the German students. He came in many shapes to many\r\npeople, and sometimes he met his match. Did he not try to stop old Peter\r\nStuyvesant from rowing through Hell Gate one moonlight night, and did not\r\nthat tough old soldier put something at his shoulder that Satan thought\r\nmust be his wooden leg? But it wasn't a leg: it was a gun, loaded with a\r\nsilver bullet that had been charged home with prayer. Peter fired and the\r\nmissile whistled off to Ward's Island, where three boys found it\r\nafterward and swapped it for double handfuls of doughnuts and bulls'\r\neyes. Incidentally it passed between the devil's ribs and the fiend\r\nexploded with a yell and a smell, the latter of sulphur, to Peter's\r\nblended satisfaction and alarm. And did not the same spirit of evil\r\nplague the old women of Massachusetts Bay and craze the French and\r\nSpaniards in the South? At Hog Rock, west of Milford, Connecticut, he\r\nbroke up a pleasant diversion:\r\n\r\n     “Once four young men upon ye rock\r\n     Sate down at chuffle board to play\r\n     When ye Deuill appearde in shape of a hogg\r\n     And frightend ym so they scampered away\r\n     And left Old Nick to finish ye play.”\r\n\r\nOne of the first buildings to be put up in Ipswich, Massachusetts, was a\r\nchurch built on a ledge above the river, and in that church Satan tried\r\nto conceal himself for purposes of mischief. For this act he was hurled\r\nfrom the steeple-top by some unseen instrument of righteousness with such\r\nforce that his hoofmark was stamped into a solid stone near by. This did\r\nnot deter him from mounting to the ridge-pole and assuming a defiant air,\r\nwith folded arms, when Whitefield began to preach, but when that\r\nclergyman's tremendous voice was loosed below him he bounced into the air\r\nin terror and disappeared.\r\n\r\nThe Shakers report that in the waning of the eighteenth century they\r\nchased the evil one through the coverts of Mount Sinai, Massachusetts,\r\nand just before dawn of a summer morning they caught and killed and\r\nburied him. Shakers are spiritualists, and they believe their numbers to\r\nhave been augmented by distinguished dead, among whom they already number\r\nWashington, Lafayette, Napoleon, Tamerlane, and Pocahontas. The two first\r\nnamed of these posthumous communists are still seen by members of the\r\nfaith who pass Satan's grave at night, for they sit astride of white\r\nhorses and watch the burial spot, lest the enemy of man arise and begin\r\nanew his career of trouble. Some members of the brotherhood say that this\r\nlegend typifies a burial of evil tendencies in the hearts of those who\r\nhunted the fiend, but it has passed down among others as a circumstance.\r\nThe Shakers have many mystic records, transmitted verbally to the present\r\ndisciples of “Mother Ann,” but seldom told to scoffers “in the world,” as\r\nthose are called who live without their pure and peaceful communes. Among\r\nthese records is that of the appearance of John the Baptist in the\r\nmeeting-house at Mount Lebanon, New York, one Sunday, clothed in light\r\nand leading the sacred dance of the worshippers, by which they signify\r\nthe shaking out of all carnal things from the heart.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPETER RUGG, THE MISSING MAN\r\n\r\nThe idea of long wandering as a penalty, symbolized in “The Wandering\r\nJew,” “The Flying Dutchman,” and the character of Kundry, in “Parsifal,”\r\n has application in the legend of Peter Rugg. This strange man, who lived\r\nin Middle Street, Boston, with his wife and daughter, was esteemed, as a\r\nperson of probity and good manners except in his swearing fits, for he\r\nwas subject to outbursts of passion, when he would kick his way through\r\ndoors instead of opening them, bite tenpenny nails in two, and curse his\r\nwig off In the autumn of 1770 he visited Concord, with his little girl,\r\nand on the way home was overtaken by a violent storm. He took shelter\r\nwith a friend at Menotomy, who urged him to stay all night, for the rain\r\nwas falling heavier every moment; but Rugg would not be stayed, and\r\nseeing that there was no hope of a dry journey back to town he roared a\r\nfearful oath and cried, “Let the storm increase. I will see home to-night\r\nin spite of it, or may I never see home!” With that he tossed the child\r\ninto the open chaise, leaped in after her, lashed his horse, and was off.\r\n\r\nSeveral nights afterward, while Rugg's neighbors were out with lanterns\r\ntrying to discover the cause of a heavy jarring that had begun to disturb\r\nthem in bad weather, the excitable gentleman, who had not been seen since\r\nhis Concord visit, came whirling along the pavement in his carriage, his\r\ndaughter beside him, his black horse plunging on in spite of his efforts\r\nto stop him. The lanterns that for a moment twinkled in Peter's face\r\nshowed him as a wet and weary man, with eyes turned up longingly at the\r\nwindows where his wife awaited him; then he was gone, and the ground\r\ntrembled as with an earthquake, while the rain fell more heavily.\r\n\r\nMrs. Rugg died within a twelvemonth, and Peter never reached home, but\r\nfrom all parts of New England came stories of a man and child driving\r\nrapidly along the highways, never stopping except to inquire the way to\r\nBoston. Half of the time the man would be headed in a direction opposite\r\nto the one he seemed to want to follow, and when set right would cry that\r\nhe was being deceived, and was sometimes heard to mutter, “No home\r\nto-night.” In Hartford, Providence, Newburyport, and among the New\r\nHampshire hills the anxious face of the man became known, and he was\r\nreferred to as “the stormbreeder,” for so surely as he passed there would\r\nbe rain, wind, lightning, thunder, and darkness within the hour.\r\n\r\nSome years ago a man in a Connecticut town stopped this hurrying\r\ntraveller, who said, in reply to a question, “I have lost the road to\r\nBoston. My name is Peter Rugg.” Then Rugg's disappearance half a century\r\nbefore was cited by those who had long memories, and people began to look\r\naskant at Peter and gave him generous road room when they met him. The\r\ntoll-taker on Charlestown bridge declared that he had been annoyed and\r\nalarmed by a prodigious tramping of hoofs and rattling of wheels that\r\nseemed to pass toward Boston before his very face, yet he could see\r\nnothing. He took courage one night to plant himself in the middle of the\r\nbridge with a three-legged stool, and when the sound approached he dimly\r\nsaw a large black horse driven by a weary looking man with a child beside\r\nhim. The stool was flung at the horse's head, but passed through the\r\nanimal as through smoke and skipped across the floor of the bridge. Thus\r\nmuch the toll-collector said, but when asked if Rugg had appeared again\r\nhe made no reply.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LOSS OF WEETAMOO\r\n\r\nWinnepurkit, sagamore of the coast settlements between Nahant and Cape\r\nAnn, had married Weetamoo, daughter of Passaconaway, king of the\r\nPennacooks, and had taken her to his home. Their honeymoon was happy, but\r\nold ties are strong, and after a little time the bride felt a longing to\r\nsee her people again. When she made known this wish the husband not only\r\nconsented to her visit, but gave her a guard of his most trusty hunters\r\nwho saw her safe in her father's lodge (near the site of Concord, New\r\nHampshire), and returned directly. Presently came a messenger from\r\nPassaconaway, informing his son-in-law that Weetamoo had finished her\r\nvisit and wished again to be with her husband, to whom he looked for an\r\nescort to guide her through the wilderness. Winnepurkit felt that his\r\ndignity as a chief was slighted by this last request, and he replied that\r\nas he had supplied her with a guard for the outward journey it was her\r\nfather's place to send her back, “for it stood not with Winnepurkit's\r\nreputation either to make himself or his men so servile as to fetch her\r\nagain.”\r\n\r\nPassaconaway returned a sharp answer that irritated Winnepurkit still\r\nmore, and he was told by the young sagamore that he might send his\r\ndaughter or keep her, for she would never be sent for. In this unhappy\r\nstrife for precedent, which has been repeated on later occasions by\r\nprinces and society persons, the young wife seemed to be fated as an\r\nunwilling sacrifice; but summoning spirit to leave her father's wigwam\r\nshe launched a canoe on the Merrimack, hoping to make her way along that\r\nwatery highway to her husband's domain. It was winter, and the stream was\r\nfull of floating ice; at the best of times it was not easy to keep a\r\nfrail vessel of bark in the current away from the rapids, and a wandering\r\nhunter reported that a canoe had come down the river guided by a woman,\r\nthat it had swung against the Amoskeag rocks, where Manchester stands\r\nnow, and a few moments later was in a quieter reach of water, broken and\r\nempty. No more was seen of Weetamoo.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE FATAL FORGET-ME-NOT\r\n\r\nThree miles out from the Nahant shore, Massachusetts, rises Egg Rock, a\r\ndome of granite topped by a light-house. In the last century the\r\nforget-me-nots that grew in a little marsh at its summit were much\r\nesteemed, for it was reported that if a girl should receive one of these\r\nlittle flowers from her lover the two would be faithful to each other\r\nthrough all their married life. It was before a temporary separation that\r\na certain young couple strolled together on the Nahant cliffs. The man\r\nwas to sail for Italy next day, to urge parental consent to their union.\r\nAs he looked dreamily into the sea the legend of the forget-me-not came\r\ninto his mind, and in a playful tone he offered to gather a bunch as a\r\nmemento. Unthinkingly the girl consented. He ran down the cliff to his\r\nboat, pushed out, and headed toward the rock, but a fisherman shouted\r\nthat a gale was rising and the tide was coming in; indeed, the horizon\r\nwas whitening and the rote was growing plain.\r\n\r\nAlice had heard the cry of warning and would have called him back, but\r\nshe was forsaken by the power of speech, and watched, with pale face and\r\nstraining eyes, the boat beating smartly across the surges. It was seen\r\nto reach Egg Rock, and after a lapse came dancing toward the shore again;\r\nbut the tide, was now swirling in rapidly, the waves were running high,\r\nand the wind freshened as the sun sank. At times the boat was out of\r\nsight in the hollowed water, and as it neared Nahant it became\r\nunmanageable. Apparently it had filled with water and the tiller-rope had\r\nbroken. Nothing could be done by the spectators who had gathered on the\r\nrocks, except to shout directions that were futile, even if they could be\r\nheard. At last the boat was lifted by a breaker and hurled against a mass\r\nof granite at the very feet of the man's mistress. When the body was\r\nrecovered next day, a bunch of forget-me-not was clasped in the rigid\r\nhand.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE OLD MILL AT SOMERVILLE\r\n\r\nThe “old powder-house,” as the round stone tower is called that stands on\r\na gravel ridge in Somerville, Massachusetts, is so named because at the\r\noutbreak of the Revolutionary War it was used temporarily as a magazine;\r\nbut long before that it was a wind-mill. Here in the old days two lovers\r\nheld their tryst: a sturdy and honest young farmer of the neighborhood\r\nand the daughter of a man whose wealth puffed him with purse-pride. It\r\nwas the plebeian state of the farmer that made him look at him with an\r\nunfavorable countenance, and when it was whispered to him that the young\r\npeople were meeting each other almost every evening at the mill, he\r\nresolved to surprise them there and humiliate, if he did not punish them.\r\nFrom the shadow of the door they saw his approach, and, yielding to the\r\ngirl's imploring, the lover secreted himself while she climbed to the\r\nloft. The flutter of her dress caught the old man's eye and he hastened,\r\npanting, into the mill. For some moments he groped about, for his eyes\r\nhad not grown used to the darkness of the place, and hearing his muttered\r\noaths, the girl crept backward from the stair.\r\n\r\nShe was beginning to hope that she had not been seen, when her foot\r\ncaught in a loose board and she stumbled, but in her fall she threw out\r\nher hand to save herself and found a rope within her grasp. Directly that\r\nher weight had been applied to it there was a whir and a clank. The cord\r\nhad set the great fans in motion. At the same moment a fall was heard,\r\nthen a cry, passing from anger into anguish. She rushed down the stair,\r\nthe lover appeared from his hiding-place at the same moment, and together\r\nthey dragged the old man to his feet. At the moment when the wind had\r\nstarted the sails he had been standing on one of the mill-stones and the\r\nsudden jerk had thrown him down. His arm caught between the grinding\r\nsurfaces and had been crushed to pulp. He was carried home and tenderly\r\nnursed, but he did not live long; yet before he died he was made to see\r\nthe folly of his course, and he consented to the marriage that it had\r\ncost him so dear to try to prevent. Before she could summon heart to fix\r\nthe wedding-day the girl passed many months of grief and repentance, and\r\nfor the rest of her life she avoided the old mill. There was good reason\r\nfor doing so, people said, for on windy nights the spirit of the old man\r\nused to haunt the place, using such profanity that it became visible in\r\nthe form of blue lights, dancing and exploding about the building.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nEDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT\r\n\r\nNothing is left of Province House, the old home of the royal governors,\r\nin Boston, but the gilded Indian that served as its weathercock and aimed\r\nhis arrow at the winds from the cupola. The house itself was swept away\r\nlong ago in the so-called march of improvement. In one of its rooms hung\r\na picture so dark that when Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson went to live\r\nthere hardly anybody could say what it represented. There were hints that\r\nit was a portrait of the devil, painted at a witch-meeting near Salem,\r\nand that on the eve of disasters in the province a dreadful face had\r\nglared from the canvas. Shirley had seen it on the night of the fall of\r\nTiconderoga, and servants had gone shuddering from the room, certain that\r\nthey had caught the glance of a malignant eye.\r\n\r\nIt was known to the governors, however, that the portrait, if not that of\r\nthe arch fiend, was that of one who in the popular mind was none the less\r\na devil: Edward Randolph, the traitor, who had repealed the first\r\nprovincial charter and deprived the colonists of their liberties. Under\r\nthe curse of the people he grew pale and pinched and ugly, his face at\r\nlast becoming so hateful that men were unwilling to look at it. Then it\r\nwas that he sat for his portrait. Threescore or odd years afterward,\r\nHutchinson sat in the hall wondering vaguely if coming events would\r\nconsign him to the obloquy that had fallen on his predecessor, for at his\r\nbidding a fleet had come into the harbor with three regiments of red\r\ncoats on board, despatched from Halifax to overawe the city. The coming\r\nof the selectmen to protest against quartering these troops on the people\r\nand the substitution of martial for civic law, interrupted his reverie,\r\nand a warm debate arose. At last the governor seized his pen impatiently,\r\nand cried, “The king is my master and England is my home. Upheld by them,\r\nI defy the rabble.”\r\n\r\nHe was about to sign the order for bringing in the troops when a curtain\r\nthat had hung before the picture was drawn aside. Hutchinson stared at\r\nthe canvas in amazement, then muttered, “It is Randolph's spirit! It\r\nwears the look of hell.” The picture was seen to be that of a man in\r\nantique garb, with a despairing, hunted, yet evil expression in the face,\r\nand seemed to stare at Hutchinson.\r\n\r\n“It is a warning,” said one of the company.\r\n\r\nHutchinson recovered himself with an effort and turned away. “It is a\r\ntrick,” he cried; and bending over the paper he fixed his name, as if in\r\ndesperate haste. Then he trembled, turned white, and wiped a sweat from\r\nhis brow. The selectmen departed in silence but in anger, and those who\r\nsaw Hutchinson on the streets next day affirmed that the portrait had\r\nstepped out of its canvas and stood at his side through the night.\r\nAfterward, as he lay on his death-bed, he cried that the blood of the\r\nBoston massacre was filling his throat, and as his soul passed from him\r\nhis face, in its agony and rage, was the face of Edward Randolph.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE\r\n\r\nLady Eleanore Rochcliffe, being orphaned, was admitted to the family of\r\nher distant relative, Governor Shute, of Massachusetts Bay, and came to\r\nAmerica to take her home with him. She arrived at the gates of Province\r\nHouse, in Boston, in the governor's splendid coach, with outriders and\r\nguards, and as the governor went to receive her, a pale young man, with\r\ntangled hair, sprang from the crowd and fell in the dust at her feet,\r\noffering himself as a footstool for her to tread upon. Her proud face\r\nlighted with a smile of scorn, and she put out her hand to stay the\r\ngovernor, who was in the act of striking the fellow with his cane.\r\n\r\n“Do not strike him,” she said. “When men seek to be trampled, it is a\r\nfavor they deserve.”\r\n\r\nFor a moment she bore her weight on the prostrate form, “emblem of\r\naristocracy trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of nature,” and\r\nas she stood there the bell on South Church began to toll for a funeral\r\nthat was passing at the moment. The crowd started; some looked annoyed;\r\nLady Eleanore remained calm and walked in stately fashion up the passage\r\non the arm of His Excellency. “Who was that insolent fellow?” was asked\r\nof Dr. Clarke, the governor's physician.\r\n\r\n“Gervase Helwyse,” replied the doctor; “a youth of no fortune, but of\r\ngood mind until he met this lady in London, when he fell in love with\r\nher, and her pride and scorn have crazed him.”\r\n\r\nA few nights after a ball was given in honor of the governor's ward, and\r\nProvince House was filled with the elect of the city. Commanding in\r\nfigure, beautiful in face, richly dressed and jewelled, the Lady Eleanore\r\nwas the admired of the whole assembly, and the women were especially\r\ncurious to see her mantle, for a rumor went out that it had been made by\r\na dying girl, and had the magic power of giving new beauty to the wearer\r\nevery time it was put on. While the guests were taking refreshment, a\r\nyoung man stole into the room with a silver goblet, and this he offered\r\non his knee to Lady Eleanore. As she looked down she recognized the face\r\nof Helwyse.\r\n\r\n“Drink of this sacramental wine,” he said, eagerly, “and pass it among\r\nthe guests.”\r\n\r\n“Perhaps it is poisoned,” whispered a man, and in another moment the\r\nliquor was overturned, and Helwyse was roughly dragged away.\r\n\r\n“Pray, gentlemen, do not hurt my poor admirer,” said the lady, in a tone\r\nof languor and condescension that was unusual to her. Breaking from his\r\ncaptives, Helwyse ran back and begged her to cast her mantle into the\r\nfire. She replied by throwing a fold of it above her head and smiling as\r\nshe said, “Farewell. Remember me as you see me now.”\r\n\r\nHelwyse shook his head sadly and submitted to be led away. The weariness\r\nin Eleanore's manner increased; a flush was burning on her cheek; her\r\nlaugh had grown infrequent. Dr. Clarke whispered something in the\r\ngovernor's ear that made that gentleman start and look alarmed. It was\r\nannounced that an unforeseen circumstance made it necessary to close the\r\nfestival at once, and the company went home. A few days after the city\r\nwas thrown into a panic by an outbreak of small-pox, a disease that in\r\nthose times could not be prevented nor often cured, and that gathered its\r\nvictims by thousands. Graves were dug in rows, and every night the earth\r\nwas piled hastily on fresh corpses. Before all infected houses hung a red\r\nflag of warning, and Province House was the first to show it, for the\r\nplague had come to town in Lady Eleanore's mantle. The people cursed her\r\npride and pointed to the flags as her triumphal banners. The pestilence\r\nwas at its height when Gervase Helwyse appeared in Province House. There\r\nwere none to stay him now, and he climbed the stairs, peering from room\r\nto room, until he entered a darkened chamber, where something stirred\r\nfeebly under a silken coverlet and a faint voice begged for water.\r\nHelwyse tore apart the curtains and exclaimed, “Fie! What does such a\r\nthing as you in Lady Eleanore's apartment?”\r\n\r\nThe figure on the bed tried to hide its hideous face. “Do not look on\r\nme,” it cried. “I am cursed for my pride that I wrapped about me as a\r\nmantle. You are avenged. I am Eleanore Rochcliffe.”\r\n\r\nThe lunatic stared for a moment, then the house echoed with his laughter.\r\nThe deadly mantle lay on a chair. He snatched it up, and waving also the\r\nred flag of the pestilence ran into the street. In a short time an effigy\r\nwrapped in the mantle was borne to Province House and set on fire by a\r\nmob. From that hour the pest abated and soon disappeared, though graves\r\nand scars made a bitter memory of it for many a year. Unhappiest of all\r\nwas the disfigured creature who wandered amid the shadows of Province\r\nHouse, never showing her face, unloved, avoided, lonely.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHOWE'S MASQUERADE\r\n\r\nDuring the siege of Boston Sir William Howe undertook to show his\r\ncontempt for the raw fellows who were disrespectfully tossing\r\ncannon-balls at him from the batteries in Cambridge and South Boston, by\r\ngiving a masquerade. It was a brilliant affair, the belles and blades of\r\nthe loyalist set being present, some in the garb of their ancestors, for\r\nthe past is ever more picturesque than the present, and a few roisterers\r\ncaricaturing the American generals in ragged clothes, false noses, and\r\nabsurd wigs. At the height of the merriment a sound of a dirge echoing\r\nthrough the streets caused the dance to stop. The funeral music paused\r\nbefore the doors of Province House, where the dance was going on, and\r\nthey were flung open. Muffled drums marked time for a company that began\r\nto file down the great stair from the floor above the ball-room: dark men\r\nin steeple-hats and pointed beards, with Bibles, swords, and scrolls, who\r\nlooked sternly at the guests and descended to the street.\r\n\r\nColonel Joliffe, a Whig, whose age and infirmity had prevented him from\r\njoining Washington, and whose courtesy and intelligence had made him\r\nrespected by his foes, acted as chorus: “These I take to be the Puritan\r\ngovernors of Massachusetts: Endicott, Winthrop, Vane, Dudley, Haynes,\r\nBellingham, Leverett, Bradstreet.” Then came a rude soldier, mailed,\r\nbegirt with arms: the tyrant Andros; a brown-faced man with a sailor's\r\ngait: Sir William Phipps; a courtier wigged and jewelled: Earl Bellomont;\r\nthe crafty, well-mannered Dudley; the twinkling, red-nosed Shute; the\r\nponderous Burnet; the gouty Belcher; Shirley, Pownall, Bernard,\r\nHutchinson; then a soldier, whose cocked hat he held before his face.\r\n“'Tis the shape of Gage!” cried an officer, turning pale. The lights were\r\ndull and an uncomfortable silence had fallen on the company. Last, came a\r\ntall man muffled in a military cloak, and as he paused on the landing the\r\nguests looked from him to their host in amazement, for it was the figure\r\nof Howe himself. The governor's patience was at an end, for this was a\r\npart of the masquerade that had not been looked for. He fiercely cried to\r\nJoliffe, “There is a plot in this. Your head has stood too long on a\r\ntraitor's shoulders.”\r\n\r\n“Make haste to cut it off, then,” was the reply, “for the power of Sir\r\nWilliam Howe and of the king, his master, is at an end. These shadows are\r\nmourners at his funeral. Look! The last of the governors.”\r\n\r\nHowe rushed with drawn sword on the figure of himself, when it turned and\r\nlooked at him. The blade clanged to the floor and Howe fell back with a\r\ngasp of horror, for the face was his own. Hand nor voice was raised to\r\nstay the double-goer as it mournfully passed on. At the threshold it\r\nstamped its foot and shook its fists in air; then the door closed.\r\nMingled with the strains of the funeral march, as it died along the empty\r\nstreets, came the tolling of the bell on South Church steeple, striking\r\nthe hour of midnight. The festivities were at an end and, oppressed by a\r\nnameless fear, the spectators of this strange pageant made ready for\r\ndeparture; but before they left the booming of cannon at the southward\r\nannounced that Washington had advanced. The glories of Province House\r\nwere over. When the last of the royal governors left it he paused on the\r\nthreshold, beat his foot on the stone, and flung up his hands in an\r\nattitude of grief and rage.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOLD ESTHER DUDLEY\r\n\r\nBoston had surrendered. Washington was advancing from the heights where\r\nhe had trained his guns on the British works, and Sir William Howe\r\nlingered at the door of Province House,--last of the royal governors who\r\nwould stand there,--and cursed and waved his hands and beat his heel on\r\nthe step, as if he were crushing rebellion by that act. The sound brought\r\nan old woman to his side. “Esther Dudley!” he exclaimed. “Why are you not\r\ngone?”\r\n\r\n“I shall never leave. As housekeeper for the governors and pensioner of\r\nthe king, this has been my home; the only home I know. Go back, but send\r\nmore troops. I will keep the house till you return.”\r\n\r\n“Grant that I may return,” he cried. “Since you will stay, take this bag\r\nof guineas and keep this key until a governor shall demand it.”\r\n\r\nThen, with fierce and moody brow, the governor went forth, and the faded\r\neyes of Esther Dudley saw him nevermore. When the soldiers of the\r\nrepublic cast about for quarters in Boston town, they spared the official\r\nmansion to this old woman. Her bridling toryism and assumption of old\r\nstate amused them and did no harm; indeed, her loyalty was half admired;\r\nbeside, nobody took the pride in the place that she did, or would keep it\r\nin better order. That she sometimes had a half-dozen of unrepentant\r\ncodgers in to dinner, and that they were suspected of drinking healths to\r\nGeorge III. in crusted port, was a fact to blink. Rumor had it that not\r\nall her guests were flesh and blood, but that she had an antique mirror\r\nacross which ancient occupants of the house would pass in shadowy\r\nprocession at her command, and that she was wont to have the Shirleys,\r\nOlivers, Hutchinsons, and Dudleys out of their graves to hold receptions\r\nthere; so a touch of dread may have mingled in the feeling that kept the\r\npopulace aloof.\r\n\r\nLiving thus by herself, refusing to hear of rebel victories, construing\r\nthe bonfires, drumming, hurrahs, and bell-ringing to signify fresh\r\ntriumphs for England, she drifted farther and farther out of her time and\r\nexisted in the shadows of the past. She lighted the windows for the\r\nking's birthday, and often from the cupola watched for a British fleet,\r\nheeding not the people below, who, as they saw her withered face,\r\nrepeated the prophecy, with a laugh “When the golden Indian on Province\r\nHouse shall shoot his arrow and the cock on South Church spire shall\r\ncrow, look for a royal governor again.” So, when it was bandied about the\r\nstreets that the governor was coming, she took it in no wise strange, but\r\ndressed herself in silk and hoops, with store of ancient jewels, and made\r\nready to receive him. In truth, there was a function, for already a man\r\nof stately mien, and richly dressed, was advancing through the court,\r\nwith a staff of men in wigs and laced coats behind him, and a company of\r\ntroops at a little distance. Esther Dudley flung the door wide and\r\ndropping on her knees held forth the key with the cry, “Thank heaven for\r\nthis hour! God save the king!”\r\n\r\nThe governor put off his hat and helped the woman to her feet. “A strange\r\nprayer,” said he; “yet we will echo it to this effect: For the good of\r\nthe realm that still owns him to be its ruler, God save King George.”\r\n\r\nEsther Dudley stared wildly. That face she remembered now,--the\r\nproscribed rebel, John Hancock; governor, not by royal grant, but by the\r\npeople's will.\r\n\r\n“Have I welcomed a traitor? Then let me die.”\r\n\r\n“Alas! Mistress Dudley, the world has changed for you in these later\r\nyears. America has no king.” He offered her his arm, and she clung to it\r\nfor a moment, then, sinking down, the great key, that she so long had\r\ntreasured, clanked to the floor.\r\n\r\n“I have been faithful unto death,” she gasped. “God save the king!”\r\n\r\nThe people uncovered, for she was dead.\r\n\r\n“At her tomb,” said Hancock, “we will bid farewell forever to the past. A\r\nnew day has come for us. In its broad light we will press onward.”\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LOSS OF JACOB HURD\r\n\r\nJacob Hurd, stern witch-harrier of Ipswich, can abide nothing out of the\r\nordinary course of things, whether it be flight on a broomstick or the\r\nwrong adding of figures; so his son gives him trouble, for he is an\r\nimaginative boy, who walks alone, talking to the birds, making rhymes,\r\npicking flowers, and dreaming. That he will never be a farmer, mechanic,\r\nor tradesman is as good as certain, and one day when the child runs in\r\nwith a story of a golden horse, with tail and mane of silver, on which he\r\nhas ridden over land and sea, climbing mountains and swimming rivers, he\r\nturns pale with fright lest the boy be bewitched; then, as the awfulness\r\nof the invention becomes manifest, he cries, “Thou knowest thou art\r\nlying,” and strikes the little fellow.\r\n\r\nThe boy staggers into his mother's arms, and that night falls into a\r\nfever, in which he raves of his horse and the places he will see, while\r\nJacob sits by his side, too sore in heart for words, and he never leaves\r\nthe cot for food or sleep till the fever is burned out. Just before he\r\ncloses his eyes the child looks about him and says that he hears the\r\nhorse pawing in the road, and, either for dust or cloud or sun gleam, it\r\nseems for an instant as if the horse were there. The boy gives a cry of\r\njoy, then sinks upon his pillow, lifeless.\r\n\r\nSome time after this Jacob sets off one morning, while the stars are out,\r\nto see three witches hanged, but at evening his horse comes flying up the\r\nroad, splashed with blood and foam, and the neighbors know from that of\r\nJacob's death, for he is lying by the wayside with an Indian arrow in his\r\nheart and an axemark on his head. The wife runs to the door, and, though\r\nshe shakes with fear at its approach, she sees that in the sunset glow\r\nthe horse's sides have a shine like gold, and its mane and tail are\r\nsilver white. Now the animal is before the house, but the woman does not\r\nfaint or cry at the blood splash on the saddle, for--is it the dust-cloud\r\nthat takes that shape?--she sees on its back a boy with a shining face,\r\nwho throws a kiss at her,--her Paul. He, little poet, lives in spirit,\r\nand has found happiness.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HOBOMAK\r\n\r\nSuch was the Indian name of the site of Westboro, Massachusetts, and the\r\nneighboring pond was Hochomocko. The camp of the red men near the shore\r\nwas full of bustle one day, for their belle, Iano, was to marry the young\r\nchief, Sassacus. The feast was spread and all were ready to partake of\r\nit, when it was found that the bride was missing. One girl had seen her\r\nsteal into the wood with a roguish smile on her lip, and knew that she\r\nintended to play hide-and-seek with Sassacus before she should be\r\nproclaimed a wife, but the day wore on and she did not come. Among those\r\nwho were late in reaching camp was Wequoash, who brought a panther in\r\nthat he had slain on Boston Hill, and he bragged about his skill, as\r\nusual. There had been a time when he was a rival of the chief for the\r\nhand of Iano, and he showed surprise and concern at her continued\r\nabsence. The search went on for two days, and, at the end of that time,\r\nthe girl's body was taken from the lake.\r\n\r\nAt the funeral none groaned so piteously as Wequoash. Yet Sassacus felt\r\nhis loss so keenly that he fell into a sickness next day, and none was\r\nfound so constant in his ministrations as Wequoash; but all to no avail,\r\nfor within a week Sassacus, too, was dead. As the strongest and bravest\r\nremaining in the tribe, Wequoash became heir to his honors by election.\r\n\r\nA year later he sat moodily by the lakeside, when a flame burst up from\r\nthe water, and a canoe floated toward him that a mysterious agency\r\nimpelled him to enter. The boat sped toward the flame, that, at his\r\napproach, assumed Iano's form. He heard the water gurgle as he passed\r\nover the spot where the shape had glimmered, but there was no other sound\r\nor check. Next year this thing occurred again, and then the spirit spoke:\r\n“Only once more.”\r\n\r\nYet a third time his fate took him to the spot, and as the hour came on\r\nhe called his people to him: “This,” said he, “is my death-day. I have\r\ndone evil, and the time comes none too soon. Sassacus was your chief. I\r\nenvied him his happiness, and gave him poison when I nursed him. Worse\r\nthan that, I saw Iano in her canoe on her wedding-day. She had refused my\r\nhand. I entered my canoe and chased her over the water, in pretended\r\nsport, but in the middle of the lake I upset her birch and she was\r\ndrowned. See! she comes!”\r\n\r\nFor, as he spoke, the light danced up again, and the boat came,\r\nself-impelled, to the strand. Wequoash entered it, and with head bent\r\ndown was hurried away. Those on the shore saw the flame condense to a\r\nwoman's shape, and a voice issued from it: “It is my hour!” A blinding\r\nbolt of lightning fell, and at the appalling roar of thunder all hid\r\ntheir faces. When they looked up, boat and flame had vanished. Whenever,\r\nafterward, an Indian rowed across the place where the murderer had sunk,\r\nhe dropped a stone, and the monument that grew in that way can be seen on\r\nthe pond floor to this day.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBERKSHIRE TORIES\r\n\r\nThe tories of Berkshire, Massachusetts, were men who had been endeared to\r\nthe king by holding office under warrant from that sacred personage. They\r\nhave been gently dealt with by historians, but that is “overstrained\r\nmagnanimity which concentrates its charities and praises for defeated\r\nchampions of the wrong, and reserves its censures for triumphant\r\ndefenders of the right.” While the following incidents have been so well\r\navouched that they deserve to stand as history, their picturesqueness\r\njustifies renewed acquaintance.\r\n\r\nAmong the loyalists was Gideon Smith, of Stockbridge, who had helped\r\nBritish prisoners to escape, and had otherwise made himself so obnoxious\r\nthat he was forced for a time to withdraw and pass a season of penitence\r\nand meditation in a cavern near Lenox, that is called the Tories' Glen.\r\nHere he lay for weeks, none but his wife knowing where he was, but at his\r\nrequest she walked out every day with her children, leading them past his\r\ncave, where he fed on their faces with hungry eyes. They prattled on,\r\nnever dreaming that their father was but a few feet from them. Smith\r\nsurvived the war and lived to be on good terms with his old foes.\r\n\r\nIn Lenox lived a Tory, one of those respectable buffers to whom wealth\r\nand family had given immunity in the early years of the war, but who\r\nsorely tried the temper of his neighbors by damning everything American\r\nfrom Washington downward. At last they could endure his abuse no longer;\r\nhis example had affected other Anglomaniacs, and a committee waited on\r\nhim to tell him that he could either swear allegiance to the colonies or\r\nbe hanged. He said he would be hanged if he would swear, or words to that\r\neffect, and hanged he was, on a ready-made gallows in the street. He was\r\nlet down shortly, “brought around” with rum, and the oath was offered\r\nagain. He refused it. This had not been looked for. It had been taken for\r\ngranted that he would abjure his fealty to the king at the first\r\ntightening of the cord. A conference was held, and it was declared that\r\nretreat would be undignified and unsafe, so the Tory was swung up again,\r\nthis time with a yank that seemed to “mean business.” He hung for some\r\ntime, and when lowered gave no sign of life. There was some show of alarm\r\nat this, for nobody wanted to kill the old fellow, and every effort was\r\nmade to restore consciousness. At last the lungs heaved, the purple faded\r\nfrom his cheek, his eyes opened, and he gasped, “I'll swear.” With a\r\nshout of joy the company hurried him to the tavern, seated him before the\r\nfire, and put a glass of punch in his hand. He drank the punch to\r\nWashington's health, and after a time was heard to remark to himself,\r\n“It's a hard way to make Whigs, but it'll do it.”\r\n\r\nNathan Jackson, of Tyringham, was another Yankee who had seen fit to take\r\narms against his countrymen, and when captured he was charged with\r\ntreason and remanded for trial. The jail, in Great Barrington, was so\r\nlittle used in those days of sturdy virtue that it had become a mere\r\nshed, fit to hold nobody, and Jackson, after being locked into it, might\r\nhave walked out whenever he felt disposed; but escape, he thought, would\r\nhave been a confession of the wrongness of Tory principles, or of a fear\r\nto stand trial. He found life so monotonous, however, that he asked the\r\nsheriff to let him go out to work during the day, promising to sleep in\r\nhis cell, and such was his reputation for honesty that his request was\r\ngranted without a demur, the prisoner returning every night to be locked\r\nup. When the time approached for the court to meet in Springfield heavy\r\nharvesting had begun, and, as there was no other case from Berkshire\r\nCounty to present, the sheriff grumbled at the bother of taking his\r\nprisoner across fifty miles of rough country, but Jackson said that he\r\nwould make it all right by going alone. The sheriff was glad to be\r\nreleased from this duty, so off went the Tory to give himself up and be\r\ntried for his life. On the way he was overtaken by Mr. Edwards, of the\r\nExecutive Council, then about to meet in Boston, and without telling his\r\nown name or office, he learned the extraordinary errand of this lonely\r\npedestrian. Jackson was tried, admitted the charges against him, and was\r\nsentenced to death. While he awaited execution of the law upon him, the\r\ncouncil in Boston received petitions for clemency, and Mr. Edwards asked\r\nif there was none in favor of Nathan Jackson. There was none. Mr. Edwards\r\nrelated the circumstance of his meeting with the condemned man, and a\r\nmurmur of surprise and admiration went around the room. A despatch was\r\nsent to Springfield. When it reached there the prison door was flung open\r\nand Jackson walked forth free.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE REVENGE OF JOSIAH BREEZE\r\n\r\nTwo thousand Cape Cod fishermen had gone to join the colonial army, and\r\nin their absence the British ships had run in shore to land crews on\r\nmischievous errands. No man, woman, or child on the Cape but hated the\r\ntroops and sailors of King George, and would do anything to work them\r\nharm. When the Somerset was wrecked off Truro, in 1778, the crew were\r\nhelped ashore, 'tis true, but they were straightway marched to prison,\r\nand it was thought that no other frigate would venture near the shifting\r\ndunes where she had laid her skeleton, as many a good ship had done\r\nbefore and has done since. It was November, and ugly weather was shutting\r\nin, when a three-decker, that had been tacking off shore and that flew\r\nthe red flag, was seen to yaw wildly while reefing sail and drift toward\r\nland with a broken tiller. No warning signal was raised on the bluffs;\r\nnot a hand was stirred to rescue. Those who saw the accident watched with\r\nsullen satisfaction the on-coming of the vessel, nor did they cease to\r\nlook for disaster when the ship anchored and stowed sail.\r\n\r\nEzekiel and Josiah Breeze, father and son, stood at the door of their\r\ncottage and watched her peril until three lights twinkling faintly\r\nthrough the gray of driving snow were all that showed where the enemy\r\nlay, straining at her cables and tossing on a wrathful sea. They stood\r\nlong in silence, but at last the boy exclaimed, “I'm going to the ship.”\r\n\r\n“If you stir from here, you're no son of mine,” said Ezekiel.\r\n\r\n“But she's in danger, dad.”\r\n\r\n“As she oughter be. By mornin' she'll be strewed along the shore and not\r\na spar to mark where she's a-swingin' now.”\r\n\r\n“And the men?”\r\n\r\n“It's a jedgment, boy.”\r\n\r\nThe lad remembered how the sailors of the Ajax had come ashore to burn\r\nthe homes of peaceful fishermen and farmers; how women had been insulted;\r\nhow his friends and mates had been cut down at Long Island with British\r\nlead and steel; how, when he ran to warn away a red-faced fellow that was\r\nrobbing his garden, the man had struck him on the shoulder with a\r\ncutlass. He had sworn then to be revenged. But to let a host go down to\r\ndeath and never lift a helping hand--was that a fair revenge? “I've got\r\nto go, dad,” he burst forth. “Tomorrow morning there'll be five hundred\r\nfaces turned up on the beach, covered with ice and staring at the sky,\r\nand five hundred mothers in England will wonder when they're goin' to see\r\nthose faces again. If ever they looked at me the sight of 'em would never\r\ngo out of my eyes. I'd be harnted by 'em, awake and asleep. And to-morrow\r\nis Thanksgiving. I've got to go, dad, and I will.” So speaking, he rushed\r\naway and was swallowed in the gloom.\r\n\r\nThe man stared after him; then, with a revulsion of feeling, he cried,\r\n“You're right, 'Siah. I'll go with you.” But had he called in tones of\r\nthunder he would not have been heard in the roar of the wind and crash of\r\nthe surf. As he reached the shore he saw faintly on the phosphorescent\r\nfoam a something that climbed a hill of water; it was lost over its crest\r\nand reappeared on the wave beyond; it showed for a moment on the third\r\nwave, then it vanished in the night. “Josiah!” It was a long, querulous\r\ncry. No answer. In half an hour a thing rode by the watcher on the sands\r\nand fell with a crash beside him--a boat bottom up: his son's.\r\n\r\nNext day broke clear, with new snow on the ground. In his house at\r\nProvincetown, Captain Breeze was astir betimes, for his son Ezekiel, his\r\ngrandson Josiah, and all other relatives who were not at the front with\r\nWashington were coming for the family reunion. Plump turkeys were ready\r\nfor the roasting, great loaves of bread and cake stood beside the oven,\r\nredoubtable pies of pumpkin and apple filled the air with maddening\r\nodors. The people gathered and chattered around his cheery fire of the\r\ndamage that the storm had done, when Ezekiel stumbled in, his brown face\r\nhaggard, his lips working, and a tremor in his hands. He said, “Josiah!”\r\n in a thick voice, then leaned his arms against the chimney and pressed\r\nhis face upon them. Among fishermen whose lives are in daily peril the\r\nunderstanding of misfortune is quick, and the old man put his hand on the\r\nshoulder of his son and bent his head. The day of joy was become a day of\r\ngloom. As the news went out, the house began to fill with sympathizing\r\nfriends, and there was talking in low voices through the rooms, when a\r\ncry of surprise was heard outside. A ship, cased in tons of ice, was\r\nforging up the harbor, her decks swarming with blue jackets, some of whom\r\nwere beating off the frozen masses from lower spars and rigging. She\r\nfollowed the channel so steadily, it was plain to be seen that a wise\r\nhand was at her helm; her anchor ran out and she swung on the tide. “The\r\nAjax, as I'm a sinner!” exclaimed a sailor on shore. A boat put off from\r\nher, and people angrily collected at the wharf, with talk of getting out\r\ntheir guns, when a boyish figure arose in the stern, and was greeted with\r\na shout of surprise and welcome.\r\n\r\nThe boat touched the beach, Josiah Breeze leaped out of it, and in\r\nanother minute his father had him in a bear's embrace, making no attempt\r\nto stop the tears that welled out of his eyes. An officer had followed\r\nJosiah on shore, and going to the group he said, “That boy is one to be\r\nproud of. He put out in a sea that few men could face, to save an enemy's\r\nship and pilot it into the harbor. I could do no less than bring him\r\nback.” There was praise and laughter and clasping of hands, and when the\r\nThanksgiving dinner was placed, smoking, on the board, the commander of\r\nH. M. S. Ajax was among the jolliest of the guests at Captain Breeze's\r\ntable.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MAY-POLE OF MERRYMOUNT\r\n\r\nThe people of Merrymount--unsanctified in the eyes of their Puritan\r\nneighbors, for were they not Episcopals, who had pancakes at Shrovetide\r\nand wassail at Christmas?--were dancing about their May-pole one summer\r\nevening, for they tried to make it May throughout the year. Some were\r\nmasked like animals, and all were tricked with flowers and ribbons.\r\nWithin their circle, sharing in song and jest, were the lord and lady of\r\nthe revels, and an English clergyman waiting to join the pair in wedlock.\r\nLife, they sang, should be all jollity: away with care and duty; leave\r\nwisdom to the weak and old, and sanctity for fools. Watching the sport\r\nfrom a neighboring wood stood a band of frowning Puritans, and as the sun\r\nset they stalked forth and broke through the circle. All was dismay. The\r\nbells, the laughter, the song were silent, and some who had tasted\r\nPuritan wrath before shrewdly smelled the stocks. A Puritan of iron\r\nface--it was Endicott, who had cut the cross from the flag of\r\nEngland--warning aside the “priest of Baal,” proceeded to hack the pole\r\ndown with his sword. A few swinging blows, and down it sank, with its\r\nribbons and flowers.\r\n\r\n“So shall fall the pride of vain people; so shall come to grief the\r\npreachers of false religion,” quoth he. “Truss those fellows to the trees\r\nand give them half a dozen of blows apiece as token that we brook no\r\nungodly conduct and hostility to our liberties. And you, king and queen\r\nof the May, have you no better things to think about than fiddling and\r\ndancing? How if I punish you both?”\r\n\r\n“Had I the power I'd punish you for saying it,” answered the swain; “but,\r\nas I have not, I am compelled to ask that the girl go unharmed.”\r\n\r\n“Will you have it so, or will you share your lover's punishment?” asked\r\nEndicott.\r\n\r\n“I will take all upon myself,” said the woman.\r\n\r\nThe face of the governor softened. “Let the young fellow's hair be cut,\r\nin pumpkin-shell fashion,” he commanded; “then bring them to me but\r\ngently.”\r\n\r\nHe was obeyed, and as the couple came before him, hand in hand, he took a\r\nchain of roses from the fallen pole and cast it about their necks. And so\r\nthey were married. Love had softened rigor and all were better for the\r\nassertion of a common humanity. But the May-pole of Merrymount was never\r\nset up again. There were no more games and plays and dances, nor singing\r\nof worldly music. The town went to ruin, the merrymakers were scattered,\r\nand the gray sobriety of religion and toil fell on Pilgrim land again.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER\r\n\r\nWhen Charles River was lined with groves and marshes there lived in a\r\ncabin, near Brighton, Massachusetts, an ill-fed rascal named Tom Walker.\r\nThere was but one in the commonwealth who was more penurious, and that\r\nwas his wife. They squabbled over the spending of a penny and each\r\ngrudged food to the other. One day as Tom walked through the pine wood\r\nnear his place, by habit watching the ground--for even there a farthing\r\nmight be discovered--he prodded his stick into a skull, cloven deep by an\r\nIndian tomahawk. He kicked it, to shake the dirt off, when a gruff voice\r\nspake: “What are you doing in my grounds?” A swarthy fellow, with the\r\nface of a charcoal burner, sat on a stump, and Tom wondered that he had\r\nnot seen him as he approached.\r\n\r\nHe replied, “Your grounds! They belong to Deacon Peabody.”\r\n\r\n“Deacon Peabody be damned!” cried the black fellow; “as I think he will\r\nbe, anyhow, if he does not look after his own sins a little sharper and a\r\nlittle less curiously after his neighbors'. Look, if you want to see how\r\nhe is faring,” and, pointing to a tree, he called Tom to notice that the\r\ndeacon's name was written on the bark and that it was rotten at the core.\r\nTo his surprise, Tom found that nearly every tree had the name of some\r\nprominent man cut upon it.\r\n\r\n“Who are you?” he asked.\r\n\r\n“I go by different names in different places,” replied the dark one. “In\r\nsome countries I am the black miner; in some the wild huntsman; here I am\r\nthe black woodman. I am the patron of slave dealers and master of Salem\r\nwitches.”\r\n\r\n“I think you are the devil,” blurted Tom.\r\n\r\n“At your service,” replied his majesty.\r\n\r\nNow, Tom, having lived long with Mrs. Walker, had no fear of the devil,\r\nand he stopped to have a talk with him. The devil remarked, in a careless\r\ntone, that Captain Kidd had buried his treasure in that wood, under his\r\nmajesty's charge, and that whoever wished could find and keep it by\r\nmaking the usual concession. This Tom declined. He told his wife about\r\nit, however, and she was angry with him for not having closed the bargain\r\nat once, declaring that if he had not courage enough to add this treasure\r\nto their possessions she would not hesitate to do it. Tom showed no\r\ndisposition to check her. If she got the money he would try to get a\r\nshare of it, and if the devil took away his helpmate--well, there were\r\nthings that he had made his mind to endure, when he had to. True enough,\r\nthe woman started for the wood before sundown, with her spoons in her\r\napron. When Tom discovered that the spoons were gone he, too, set off,\r\nfor he wanted those back, anyway; but he did not overtake his wife. An\r\napron was found in a tree containing a dried liver and a withered heart,\r\nand near that place the earth had been trampled and strewn with handfuls\r\nof coarse hair that reminded Tom of the man that he had met in the woods.\r\n“Egad!” he muttered, “Old Nick must have had a tough time with her.” Half\r\nin gratitude and half in curiosity, Tom waited to speak to the dark man,\r\nand was next day rewarded by seeing that personage come through the wood\r\nwith an axe, whistling carelessly. Tom at once approached him on the\r\nsubject of the buried treasure--not the vanished wife, for her he no\r\nlonger regarded as a treasure.\r\n\r\nAfter some haggling the devil proposed that Tom should start a loan\r\noffice in Boston and use Kidd's money in exacting usury. This suited Tom,\r\nwho promised to screw four per cent. a month out of the unfortunates who\r\nmight ask his aid, and he was seen to start for town with a bag which his\r\nneighbors thought to hold his crop of starveling turnips, but which was\r\nreally a king's ransom in gold and jewels--the earnings of Captain Kidd\r\nin long years of honest piracy. It was in Governor Belcher's time, and\r\ncash was scarce. Merchants and professional men as well as the thriftless\r\nwent to Tom for money, and, as he always had it, his business grew until\r\nhe seemed to have a mortgage on half the men in Boston who were rich\r\nenough to be in debt. He even went so far as to move into a new house, to\r\nride in his own carriage, and to eat enough to keep body and soul\r\ntogether, for he did not want to give up his soul to the one who would\r\nclaim it just yet.\r\n\r\nThe most singular proof of his thrift--showing that he wanted to save\r\nsoul and money both--was shown in his joining the church and becoming a\r\nprayerful Christian. He kept a Bible in his pocket and another on his\r\ndesk, resolved to be prepared if a certain gentleman should call. He\r\nburied his old horse feet uppermost, for he was taught that on\r\nresurrection day the world would be turned upside down, and he was\r\nresolved, if his enemy appeared, to give him a run for it. While employed\r\none afternoon in the congenial task of foreclosing a mortgage his\r\ncreditor begged for another day to raise the money. Tom was irritable on\r\naccount of the hot weather and talked to him as a good man of the church\r\nought not to do.\r\n\r\n“You have made so much money out of me,” wailed the victim of Tom's\r\nphilanthropies.\r\n\r\n“Now, the devil take me if I have made a farthing!” exclaimed Tom.\r\n\r\nAt that instant there were three knocks at the door, and, stepping out to\r\nsee who was there, the money lender found himself in presence of his\r\nfate. His little Bible was in a coat on a nail, and the bigger one was on\r\nhis desk. He was without defence. The evil one caught him up like a\r\nchild, had him on the back of his snorting steed in no time, and giving\r\nthe beast a cut he flew like the wind in the teeth of a rising storm\r\ntoward the marshes of Brighton. As he reached there a lightning flash\r\ndescended into the wood and set it on fire. At the same moment Tom's\r\nhouse was discovered to be in flames. When his effects were examined\r\nnothing was found in his strong boxes but cinders and shavings.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE GRAY CHAMPION\r\n\r\nIt befell Sir Edmund Andros to make himself the most hated of the\r\ngovernors sent to represent the king in New England. A spirit of\r\nindependence, born of a free soil, was already moving in the people's\r\nhearts, and the harsh edicts of this officer, as well as the oppressive\r\nmeasures of his master, brought him into continual conflict with the\r\npeople. He it was who went to Hartford to demand the surrender of the\r\nliberties of that colony. The lights were blown out and the patent of\r\nthose liberties was hurried away from under his nose and hidden from his\r\nreach in a hollow of the Charter Oak.\r\n\r\nIn Boston, too, he could call no American his friend, and it was there\r\nthat he met one of the first checks to his arrogance. It was an April\r\nevening in 1689, and there was an unusual stir in the streets. People\r\nwere talking in low tones, and one caught such phrases as, “If the Prince\r\nof Orange is successful, this Andros will lose his head.” “Our pastors\r\nare to be burned alive in King Street.” “The pope has ordered Andros to\r\ncelebrate the eve of St. Bartholomew in Boston: we are to be killed.”\r\n “Our old Governor Bradstreet is in town, and Andros fears him.” While\r\ntalk was running in this excited strain the sound of a drum was heard\r\ncoming through Cornhill. Now was seen a file of soldiers with guns on\r\nshoulder, matches twinkling in the falling twilight, and behind them, on\r\nhorseback, Andros and his councillors, including the priest of King's\r\nChapel, all wearing crucifixes at their throats, all flushed with wine,\r\nall looking down with indifference at the people in their dark cloaks and\r\nbroadbrimmed hats, who looked back at them with suspicion and hate. The\r\nsoldiers trod the streets like men unused to giving way, and the crowd\r\nfell back, pressed against the buildings. Groans and hisses were heard,\r\nand a voice sent up this cry, “Lord of Hosts, provide a champion for thy\r\npeople!”\r\n\r\nEre the echo of that call had ceased there came from the other end of the\r\nstreet, stepping as in time to the drum, an aged man, in cloak and\r\nsteeple hat, with heavy sword at his thigh. His port was that of a king,\r\nand his dignity was heightened by a snowy beard that fell to his waist.\r\nTaking the middle of the way he marched on until he was but a few paces\r\nfrom the advancing column. None knew him and he seemed to recognize none\r\namong the crowd. As he drew himself to his height, it seemed in the dusk\r\nas if he were of no mortal mould. His eye blazed, he thrust his staff\r\nbefore him, and in a voice of invincible command cried, “Halt!”\r\n\r\nHalf because it was habit to obey the word, half because they were cowed\r\nby the majestic presence, the guard stood still and the drum was\r\nsilenced. Andros spurred forward, but even he made a pause when he saw\r\nthe staff levelled at his breast. “Forward!” he blustered. “Trample the\r\ndotard into the street. How dare you stop the king's governor?”\r\n\r\n“I have stayed the march of a king himself,” was the answer. “The king\r\nyou serve no longer sits on the throne of England. To-morrow you will be\r\na prisoner. Back, lest you reach the scaffold!”\r\n\r\nA moment of hesitation on Andros's part encouraged the people to press\r\ncloser, and many of them took no pains to hide the swords and pistols\r\nthat were girt upon them. The groans and hisses sounded louder. “Down\r\nwith Andros! Death to tyrants! A curse on King James!” came from among\r\nthe throng, and some of them stooped as if to tear up the pavings.\r\nDoubtful, yet overawed, the governor wheeled about and gloomily marched\r\nback through the streets where he had ridden so arrogantly. In truth, his\r\nnext night was spent in prison, for James had fled from England, and\r\nWilliam held the throne. All eyes being on the retreating company, the\r\nchampion of the people was not seen to depart, but when they turned to\r\npraise and thank him he had vanished, and there were those who said that\r\nhe had melted into twilight.\r\n\r\nThe incident had passed into legend, and fourscore years had followed it,\r\nwhen the soldiers of another king of England marched down State Street,\r\nand fired on the people of Boston who were gathered below the old State\r\nHouse. Again it was said that the form of a tall, white-bearded man in\r\nantique garb was seen in that street, warning back the troops and\r\nencouraging the people to resist them. On the little field of Lexington\r\nin early dawn, and at the breastwork on Bunker Hill, where farmers worked\r\nby lantern-light, this dark form was seen--the spirit of New England. And\r\nit is told that whenever any foreign foe or domestic oppressor shall dare\r\nthe temper of the people, in the van of the resisting army shall be found\r\nthis champion.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE FOREST SMITHY\r\n\r\nEarly in this century a man named Ainsley appeared at Holyoke,\r\nMassachusetts, and set up a forge in a wood at the edge of the village,\r\nwith a two-room cottage to live in. A Yankee peddler once put up at his\r\nplace for shelter from a storm, and as the rain increased with every hour\r\nhe begged to remain in the house over night, promising to pay for his\r\naccommodation in the morning. The blacksmith, who seemed a mild,\r\nconsiderate man, said that he was willing, but that, as the rooms were\r\nsmall, it would be well to refer the matter to his wife. As the peddler\r\nentered the house the wife--a weary-looking woman with white hair--seated\r\nherself at once in a thickly-cushioned arm-chair, and, as if loath to\r\nleave it, told the peddler that if he would put up with simple fare and a\r\nnarrow berth he was welcome. After a candle had been lighted the three\r\nsat together for some time, talking of crops and trade, when there came a\r\nrush of hoofs without and a hard-looking man, who had dismounted at the\r\ndoor, entered without knocking. The blacksmith turned pale and the wife's\r\nface expressed sore anxiety.\r\n\r\n“What brings you here?” asked the smith.\r\n\r\n“I must pass the night here,” answered the man.\r\n\r\n“But, stranger, I can't accommodate you. We have but one spare room, and\r\nthat has been taken by the man who is sitting there.”\r\n\r\n“Then give me a bit to eat.”\r\n\r\n“Get the stranger something,” said the woman to her husband, without\r\nrising.\r\n\r\n“Are you lame, that you don't get it yourself?”\r\n\r\nThe woman paused; then said, “Husband, you are tired. Sit here and I will\r\nwait on the stranger.”\r\n\r\nThe blacksmith took the seat, when the stranger again blustered, “It\r\nwould be courtesy to offer me that chair, tired as I am. Perhaps you\r\ndon't know that I am an officer of the law?”\r\n\r\nWhen supper was ready they took their places, the woman drawing up the\r\narm-chair for her own use, but, as the custom was, they all knelt to say\r\ngrace, and while their faces were buried in their hands the candle was\r\nblown out. The stranger jumped up and began walking around the room. When\r\na light could be found he had gone and the cushion had disappeared from\r\nthe chair. “Oh! After all these years!” wailed the woman, and falling on\r\nher knees she sobbed like a child, while her husband in vain tried to\r\ncomfort her. The peddler, who had already gone to bed, but who had seen a\r\npart of this puzzling drama through the open door, knew not what to do,\r\nbut, feeling some concern for the safety of his own possessions, he drew\r\nhis pack into bed with him, and, being tired, fell asleep with the sobs\r\nof the woman sounding in his ears.\r\n\r\nWhen he awoke it was broad day and the earth was fresh and bright from\r\nits bath. After dressing he passed into the other room, finding the table\r\nstill set, the chair before it without its cushion, the fire out, and\r\nnobody in or about the house. The smithy was deserted, and to his call\r\nthere was no response but the chattering of jays in the trees; so,\r\nshouldering his pack, he resumed his journey. He opened his pack at a\r\nfarm-house to repair a clock, when he discovered that his watches were\r\ngone, and immediately lodged complaint with the sheriff, but nothing was\r\never seen again of Ainsley, his wife, or the rough stranger. Who was the\r\nthief? What was in the cushion? And what brought the stranger to the\r\nhouse?\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nWAHCONAH FALLS\r\n\r\nThe pleasant valley of Dalton, in the Berkshire Hills, had been under the\r\nrule of Miacomo for forty years when a Mohawk dignitary of fifty scalps\r\nand fifty winters came a-wooing his daughter Wahconah. On a June day in\r\n1637, as the girl sat beside the cascade that bears her name, twining\r\nflowers in her hair and watching leaves float down the stream, she became\r\nconscious of a pair of eyes bent on her from a neighboring coppice, and\r\narose in some alarm. Finding himself discovered, the owner of the eyes, a\r\nhandsome young fellow, stepped forward with a quieting air of\r\nfriendliness, and exclaimed, “Hail, Bright Star!”\r\n\r\n“Hail, brother,” answered Wahconah.\r\n\r\n“I am Nessacus,” said the man, “one of King Philip's soldiers. Nessacus\r\nis tired with his flight from the Long Knives (the English), and his\r\npeople faint. Will Bright Star's people shut their lodges against him and\r\nhis friends?”\r\n\r\nThe maiden answered, “My father is absent, in council with the Mohawks,\r\nbut his wigwams are always open. Follow.”\r\n\r\nNessacus gave a signal, and forth from the wood came a sad-eyed,\r\nbattle-worn troop that mustered about him. Under the girl's lead they\r\nwent down to the valley and were hospitably housed. Five days later\r\nMiacomo returned, with him the elderly Mohawk lover, and a priest,\r\nTashmu, of repute a cringing schemer, with whom hunters and soldiers\r\ncould have nothing in common, and whom they would gladly have put out of\r\nthe way had they not been deterred by superstitious fears. The strangers\r\nwere welcomed, though Tashmu looked at them gloomily, and there were\r\ngames in their honor, Nessacus usually proving the winner, to Wahconah's\r\njoy, for she and the young warrior had fallen in love at first sight, and\r\nit was not long before he asked her father for her hand. Miacomo favored\r\nthe suit, but the priest advised him, for politic reasons, to give the\r\ngirl to the old Mohawk, and thereby cement a tribal friendship that in\r\nthose days of English aggression might be needful. The Mohawk had three\r\nwives already, but he was determined to add Wahconah to his collection,\r\nand he did his best, with threats and flattery, to enforce his suit.\r\nNessacus offered to decide the matter in a duel with his rival, and the\r\nchallenge was accepted, but the wily Tashmu discovered in voices of wind\r\nand thunder, flight of birds and shape of clouds, such omens that the\r\nscared Indians unanimously forbade a resort to arms. “Let the Great\r\nSpirit speak,” cried Tashmu, and all yielded their consent.\r\n\r\nInvoking a ban on any who should follow, Tashmu proclaimed that he would\r\npass that night in Wizard's Glen, where, by invocations, he would learn\r\nthe divine will. At sunset he stalked forth, but he had not gone far ere\r\nthe Mohawk joined him, and the twain proceeded to Wahconah Falls. There\r\nwas no time for magical hocus-pocus that night, for both of them toiled\r\nsorely in deepening a portion of the stream bed, so that the current ran\r\nmore swiftly and freely on that side, and in the morning Tashmu announced\r\nin what way the Great Spirit would show his choice. Assembling the tribe\r\non the river-bank, below a rock that midway split the current, a canoe,\r\nwith symbols painted on it, was set afloat near the falls. If it passed\r\nthe dividing rock on the side where Nessacus waited, he should have\r\nWahconah. If it swerved to the opposite shore, where the Mohawk and his\r\ncounsellor stood, the Great Spirit had chosen the old chief for her\r\nhusband. Of course, the Mohawk stood on the deeper side. On came the\r\nlittle boat, keeping the centre of the stream. It struck the rock, and\r\nall looked eagerly, though Tashmu and the Mohawk could hardly suppress an\r\nexultant smile. A little wave struck the canoe: it pivoted against the\r\nrock and drifted to the feet of Nessacus. A look of blank amazement came\r\nover the faces of the defeated wooer and his friend, while a shout of\r\ngladness went up, that the Great Spirit had decided so well. The young\r\ncouple were wed with rejoicings; the Mohawk trudged homeward, and, to the\r\ngeneral satisfaction, Tashmu disappeared with him. Later, when Tashmu was\r\nidentified as the one who had guided Major Talcott's soldiers to the\r\nvalley, the priest was caught and slain by Miacomo's men.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nKNOCKING AT THE TOMB\r\n\r\nKnock, knock, knock! The bell has just gone twelve, and there is the\r\nclang again upon the iron door of the tomb. The few people of Lanesboro\r\nwho are paying the penance of misdeeds or late suppers, by lying awake at\r\nthat dread hour, gather their blankets around their shoulders and mutter\r\na word of prayer for deliverance against unwholesome visitors of the\r\nnight. Why is the old Berkshire town so troubled? Who is it that lies\r\nburied in that tomb, with its ornament of Masonic symbols? Why was the\r\nheavy iron knocker placed on the door? The question is asked, but no one\r\nwill answer it, nor will any say who the woman is that so often visits\r\nthe cemetery at the stroke of midnight and sounds the call into the\r\nchamber of the dead. Starlight, moonlight, or storm--it makes no\r\ndifference to the woman. There she goes, in her black cloak, seen dim in\r\nthe night, except where there are snow and moon together, and there she\r\nwaits, her hand on the knocker, for the bell to strike to set up her\r\nclangor. Some say that she is crazy, and it is her freak to do this\r\nthing. Is she calling on the corpses to rise and have a dance among the\r\ngraves? or has she been asked to call the occupant of that house at a\r\ngiven hour? Perhaps, weary of life, she is asking for admittance to the\r\nrest and silence of the tomb. She has long been beneath the sod, this\r\ntroubler of dreams. Who knows her secret?\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WHITE DEER OF ONOTA\r\n\r\nBeside quiet Onota, in the Berkshire Hills, dwelt a band of Indians, and\r\nwhile they lived here a white deer often came to drink. So rare was the\r\nappearance of an animal like this that its visits were held as good\r\nomens, and no hunter of the tribe ever tried to slay it. A prophet of the\r\nrace had said, “So long as the white doe drinks at Onota, famine shall\r\nnot blight the Indian's harvest, nor pestilence come nigh his lodge, nor\r\nfoeman lay waste his country.” And this prophecy held true. That summer\r\nwhen the deer came with a fawn as white and graceful as herself, it was a\r\nyear of great abundance. On the outbreak of the French and Indian War a\r\nyoung officer named Montalbert was despatched to the Berkshire country to\r\npersuade the Housatonic Indians to declare hostility to the English, and\r\nit was as a guest in the village of Onota that he heard of the white\r\ndeer. Sundry adventurers had made valuable friendships by returning to\r\nthe French capital with riches and curiosities from the New World. Even\r\nIndians had been abducted as gifts for royalty, and this young ambassador\r\nresolved that when he returned to his own country the skin of the white\r\ndeer should be one of the trophies that would win him a smile from Louis.\r\n\r\nHe offered a price for it--a price that would have bought all their\r\npossessions and miles of the country roundabout, but their deer was\r\nsacred, and their refusal to sacrifice it was couched in such indignant\r\nterms that he wisely said no more about it in the general hearing. There\r\nwas in the village a drunken fellow, named Wondo, who had come to that\r\npass when he would almost have sold his soul for liquor, and him the\r\nofficer led away and plied with rum until he promised to bring the white\r\ndoe to him. The pretty beast was so familiar with men that she suffered\r\nWondo to catch her and lead her to Montalbert. Making sure that none was\r\nnear, the officer plunged his sword into her side and the innocent\r\ncreature fell. The snowy skin, now splashed with red, was quickly\r\nstripped off, concealed among the effects in Montalbert's outfit, and he\r\nset out for Canada; but he had not been many days on his road before\r\nWondo, in an access of misery and repentance, confessed to his share of\r\nthe crime that had been done and was slain on the moment.\r\n\r\nWith the death of the deer came an end to good fortune. Wars, blights,\r\nemigration followed, and in a few years not a wigwam was left standing\r\nbeside Onota.\r\n\r\nThere is a pendant to this legend, incident to the survival of the deer's\r\nwhite fawn. An English hunter, visiting the lake with dog and gun, was\r\nsurprised to see on its southern bank a white doe. The animal bent to\r\ndrink and at the same moment the hunter put his gun to his shoulder.\r\nSuddenly a howl was heard, so loud, so long, that the woods echoed it,\r\nand the deer, taking alarm, fled like the wind. The howl came from the\r\ndog, and, as that animal usually showed sagacity in the presence of game,\r\nthe hunter was seized with a fear that its form was occupied, for the\r\ntime, by a hag who lived alone in the “north woods,” and who was reputed\r\nto have appeared in many shapes--for this was not so long after witch\r\ntimes that their influence was forgotten.\r\n\r\nDrawing his ramrod, the man gave his dog such a beating that the poor\r\ncreature had something worth howling for, because it might be the witch\r\nthat he was thrashing. Then running to the shanty of the suspected woman\r\nhe flung open her door and demanded to see her back, for, if she had\r\nreally changed her shape, every blow that he had given to the dog would\r\nhave been scored on her skin. When he had made his meaning clear, the\r\ncrone laid hold on the implement that served her for horse at night, and\r\nwith the wooden end of it rained blows on him so rapidly that, if the dog\r\nhad had half the meanness in his nature that some people have, the\r\nspectacle would have warmed his heart, for it was a prompt and severe\r\nrevenge for his sufferings. And to the last the hunter could not decide\r\nwhether the beating that he received was prompted by indignation or\r\nvengeance.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nWIZARD'S GLEN\r\n\r\nFour miles from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, among the Berkshire Hills, is\r\na wild valley, noted for its echoes, that for a century and more has been\r\ncalled Wizard's Glen. Here the Indian priests performed their\r\nincantations, and on the red-stained Devil's Altar, it was said, they\r\noffered human sacrifice to Hobomocko and his demons of the wood. In\r\nBerkshire's early days a hunter, John Chamberlain, of Dalton, who had\r\nkilled a deer and was carrying it home on his shoulders, was overtaken on\r\nthe hills by a storm and took shelter from it in a cavernous recess in\r\nWizard's Glen. In spite of his fatigue he was unable to sleep, and while\r\nlying on the earth with open eyes he was amazed to see the wood bend\r\napart before him, disclosing a long aisle that was mysteriously lighted\r\nand that contained hundreds of capering forms. As his eyes grew\r\naccustomed to the faint light he made out tails and cloven feet on the\r\ndancing figures; and one tall form with wings, around whose head a wreath\r\nof lightning glittered, and who received the deference of the rest, he\r\nsurmised to be the devil himself. It was such a night and such a place as\r\nSatan and his imps commonly chose for high festivals.\r\n\r\nAs he lay watching them through the sheeted rain a tall and painted\r\nIndian leaped on Devil's Altar, fresh scalps dangling round his body in\r\nfestoons, and his eyes blazing with fierce command. In a brief\r\nincantation he summoned the shadow hordes around him. They came, with\r\ntorches that burned blue, and went around and around the rock singing a\r\nharsh chant, until, at a sign, an Indian girl was dragged in and flung on\r\nthe block of sacrifice. The figures rushed toward her with extended arms\r\nand weapons, and the terrified girl gave one cry that rang in the\r\nhunter's ears all his life after. The wizard raised his axe: the devils\r\nand vampires gathered to drink the blood and clutch the escaping soul,\r\nwhen in a lightning flash the girl's despairing glance fell on the face\r\nof Chamberlain. That look touched his manhood, and drawing forth his\r\nBible he held it toward the rabble while he cried aloud the name of God.\r\nThere was a crash of thunder. The light faded, the demons vanished, the\r\nstorm swept past, and peace settled on the hills.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBALANCED ROCK\r\n\r\nBalanced Rock, or Rolling Rock, near Pittsfield, Massachusetts, is a mass\r\nof limestone that was deposited where it stands by the great continental\r\nglacier during the ice age, and it weighs four hundred and eighty tons\r\n(estimated) in spite of its centuries of weathering. Here one of the\r\nAtotarhos, kings of the Six Nations, had his camp. He was a fierce man,\r\nwho ate and drank from bowls made of the skulls of enemies, and who, when\r\nhe received messages and petitions, wreathed himself from head to foot\r\nwith poison snakes. The son of this ferocious being inherited none of his\r\nwar-like tendencies; indeed, the lad was almost feminine in appearance,\r\nand on succeeding to power he applied himself to the cultivation of\r\npeaceful arts. Later historians have uttered a suspicion that he was a\r\nnatural son of Count Frontenac, but that does not suit with this legend.\r\n\r\nThe young Atotarho stood near Balanced Rock watching a number of big boys\r\nplay duff. In this game one stone is placed upon another and the players,\r\nstanding as far from it as they fancy they can throw, attempt to knock it\r\nout of place with other stones. The silence of Atotarho and his slender,\r\ngirlish look called forth rude remarks from the boys, who did not know\r\nhim, and who dared him to test his skill. The young chief came forward,\r\nand as he did so the jeers and laughter changed to cries of astonishment\r\nand fear, for at each step he grew in size until he towered above them, a\r\ngiant. Then they knew him, and fell down in dread, but he took no\r\nrevenge. Catching up great bowlders he tossed them around as easily as if\r\nthey had been beechnuts, and at last, lifting the balanced rock, he\r\nplaced it lightly where it stands to-day, gave them a caution against ill\r\nmanners and hasty judgments, and resumed his slender form. For many years\r\nafter, the old men of the tribe repeated this story and its lesson from\r\nthe top of Atotarho's duff.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSHONKEEK-MOONKEEK\r\n\r\nThis is the Mohegan name of the pretty lake in the Berkshires now called\r\nPontoosuc. Shonkeek was a boy, Moonkeek a girl, and they were cousins who\r\ngrew up as children commonly do, whether in house or wigwam: they roamed\r\nthe woods and hills together, filled their baskets with flowers and\r\nberries, and fell in love. But the marriage of cousins was forbidden in\r\nthe Mohegan polity, and when they reached an age in which they found\r\ncompanionship most delightful their rambles were interdicted and they\r\nwere even told to avoid each other. This had the usual effect, and they\r\nmet on islands in the lake at frequent intervals, to the torment of one\r\nNockawando, who wished to wed the girl himself, and who reported her\r\nconduct to her parents.\r\n\r\nThe lovers agreed, after this, to fly to an Eastern tribe into which they\r\nwould ask to be adopted, but they were pledged, if aught interfered with\r\ntheir escape, to meet beneath the lake. Nockawando interfered. On the\r\nnext night, as the unsuspecting Shonkeek was paddling over to the island\r\nwhere the maid awaited him, the jealous rival, rowing softly in his wake,\r\nsent an arrow into his back, and Shonkeek, without a cry, pitched\r\nheadlong into the water. Yet, to the eyes of Nockawando, he appeared to\r\nkeep his seat and urge his canoe forward. The girl saw the boat approach:\r\nit sped, now, like an eagle's flight. One look, as it passed the rock;\r\none glance at the murderer, crouching in his birchen vessel, and with her\r\nlover's name on her lips she leaped into her own canoe and pushed out\r\nfrom shore. Nockawando heard her raise the death-song and rowed forward\r\nas rapidly as he could, but near the middle of the lake his arm fell\r\npalsied.\r\n\r\nThe song had ended and the night had become strangely, horribly still.\r\nNot a chirp of cricket, not a lap of wave, not a rustle of leaf.\r\nMotionless the girl awaited, for his boat was still moving by the impetus\r\nof his last stroke of the paddle. The evening star was shining low on the\r\nhorizon, and as her figure loomed in the darkness the star shone through\r\nat the point where her eye had looked forth. It was no human creature\r\nthat sat there. Then came the dead man's boat. The two shadows rowed\r\nnoiselessly together, and as they disappeared in the mist that was now\r\nsettling on the landscape, an unearthly laugh rang over the lake; then\r\nall was still. When Nockawando reached the camp that night he was a\r\nraving maniac. The Indians never found the bodies of the pair, but they\r\nbelieved that while water remains in Pontoosuc its surface will be vexed\r\nby these journeys of the dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SALEM ALCHEMIST\r\n\r\nIn 1720 there lived in a turreted house at North and Essex Streets, in\r\nSalem, a silent, dark-visaged man,--a reputed chemist. He gathered\r\nsimples in the fields, and parcels and bottles came and went between him\r\nand learned doctors in Boston; but report went around that it was not\r\ndrugs alone that he worked with, nor medicines for passing ailments that\r\nhe distilled. The watchman, drowsily pacing the streets in the small\r\nhours, saw his shadow move athwart the furnace glare in his tower, and\r\nother shadows seemed at the moment to flit about it--shadows that could\r\nbe thrown by no tangible form, yet that had a grotesque likeness to the\r\nhuman kind. A clink of hammers and a hiss of steam were sometimes heard,\r\nand his neighbors devoutly hoped that if he secured the secret of the\r\nphilosopher's stone or the universal solvent, it would be honestly come\r\nby.\r\n\r\nBut it was neither gold nor the perilous strong water that he wanted. It\r\nwas life: the elixir that would dispel the chill and decrepitude of age,\r\nthat would bring back the youthful sparkle to the eye and set the pulses\r\nbounding. He explored the surrounding wilderness day after day; the\r\njuices of its trees and plants he compounded, night after night, long\r\nwithout avail. Not until after a thousand failures did he conceive that\r\nhe had secured the ingredients but they were many, they were perishable,\r\nthey must be distilled within five days, for fermentation and decay would\r\nset in if he delayed longer. Gathering the herbs and piling his floor\r\nwith fuel, he began his work, alone; the furnace glowed, the retorts\r\nbubbled, and through their long throats trickled drops--golden, ruddy,\r\nbrown, and crystal--that would be combined into that precious draught.\r\n\r\nAnd none too soon, for under the strain of anxiety he seemed to be aging\r\nfast. He took no sleep, except while sitting upright in his chair, for,\r\nshould he yield entirely to nature's appeal, his fire would die and his\r\nwork be spoiled. With heavy eyes and aching head he watched his furnace\r\nand listened to the constant drip, drip of the precious liquor. It was\r\nthe fourth day. He had knelt to stir his fire to more active burning. Its\r\nbrightness made him blink, its warmth was grateful, and he reclined\r\nbefore it, with elbow on the floor and head resting on his hand. How\r\ncheerily the logs hummed and crackled, yet how drowsily--how slow the\r\nhours were--how dull the watch! Lower, lower sank the head, and heavier\r\ngrew the eyes. At last he lay full length on the floor, and the long\r\nsleep of exhaustion had begun.\r\n\r\nHe was awakened by the sound of a bell. “The church bell!” he cried,\r\nstarting up. “And people going through the streets to meeting. How is\r\nthis? The sun is in the east! My God! I have been asleep! The furnace is\r\ncold. The elixir!” He hastily blended the essences that he had made,\r\nthough one or two ingredients were still lacking, and drank them off.\r\n“Faugh!” he exclaimed. “Still unfinished-perhaps spoiled. I must begin\r\nagain.” Taking his hat and coat he uttered a weary sigh and was about to\r\nopen the door when his cheek blenched with pain, sight seemed to leave\r\nhim, the cry for help that rose to his lips was stifled in a groan of\r\nanguish, a groping gesture brought a shelf of retorts and bottles to the\r\nfloor, and he fell writhing among their fragments. The elixir of life,\r\nunfinished, was an elixir of death.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nELIZA WHARTON\r\n\r\nUnder the name of Eliza Wharton for a brief time lived a woman whose name\r\nwas said to be Elizabeth Whitman. Little is known of her, and it is\r\nthought that she had gone among strangers to conceal disgrace. She died\r\nwithout telling her story. In 1788 she arrived at the Bell Tavern,\r\nDanvers, in company with a man, who, after seeing her properly bestowed,\r\ndrove away and never returned. A graceful, beautiful, well-bred woman,\r\nwith face overcast by a tender melancholy, she kept indoors with her\r\nbooks, her sewing, and a guitar, avoiding the gossip of the idle. She\r\nsaid that her husband was absent on a journey, and a letter addressed to\r\n“Mrs. Eliza Wharton” was to be seen on her table when she received\r\ncallers. Once a stranger paused at her door and read the name thereon. As\r\nhe passed on the woman groaned, “I am undone!” One good woman, seeing her\r\nneed of care and defiant of village prattling, took her to her home, and\r\nthere, after giving birth to a dead child, she passed away. Among her\r\neffects were letters full of pathetic appeal, and some verses, closing\r\nthus:\r\n\r\n     “O thou for whose dear sake I bear\r\n     A doom so dreadful, so severe,\r\n     May happy fates thy footsteps guide\r\n     And o'er thy peaceful home preside.\r\n     Nor let Eliza's early tomb\r\n     Infect thee with its baleful gloom.”\r\n\r\nA stone was raised above her grave, by whom it is not known, and this\r\ninscription was engraved thereon: “This humble stone, in memory of\r\nElizabeth Whitman, is inscribed by her weeping friends, to whom she\r\nendeared herself by uncommon tenderness and affection. Endowed with\r\nsuperior genius and acquirements, she was still more endeared by humility\r\nand benevolence. Let candor throw a veil over her frailties, for great\r\nwas her charity for others. She sustained the last painful scene far from\r\nevery friend, and exhibited an example of calm resignation. Her departure\r\nwas on the 25th of July, 1788, in the thirty-seventh year of her age, and\r\nthe tears of strangers watered her grave.”\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSALE OF THE SOUTHWICKS\r\n\r\nBitter were the persecutions endured by Quakers at the hands of the\r\nPuritans. They were flogged if they were restless in church, and flogged\r\nif they did not go to it. Their ears were slit and they were set in the\r\nstocks if they preached, and if any tender-hearted person gave them bed,\r\nbite, or sup, he, too, was liable to punishment. They were charged with\r\nthe awful offence of preaching false doctrine, and no matter how pure\r\ntheir lives might be, the stern Salemite would concede no good of them\r\nwhile their faith was different from his. They even suspected Cobbler\r\nKeezar of mischief when he declared that his magic lapstone which Agrippa\r\nhad torn from the tower at Nettesheim--gave him a vision of the time when\r\nmen would be as glad as nature, when the “snuffler of psalms” would sing\r\nfor joy, when priests and Quakers would talk together kindly, when\r\npillory and gallows should be gone. Poor Keezar! In ecstasy at that\r\nprospect he flung up his arms, and his lapstone rolled into the\r\nMerrimack. The tired mill-girls of Lowell still frequent the spot to seek\r\nsome dim vision of future comfort.\r\n\r\nIn contrast to the tales of habitual tyranny toward the Quakers is the\r\ntradition of the Southwicks. Lawrence and Cassandra, of that name, were\r\nbanished from Salem, in spite of their blameless lives, for they had\r\nembraced Quakerism. They died within three days of each other on Shelter\r\nIsland, but their son and daughter, Daniel and Provided, returned to\r\ntheir birthplace, and were incessantly fined for not going to church. At\r\nlast, having lost their property through seizures made to satisfy their\r\nfines, the General Court of Boston issued an order for their sale, as\r\nslaves, to any Englishman of Virginia or Barbadoes. Edward Butter was\r\nassigned to sell and take them to their master. The day arrived and Salem\r\nmarket-place was crowded with a throng of the curious. Provided Southwick\r\nmounted the block and Butter began to call for bids. While expatiating on\r\nthe aptness of the girl for field or house-service, the master of the\r\nBarbadoes ship on which Butter had engaged passage for himself and his\r\ntwo charges looked into her innocent face, and roared, in noble dudgeon,\r\n“If my ship were filled with silver, by God, I'd sink her in harbor\r\nrather than take away this child!” The multitude experienced a quick\r\nchange of feeling and applauded the sentiment. As the judges and officers\r\ntrudged away with gloomy faces, Provided Southwick descended from the\r\nauction-block, and brother and sister went forth into the town free and\r\nunharmed.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE COURTSHIP OF MYLES STANDISH\r\n\r\nMyles Standish, compact, hard-headed little captain of the Puritan guard\r\nat Plymouth, never knew the meaning of fear until he went a-courting\r\nPriscilla Mullins--or was she a Molines, as some say? He had fought white\r\nmen and red men and never reeked of danger in the doing it, but his\r\ncourage sank to his boots whenever this demure maiden glanced at him, as\r\nhe thought, with approval. Odd, too, for he had been married once, and\r\nRose was not so long dead that he had forgotten the ways and likings of\r\nwomen; but he made no progress in his suit, and finally chose John Alden\r\nto urge it for him. John--who divides with Mary Chilton the honor of\r\nbeing first to land on Plymouth Rock--was a well-favored lad of\r\ntwenty-two. Until he could build a house for himself he shared Standish's\r\ncottage and looked up to that worthy as a guardian, but it was a hard\r\ntask that was set for him now. He went to goodman Mullins with a slow\r\nstep and sober countenance and asked leave to plead his protector's\r\ncause. The father gave it, called his daughter in, and left them\r\ntogether; then, with noble faith to his mission, the young man begged the\r\nmaiden's hand for the captain, dwelling on his valor, strength, wisdom,\r\nhis military greatness, his certainty of promotion, his noble lineage,\r\nand all good attributes he could endow him with.\r\n\r\nPriscilla kept at her spinning while this harangue went on, but the drone\r\nof the wheel did not prevent her noting a sigh and a catch of the breath\r\nthat interrupted the discourse now and then. She flushed as she replied,\r\n“Why does not Captain Standish come to me himself? If I am worth the\r\nwinning I ought to be worth the wooing.”\r\n\r\nBut John Alden seemed not to notice the girl's confusion until, in a\r\npause in his eloquence, Priscilla bent her head a little, as if to mend a\r\nbreak in the flax, and said, “Prithee, John, why don't you speak for\r\nyourself?”\r\n\r\nThen a great light broke on the understanding of John Alden, and a great\r\nwarmth welled up in his heart, and--they were married. Myles\r\nStandish--well, some say that he walked in the wedding procession, while\r\none narrator holds that the sturdy Roundhead tramped away to the woods,\r\nwhere he sat for a day, hating himself, and that he never forgave his\r\nprotege nor the maiden who took advantage of leap year. However that may\r\nbe, the wedding was a happy one, and the Aldens of all America claim John\r\nand Priscilla for their ancestors.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMOTHER CREWE\r\n\r\nMother Crewe was of evil repute in Plymouth in the last century. It was\r\nsaid that she had taken pay for luring a girl into her old farm-house,\r\nwhere a man lay dead of small-pox, with intent to harm her beauty; she\r\nwas accused of blighting land and driving ships ashore with spells; in\r\nbrief, she was called a witch, and people, even those who affected to\r\nignore the craft of wizardry, were content to keep away from her. When\r\nthe Revolution ended, Southward Howland demanded Dame Crewe's house and\r\nacre, claiming under law of entail, though primogeniture had been little\r\nenforced in America, where there was room and to spare for all. But\r\nHowland was stubborn and the woman's house had good situation, so one day\r\nhe rode to her door and summoned her with a tap of his whip.\r\n\r\n“What do you here on my land?” said he.\r\n\r\n“I live on land that is my own. I cleared it, built my house here, and no\r\nother has claim to it.”\r\n\r\n“Then I lay claim. The place is mine. I shall tear your cabin down on\r\nFriday.”\r\n\r\n“On Friday they'll dig your grave on Burying Hill. I see the shadow\r\nclosing round you. You draw it in with every breath. Quick! Home and make\r\nyour peace!” The hag's withered face was touched with spots of red and\r\nher eyes glared in their sunken sockets.\r\n\r\n“Bandy no witch words with me, woman. On Friday I will return.” And he\r\nswung himself into his saddle. As he did so a black cat leaped on Mother\r\nCrewe's shoulder and stood there, squalling. The woman listened to its\r\ncries as if they were words. Her look of hate deepened. Raising her hand,\r\nshe cried, “Your day is near its end. Repent!”\r\n\r\n“Bah! You have heard what I have said. If on Friday you are not\r\nelsewhere, I'll tear the timbers down and bury you in the ruins.”\r\n\r\n“Enough!” cried the woman, her form straightening, her voice grown\r\nshrill. “My curse is on you here and hereafter. Die! Then go down to\r\nhell!”\r\n\r\nAs she said this the cat leaped from her shoulder to the flank of the\r\nhorse, spitting and clawing, and the frightened steed set off at a\r\nfurious pace. As he disappeared in the scrub oaks his master was seen\r\nvainly trying to stop him. The evening closed in with fog and chill, and\r\nbefore the light waned a man faring homeward came upon the corpse of\r\nSouthward Howland stretched along the ground.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAUNT RACHEL'S CURSE\r\n\r\nOn a headland near Plymouth lived “Aunt Rachel,” a reputed seer, who made\r\na scant livelihood by forecasting the future for such seagoing people as\r\nhad crossed her palm. The crew of a certain brig came to see her on the\r\nday before sailing, and she reproached one of the lads for keeping bad\r\ncompany. “Avast, there, granny,” interrupted another, who took the\r\nchiding to himself. “None of your slack, or I'll put a stopper on your\r\ngab.” The old woman sprang erect. Levelling her skinny finger at the man,\r\nshe screamed, “Moon cursers! You have set false beacons and wrecked ships\r\nfor plunder. It was your fathers and mothers who decoyed a brig to these\r\nsands and left me childless and a widow. He who rides the pale horse be\r\nyour guide, and you be of the number who follow him!”\r\n\r\nThat night old Rachel's house was burned, and she barely escaped with her\r\nlife, but when it was time for the brig to sail she took her place among\r\nthe townfolk who were to see it off. The owner of the brig tried to\r\nconsole her for the loss of the house. “I need it no longer,” she\r\nanswered, “for the narrow house will soon be mine, and you wretches\r\ncannot burn that. But you! Who will console you for the loss of your\r\nbrig?”\r\n\r\n“My brig is stanch. She has already passed the worst shoal in the bay.”\r\n\r\n“But she carries a curse. She cannot swim long.”\r\n\r\nAs each successive rock and bar was passed the old woman leaned forward,\r\nher hand shaking, her gray locks flying, her eyes starting, her lips\r\nmumbling maledictions, “like an evil spirit, chiding forth the storms as\r\nministers of vengeance.” The last shoal was passed, the merchant sighed\r\nwith relief at seeing the vessel now safely on her course, when the woman\r\nuttered a harsh cry, and raised her hand as if to command silence until\r\nsomething happened that she evidently expected. For this the onlookers\r\nhad not long to wait: the brig halted and trembled--her sails shook in\r\nthe wind, her crew were seen trying to free the cutter--then she careened\r\nand sank until only her mast-heads stood out of the water. Most of the\r\ncompany ran for boats and lines, and few saw Rachel pitch forward on the\r\nearth-dead, with a fierce smile of exultation on her face. The rescuers\r\ncame back with all the crew, save one--the man who had challenged the old\r\nwoman and revengefully burned her cabin. Rachel's body was buried where\r\nher house had stood, and the rock--before unknown--where the brig had\r\nbroken long bore the name of Rachel's Curse.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nNIX'S MATE\r\n\r\nThe black, pyramidal beacon, called Nix's Mate, is well known to\r\nyachtsmen, sailors, and excursionists in Boston harbor. It rises above a\r\nshoal,--all that is left of a fair, green island which long ago\r\ndisappeared in the sea. In 1636 it had an extent of twelve acres, and on\r\nits highest point was a gallows where pirates were hanged in chains. One\r\nnight cries were heard on board of a ship that lay at anchor a little way\r\noff shore, and when the watch put off, to see what might be amiss, the\r\ncaptain, named Nix, was found murdered in his bed. There was no direct\r\nevidence in the case, and no motive could be assigned for the deed,\r\nunless it was the expectancy of promotion on the part of the mate, in\r\ncase of his commander's death.\r\n\r\nIt was found, however, that this possibility gave significance to certain\r\nacts and sayings of that officer during the voyage, and on circumstantial\r\nevidence so slight as this he was convicted and sentenced to death. As he\r\nwas led to execution he swore that he was not guilty, as he had done\r\nbefore, and from the scaffold he cried aloud, “God, show that I am\r\ninnocent. Let this island sink and prove to these people that I have\r\nnever stained my hands with human blood.” Soon after the execution of his\r\nsentence it was noticed that the surf was going higher on the shore, that\r\ncertain rocks were no longer uncovered at low tide, and in time the\r\nisland wasted away. The colonists looked with awe on this manifestation\r\nand confessed that God had shown their wrong.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WILD MAN OF CAPE COD\r\n\r\nFor years after Bellamy's pirate ship was wrecked at Wellfleet, by false\r\npilotage on the part of one of his captives, a strange-looking man used\r\nto travel up and down the cape, who was believed to be one of the few\r\nsurvivors of that night of storm, and of the hanging that others\r\nunderwent after getting ashore. The pirates had money when the ship\r\nstruck; it was found in the pockets of a hundred drowned who were cast on\r\nthe beach, as well as among the sands of the cape, for coin was gathered\r\nthere long after. They supposed the stranger had his share, or more, and\r\nthat he secreted a quantity of specie near his cabin. After his death\r\ngold was found under his clothing in a girdle. He was often received at\r\nthe houses of the fishermen, both because the people were hospitable and\r\nbecause they feared harm if they refused to feed or shelter him; but if\r\nhis company grew wearisome he was exorcised by reading aloud a portion of\r\nthe Bible. When he heard the holy words he invariably departed.\r\n\r\nAnd it was said that fiends came to him at night, for in his room,\r\nwhether he appeared to sleep or wake, there were groans and blasphemy,\r\nuncanny words and sounds that stirred the hair of listeners on their\r\nscalps. The unhappy creature cried to be delivered from his tormenters\r\nand begged to be spared from seeing a rehearsal of the murders he had\r\ncommitted. For some time he was missed from his haunts, and it was\r\nthought that he had secured a ship and set to sea again; but a traveller\r\non the sands, while passing his cabin in the small hours, had heard a\r\nmore than usual commotion, and could distinguish the voice of the wild\r\nman raised in frantic appeal to somebody, or something; still, knowing\r\nthat it was his habit to cry out so, and having misgivings about\r\napproaching the house, the traveller only hurried past. A few neighbors\r\nwent to the lonely cabin and looked through the windows, which, as well\r\nas the doors, were locked on the inside. The wild man lay still and white\r\non the floor, with the furniture upset and pieces of gold clutched in his\r\nfingers and scattered about him. There were marks of claws about his\r\nneck.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nNEWBURY'S OLD ELM\r\n\r\nAmong the venerable relics of Newbury few are better known and more\r\nprized than the old elm. It is a stout tree, with a girth of twenty-four\r\nand a half feet, and is said to have been standing since 1713. In that\r\nyear it was planted by Richard Jacques, then a youthful rustic, who had a\r\nsweetheart, as all rustics have, and adored her as rustics and other men\r\nshould do. On one of his visits he stayed uncommonly late. It was nearly\r\nten o'clock when he set off for home. The town had been abed an hour or\r\nmore; the night was murky and oppressively still, and corpse-candles were\r\ndancing in the graveyard. Witch times had not been so far agone that he\r\nfelt comfortable, and, lest some sprite, bogie, troll, or goblin should\r\nwaylay him, he tore an elm branch from a tree that grew before his\r\nsweetheart's house, and flourished it as he walked. He reached home\r\nwithout experiencing any of the troubles that a superstitious fancy had\r\nconjured. As he was about to cast the branch away a comforting vision of\r\nhis loved one came into his mind, and he determined to plant the branch\r\nat his own door, that in the hours of their separation he might be\r\nreminded of her who dwelt beneath the parent tree. He did so. It rooted\r\nand grew, and when the youth and maid had long been married, their\r\nchildren and grandchildren sported beneath its branches.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSAMUEL SEWALL'S PROPHECY\r\n\r\nThe peace of Newbury is deemed to be permanently secured by the prophecy\r\nof Samuel Sewall, the young man who married the buxom daughter of\r\nMint-Master John Hull, and received, as wedding portion, her weight in\r\nfresh-coined pine-tree shillings. He afterward became notorious as one of\r\nthe witchcraft judges. The prophecy has not been countervailed, nor is it\r\nlikely to be, whether the conditions are kept or not. It runs in this\r\nwise:\r\n\r\n“As long as Plum island shall faithfully keep the commanded Post,\r\nNotwithstanding the hectoring words and hard blows of the proud and\r\nboisterous ocean; As long as any Salmon or Sturgeon shall swim in the\r\nstreams of Merrimack, or any Perch or Pickeril in Crane Pond; As long as\r\nthe Sea Fowl shall know the time of their coming, and not neglect\r\nseasonably to visit the places of their acquaintance; As long as any\r\nCattel shall be fed with Grass growing in the meadows which doe humbly\r\nbow themselves before Turkie Hill; As long as any Sheep shall walk upon\r\nOld town Hills, and shall from thence look pleasantly down upon the River\r\nParker and the fruitful Marishes lying beneath; As long as any free and\r\nharmless Doves shall find a White Oak or other Tree within the township\r\nto perch or feed, or build a careless Nest upon, and shall voluntarily\r\npresent themselves to perform the office of Gleaners after Barley\r\nHarvest; As long as Nature shall not grow old and dote, but shall\r\nconstantly remember to give the rows of Indian Corn their education by\r\nPairs; So long shall Christians be born there and being first made meet,\r\nshall from thence be translated to be made partakers of the Saints of\r\nLight.”\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SHRIEKING WOMAN\r\n\r\nDuring the latter part of the seventeenth century a Spanish ship, richly\r\nladen, was beset off Marblehead by English pirates, who killed every\r\nperson on board, at the time of the capture, except a beautiful English\r\nlady, a passenger on the ship, who was brought ashore at night and\r\nbrutally murdered at a ledge of rocks near Oakum Bay. As the fishermen\r\nwho lived near were absent in their boats, the women and children, who\r\nwere startled from their sleep by her piercing shrieks, dared not attempt\r\na rescue. Taking her a little way from shore in their boat, the pirates\r\nflung her into the sea, and as she came to the surface and clutched the\r\ngunwale they hewed at her hands with cutlasses. She was heard to cry,\r\n“Lord, save me! Mercy! O, Lord Jesus, save me!” Next day the people found\r\nher mangled body on the rocks, and, with bitter imprecations at the worse\r\nthan beasts that had done this wrong, they prepared it for burial. It was\r\ninterred where it was found, but, although it was committed to the earth\r\nwith Christian forms, for one hundred and fifty years the victim's cries\r\nand appeals were repeated, on each anniversary of the crime, with such\r\ndistinctness as to affright all who heard them--and most of the citizens\r\nof Marblehead claimed to be of that number.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAGNES SURRIAGE\r\n\r\nWhen, in 1742, Sir Henry Frankland, collector of the port of Boston, went\r\nto Marblehead to inquire into the smuggling that was pretty boldly\r\ncarried on, he put up at the Fountain Inn. As he entered that hostelry a\r\nbarefooted girl, of sixteen, who was scrubbing the floor, looked at him.\r\nThe young man was handsome, well dressed, gallant in bearing, while Agnes\r\nSurriage, maid of all work, was of good figure, beautiful face, and\r\nmodest demeanor. Sir Henry tossed out a coin, bidding her to buy shoes\r\nwith it, and passed to his room. But the image of Agnes rose constantly\r\nbefore him. He sought her company, found her of ready intelligence for\r\none unschooled, and shortly after this visit he obtained the consent of\r\nher parents--humble folk--to take this wild flower to the city and\r\ncultivate it.\r\n\r\nHe gave her such an education as the time and place afforded, dressed her\r\nwell, and behaved with kindness toward her, while she repaid this care\r\nwith the frank bestowal of her heart. The result was not foreseen--not\r\nintended--but they became as man and wife without having wedded. Colonial\r\nsociety was scandalized, yet the baronet loved the girl sincerely and\r\ncould not be persuaded to part from her. Having occasion to visit England\r\nhe took Agnes with him and introduced her as Lady Frankland, but the\r\nnature of their alliance had been made known to his relatives and they\r\nrefused to receive her. The thought of a permanent union with the girl\r\nhad not yet presented itself to the young man. An aristocrat could not\r\nmarry a commoner. A nobleman might destroy the honor of a girl for\r\namusement, but it was beneath his dignity to make reparation for the act.\r\n\r\nSir Henry was called to Portugal in 1755, and Agnes went with him. They\r\narrived inopportunely in one respect, though the sequel showed a blessing\r\nin the accident; for while they were sojourning in Lisbon the earthquake\r\noccurred that laid the city in ruins and killed sixty thousand people.\r\nSir Henry was in his carriage at the time and was buried beneath a\r\nfalling wall, but Agnes, who had hurried from her lodging at the first\r\nalarm, sped through the rocking streets in search of her lover. She found\r\nhim at last, and, instead of crying or fainting, she set to work to drag\r\naway the stones and timbers that were piled upon him. Had she been a\r\ndelicate creature, her lover's equal in birth, such as Frankland was used\r\nto dance with at the state balls, she could not have done this, but her\r\ndays of service at the inn had given her a strength that received fresh\r\naccessions from hope and love. In an hour she had liberated him, and,\r\ncarrying him to a place of safety, she cherished the spark of life until\r\nhealth returned. The nobleman had received sufficient proof of Agnes's\r\nlove and courage. He realized, at last, the superiority of worth to\r\nbirth. He gave his name, as he had already given his heart, to her, and\r\ntheir married life was happy.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE\r\n\r\nFlood, Fluid, or Floyd Ireson (in some chronicles his name is Benjamin)\r\nwas making for Marblehead in a furious gale, in the autumn of 1808, in\r\nthe schooner Betsy. Off Cape Cod he fell in with the schooner Active, of\r\nBeverly, in distress, for she had been disabled in the heavy sea and was\r\non her beam ends, at the mercy of the tempest. The master of the Active\r\nhailed Ireson and asked to be taken off, for his vessel could not last\r\nmuch longer, but the Betsy, after a parley, laid her course again\r\nhomeward, leaving the exhausted and despairing crew of the sinking vessel\r\nto shift as best they might. The Betsy had not been many hours in port\r\nbefore it was known that men were in peril in the bay, and two crews of\r\nvolunteers set off instantly to the rescue. But it was too late. The\r\nActive was at the bottom of the sea. The captain and three of his men\r\nwere saved, however, and their grave accusation against the Betsy's\r\nskipper was common talk in Marblehead ere many days.\r\n\r\nOn a moonlight night Flood Ireson was roused by knocking at his door. On\r\nopening it he was seized by a band of his townsmen, silently hustled to a\r\ndeserted spot, stripped, bound, and coated with tar and feathers. At\r\nbreak of day he was pitched into an old dory and dragged along the roads\r\nuntil the bottom of the boat dropped out, when he was mounted in a cart\r\nand the procession continued until Salem was reached. The selectmen of\r\nthat town turned back the company, and for a part of the way home the\r\ncart was drawn by a jeering crowd of fishwives. Ireson was released only\r\nwhen nature had been taxed to the limit of endurance. As his bonds were\r\ncut he said, quietly, “I thank you for my ride, gentlemen, but you will\r\nlive to regret it.”\r\n\r\nSome of the cooler heads among his fellows have believed the skipper\r\ninnocent and throw the blame for the abandonment of the sinking vessel on\r\nIreson's mutinous crew. There are others, the universal deniers, who\r\nbelieve that the whole thing is fiction. Those people refuse to believe\r\nin their own grandfathers. Ireson became moody and reckless after this\r\nadventure. He did not seem to think it worth the attempt to clear\r\nhimself. At times he seemed trying, by his aggressive acts and bitter\r\nspeeches, to tempt some hot-tempered townsman to kill him. He died after\r\na severe freezing, having been blown to sea--as some think by his own\r\nwill--in a smack.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHEARTBREAK HILL\r\n\r\nThe name of Heartbreak Hill pertains, in the earliest records of Ipswich,\r\nto an eminence in the middle of that town on which there was a large\r\nIndian settlement, called Agawam, before the white men settled there and\r\ndrove the inhabitants out. Ere the English colony had been firmly planted\r\na sailor straying ashore came among the simple natives of Agawam, and\r\nfinding their ways full of novelty he lived with them for a time. When he\r\nfound means to return to England he took with him the love of a maiden of\r\nthe tribe, but the girl herself he left behind, comforting her on his\r\ndeparture with an assurance that before many moons he would return.\r\nMonths went by and extended into years, and every day the girl climbed\r\nHeartbreak Hill to look seaward for some token of her lover. At last a\r\nship was seen trying to make harbor, with a furious gale running her\r\nclose to shore, where breakers were lashing the rocks and sand. The girl\r\nkept her station until the vessel, becoming unmanageable, was hurled\r\nagainst the shore and smashed into a thousand pieces. As its timbers went\r\ntossing away on the frothing billows a white, despairing face was lifted\r\nto hers for an instant; then it sank and was seen nevermore--her lover's\r\nface. The “dusky Ariadne” wasted fast from that day, and she lies buried\r\nbeside the ledge that was her watch-tower.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHARRY MAIN: THE TREASURE AND THE CATS\r\n\r\nIpswich had a very Old Harry in the person of Harry Main, a dark-souled\r\nbeing, who, after a career of piracy, smuggling, blasphemy, and\r\ndissipation, became a wrecker, and lured vessels to destruction with\r\nfalse lights. For his crimes he was sent, after death, to do penance on\r\nIpswich bar, where he had sent many a ship ashore, his doom being to\r\ntwine ropes of sand, though some believe it was to shovel back the sea.\r\nWhenever his rope broke he would roar with rage and anguish, so that he\r\nwas heard for miles, whereon the children would run to their trembling\r\nmothers and men would look troubled and shake their heads. After a good\r\nbit of cable had been coiled, Harry had a short respite that he enjoyed\r\non Plum Island, to the terror of the populace. When the tide and a gale\r\nare rising together people say, as they catch the sound of moaning from\r\nthe bar, “Old Harry's grumbling again.”\r\n\r\nNow, Harry Main--to say nothing of Captain Kidd--was believed to have\r\nburied his ill-gotten wealth in Ipswich, and one man dreamed for three\r\nsuccessive nights that it had been interred in a mill. Believing that a\r\nrevelation had been made to him he set off with spade, lantern, and\r\nBible, on the first murky night--for he wanted no partner in the\r\ndiscovery--and found a spot which he recognized as the one that had been\r\npictured to his sleeping senses. He set to work with alacrity and a\r\nshovel, and soon he unearthed a flat stone and an iron bar. He was about\r\nto pry up the stone when an army of black cats encircled the pit and\r\nglared into it with eyes of fire.\r\n\r\nThe poor man, in an access both of alarm and courage, whirled the bar\r\nabout his head and shouted “Scat!” The uncanny guards of the treasure\r\ndisappeared instanter, and at the same moment the digger found himself up\r\nto his middle in icy water that had poured into the hole as he spoke.\r\n\r\nThe moral is that you should never talk when you are hunting for\r\ntreasure. Wet, scared, and disheartened, the man crawled out and made\r\nhomeward, carrying with him, as proof of his adventure, a case of\r\ninfluenza and the iron bar. The latter trophy he fashioned into a latch,\r\nin which shape it still does service on one of the doors of Ipswich.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WESSAGUSCUS HANGING\r\n\r\nAmong the Puritans who settled in Wessaguscus, now Weymouth,\r\nMassachusetts, was a brash young fellow, of remarkable size and strength,\r\nwho, roaming the woods one day, came on a store of corn concealed in the\r\nground, in the fashion of the Indians. As anybody might have done, he\r\nfilled his hat from the granary and went his way. When the red man who\r\nhad dug the pit came back to it he saw that his cache had been levied on,\r\nand as the footprints showed the marauder to be an Englishman he went to\r\nthe colonists and demanded justice. The matter could have been settled by\r\ngiving a pennyworth of trinkets to the Indian, but, as the moral law had\r\nbeen broken, the Puritans deemed it right that the pilferer should\r\nsuffer.\r\n\r\nThey held a court and a proposition was made and seriously considered\r\nthat, as the culprit was young, hardy, and useful to the colony, his\r\nclothes should be stripped off and put on the body of a bedridden weaver,\r\nwho would be hanged in his stead in sight of the offended savages. Still,\r\nit was feared that if they learned the truth about that execution the\r\nIndians would learn a harmful lesson in deceit, and it was, therefore,\r\nresolved to punish the true offender. He, thinking they were in jest,\r\nsubmitted to be bound, though before doing so he could have “cleaned out”\r\n the court-room, and ere he was really aware of the purpose of his judges\r\nhe was kicking at vacancy.\r\n\r\nButler, in “Hudibras,” quotes the story, but makes the offence more\r\nserious--\r\n\r\n    “This precious brother, having slain,\r\n    In time of peace, an Indian,\r\n    Not out of malice, but mere zeal,\r\n    Because he was an infidel,\r\n    The mighty Tottipotimoy\r\n    Sent to our elders an envoy\r\n    Complaining sorely of the breach Of league.”\r\n\r\nBut the Puritans, having considered that the offender was a teacher and a\r\ncobbler,\r\n\r\n    “Resolved to spare him; yet, to do\r\n    The Indian Hoghan Moghan, too,\r\n    Impartial justice, in his stead did\r\n    Hang an old weaver that was bed-rid.”\r\n\r\nThe whole circumstance is cloudy, and the reader may accept either\r\nversion that touches his fancy.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE UNKNOWN CHAMPION\r\n\r\nThere was that in the very air of the New World that made the Pilgrims\r\nrevolt against priests and kings. The Revolution was long a-breeding\r\nbefore shots were fired at Lexington. Stout old Endicott, having\r\nconceived a dislike to the British flag because to his mind the cross was\r\na relic of popery, paraded his soldiers and with his sword ripped out the\r\noffending emblem in their presence. There was a faint cry of “Treason!”\r\n but he answered, “I will avouch the deed before God and man. Beat a\r\nflourish, drummer. Shout for the ensign of New England. Pope nor tyrant\r\nhath part in it now.” And a loud huzza of independence went forth.\r\n\r\nWith this sentiment confirmed among the people, it is not surprising that\r\nthe judges who had condemned a papist king--Charles I.--to the block\r\nshould find welcome in this land. For months at a time they lived in\r\ncellars and garrets in various parts of New England, their hiding-places\r\nkept secret from the royal sheriffs who were seeking them. For a time\r\nthey had shelter in a cave in West Rock, New Haven, and once in that town\r\nthey were crouching beneath the bridge that a pursuing party crossed in\r\nsearch of them. In Ipswich the house is pointed out where they were\r\nconcealed in the cellar, and the superstitious believed that, as a\r\npenalty for their regicidal decision, they are doomed to stay there,\r\ncrying vainly for deliverance.\r\n\r\nPhilip, the Narragansett chief, had declared war on the people of New\r\nEngland, and was waging it with a persistence and fury that spread terror\r\nthrough the country. It was a struggle against manifest destiny, such as\r\nmust needs be repeated whenever civilization comes to dispute a place in\r\nnew lands with savagery, and which has been continued, more and more\r\nfeebly, to our own day. The war was bloody, and for a long time the issue\r\nhung in the balance. At last the Indian king was driven westward. The\r\nNipmucks joined him in the Connecticut Valley, and he laid siege to the\r\nlonely settlements of Brookfield, Northfield, Deerfield, and Springfield,\r\nkilling, scalping, and burning without mercy. On the 1st of September,\r\n1675, he attacked Hadley while its people were at church, the war-yelp\r\ninterrupting a prayer of the pastor. All the men of the congregation\r\nsallied out with pikes and guns and engaged the foe, but so closely were\r\nthey pressed that a retreat was called, when suddenly there appeared\r\namong them a tall man, of venerable and commanding aspect, clad in\r\nleather, and armed with sword and gun.\r\n\r\nHis hair and beard were long and white, but his eye was dark and\r\nresolute, and his voice was strong. “Why sink your hearts?” he cried.\r\n“Fear ye that God will give you up to yonder heathen dogs? Follow me, and\r\nye shall see that this day there is a champion in Israel.”\r\n\r\nPosting half the force at his command to sustain the fight, he led the\r\nothers quickly by a detour to the rear of the Indians, on whom he fell\r\nwith such energy that the savages, believing themselves overtaken by\r\nreinforcements newly come, fled in confusion. When the victors returned\r\nto the village the unknown champion signed to the company to fall to\r\ntheir knees while he offered thanks and prayer. Then he was silent for a\r\nlittle, and when they looked up he was gone.\r\n\r\nThey believed him to be an angel sent for their deliverance, nor, till he\r\nhad gone to his account, did they know that their captain in that crisis\r\nwas Colonel William Goffe, one of the regicide judges, who, with his\r\nassociate Whalley, was hiding from the vengeance of the son of the king\r\nthey had rebelled against. After leaving their cave in New Haven, being\r\nin peril from beasts and human hunters, they went up the Connecticut\r\nValley to Hadley, where the clergyman of the place, Rev. John Russell,\r\ngave them shelter for fifteen years. Few were aware of their existence,\r\nand when Goffe, pale with seclusion from the light, appeared among the\r\npeople near whom he had long been living, it is no wonder that they\r\nregarded him with awe.\r\n\r\nWhalley died in the minister's house and was buried in a crypt outside of\r\nthe cellar-wall, while Goffe kept much abroad, stopping in many places\r\nand under various disguises until his death, which occurred soon after\r\nthat of his associate. He was buried in New Haven.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nGOODY COLE\r\n\r\nGoodwife Eunice Cole, of Hampton, Massachusetts, was so “vehemently\r\nsuspected to be a witch” that in 1680 she was thrown into jail with a\r\nchain on her leg. She had a mumbling habit, which was bad, and a wild\r\nlook, which was worse. The death of two calves had been charged to her\r\nsorceries, and she was believed to have raised the cyclone that sent a\r\nparty of merrymakers to the sea-bottom off the Isles of Shoals, for\r\ninsulting her that morning. Some said that she took the shapes of eagles,\r\ndogs, and cats, and that she had the aspect of an ape when she went\r\nthrough the mummeries that caused Goody Marston's child to die, yet while\r\nshe was in Ipswich jail a likeness of her was stumping about the\r\ngraveyard on the day when they buried the child. For such offences as\r\nthat of making bread ferment and give forth evil odors, that housekeepers\r\ncould only dispel by prayer, she was several times whipped and ducked by\r\nthe constable.\r\n\r\nAt last she lay under sentence of death, for Anna Dalton declared that\r\nher child had been changed in its cradle and that she hated and feared\r\nthe thing that had been left there. Her husband, Ezra, had pleaded with\r\nher in vain. “'Tis no child of mine,” she cried. “'Tis an imp. Don't you\r\nsee how old and shrewd it is? How wrinkled and ugly? It does not take my\r\nmilk: it is sucking my blood and wearing me to skin and bone.” Once, as\r\nshe sat brooding by the fire, she turned to her husband and said, “Rake\r\nthe coals out and put the child in them. Goody Cole will fly fast enough\r\nwhen she hears it screaming, and will come down chimney in the shape of\r\nan owl or a bat, and take the thing away. Then we shall have our little\r\none back.”\r\n\r\nGoodman Dalton sighed as he looked into the worn, scowling face of his\r\nwife; then, laying his hands on her head, he prayed to God that she might\r\nbe led out of the shadow and made to love her child again. As he prayed a\r\ngleam of sunset shone in at the window and made a halo around the face of\r\nthe smiling babe. Mistress Dalton looked at the little thing in doubt;\r\nthen a glow of recognition came into her eyes, and with a sob of joy she\r\ncaught the child to her breast, while Dalton embraced them both, deeply\r\nhappy, for his wife had recovered her reason. In the midst of tears and\r\nkisses the woman started with a faint cry: she remembered that a poor old\r\ncreature was about to expiate on the gallows a crime that had never been\r\ncommitted. She urged her husband to ride with all speed to justice Sewall\r\nand demand that Goody Cole be freed. This the goodman did, arriving at\r\nNewbury at ten o'clock at night, when the town had long been abed and\r\nasleep. By dint of alarms at the justice's door he brought forth that\r\nworthy in gown and night-cap, and, after the case had been explained to\r\nhim, he wrote an order for Mistress Cole's release.\r\n\r\nWith this paper in his hand Dalton rode at once to Ipswich, and when the\r\ncock crew in the dawning the victim of that horrible charge walked forth,\r\nwithout her manacles. Yet dark suspicion hung about the beldam to the\r\nlast, and she died, as she had lived, alone in the little cabin that\r\nstood near the site of the academy. Even after her demise the villagers\r\ncould with difficulty summon courage to enter her cot and give her\r\nburial. Her body was tumbled into a pit, hastily dug near her door, and a\r\nstake was driven through the heart to exorcise the powers of evil that\r\npossessed her in life.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nGENERAL MOULTON AND THE DEVIL\r\n\r\nJonathan Moulton, of Hampton, was a general of consequence in the\r\ncolonial wars, but a man not always trusted in other than military\r\nmatters. It was even hinted that his first wife died before her time, for\r\nhe quickly found consolation in his bereavement by marrying her\r\ncompanion. In the middle of the night the bride was awakened with a\r\nstart, for she felt a cold hand plucking at the wedding-ring that had\r\nbelonged to the buried Mrs. Moulton, and a voice whispered in her ear,\r\n“Give the dead her own.” With a scream of terror she leaped out of bed,\r\nawaking her husband and causing candles to be brought. The ring was gone.\r\n\r\nIt was long after this occurrence that the general sat musing at his\r\nfireside on the hardness of life in new countries and the difficulty of\r\ngetting wealth, for old Jonathan was fond of money, and the lack of it\r\ndistressed him worse than a conscience. “If only I could have gold\r\nenough,” he muttered, “I'd sell my soul for it.” Whiz! came something\r\ndown the chimney. The general was dazzled by a burst of sparks, from\r\nwhich stepped forth a lank personage in black velvet with clean ruffles\r\nand brave jewels. “Talk quick, general,” said the unknown, “for in\r\nfifteen minutes I must be fifteen miles away, in Portsmouth.” And picking\r\nup a live coal in his fingers he looked at his watch by its light. “Come.\r\nYou know me. Is it a bargain?”\r\n\r\nThe general was a little slow to recover his wits, but the word “bargain”\r\n put him on his mettle, and he began to think of advantageous terms. “What\r\nproof may there be that you can do your part in the compact?” he\r\ninquired. The unknown ran his fingers through his hair and a shower of\r\nguineas jingled on the floor. They were pretty warm, but Moulton, in his\r\neagerness, fell on hands and knees and gathered them to his breast.\r\n\r\n“Give me some liquor,” then demanded Satan, for of course he was no\r\nother, and filling a tankard with rum he lighted it with the candle,\r\nremarked, affably, “To our better acquaintance,” and tossed off the\r\nblazing dram at a gulp. “I will make you,” said he, “the richest man in\r\nthe province. Sign this paper and on the first day of every month I will\r\nfill your boots with gold; but if you try any tricks with me you will\r\nrepent it. For I know you, Jonathan. Sign.”\r\n\r\nMoulton hesitated. “Humph!” sneered his majesty. “You have put me to all\r\nthis trouble for nothing.” And he began to gather up the guineas that\r\nMoulton had placed on the table. This was more than the victim of his\r\nwiles could stand. He swallowed a mouthful of rum, seized a pen that was\r\nheld out to him, and trembled violently as a paper was placed before him;\r\nbut when he found that his name was to appear with some of the most\r\ndistinguished in the province his nerves grew steadier and he placed his\r\nautograph among those of the eminent company, with a few crooked\r\nembellishments and all the t's crossed. “Good!” exclaimed the devil, and\r\nwrapping his cloak about him he stepped into the fire and was up the\r\nchimney in a twinkling.\r\n\r\nShrewd Jonathan went out the next day and bought the biggest pair of\r\njack-boots he could find in Hampton. He hung them on the crane on the\r\nlast night of that and all the succeeding months so long as he lived, and\r\non the next morning they brimmed with coins. Moulton rolled in wealth.\r\nThe neighbors regarded his sudden prosperity with amazement, then with\r\nenvy, but afterward with suspicion. All the same, Jonathan was not\r\ngetting rich fast enough to suit himself.\r\n\r\nWhen the devil came to make a certain of his periodical payments he\r\npoured guineas down the chimney for half an hour without seeming to fill\r\nthe boots. Bushel after bushel of gold he emptied into those spacious\r\nmoney-bags without causing an overflow, and he finally descended to the\r\nfireplace to see why. Moulton had cut the soles from the boots and the\r\nfloor was knee-deep in money. With a grin at the general's smartness the\r\ndevil disappeared, but in a few minutes a smell of sulphur pervaded the\r\npremises and the house burst into flames. Moulton escaped in his shirt,\r\nand tore his hair as he saw the fire crawl, serpent-like, over the beams,\r\nand fantastic smoke-forms dance in the windows. Then a thought crossed\r\nhis mind and he grew calm: his gold, that was hidden in wainscot,\r\ncupboard, floor, and chest, would only melt and could be quarried out by\r\nthe hundred weight, so that he could be well-to-do again. Before the\r\nruins were cool he was delving amid the rubbish, but not an ounce of gold\r\ncould he discover. Every bit of his wealth had disappeared. It was not\r\nlong after that the general died, and to quiet some rumors of disturbance\r\nin the graveyard his coffin was dug up. It was empty.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SKELETON IN ARMOR\r\n\r\nThe skeleton of a man wearing a breastplate of brass, a belt made of\r\ntubes of the same metal, and lying near some copper arrow-heads, was\r\nexhumed at Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1834. The body had been\r\nartificially embalmed or else preserved by salts in the soil. His arms\r\nand armor suggest Phoenician origin, but the skeleton is thought to be\r\nthat of a Dane or Norwegian who spent the last winter of his life at\r\nNewport. He may have helped to carve the rock at West Newbury, or the\r\nbetter-known Dighton rock at Taunton River that is covered with\r\ninscriptions which the tides and frosts are fast effacing, and which have\r\nbeen construed into a record of Norse exploration and discovery, though\r\nsome will have it that the inevitable Captain Kidd cut the figures there\r\nto tell of buried treasure. The Indians have a legend of the arrival of\r\nwhite men in a “bird,” undoubtedly a ship, from which issued thunder and\r\nlightning. A battle ensued when the visitors landed, and the white men\r\nwrote the story of it on the rock. Certain scholars of the eighteenth\r\ncentury declared that the rock bore an account of the arrival of\r\nPhoenician sailors, blown across the Atlantic and unable or unwilling to\r\nreturn. A representation of the pillars of Hercules was thought to be\r\nincluded among the sculptures, showing that the castaways were familiar\r\nwith the Mediterranean. Only this is known about Dighton Rock, however:\r\nthat it stood where it does, and as it does, when the English settled in\r\nthis neighborhood. The Indians said there were other rocks near it which\r\nbore similar markings until effaced by tides and drifting ice.\r\n\r\nLongfellow makes the wraith of the long-buried exile of the armor appear\r\nand tell his story: He was a viking who loved the daughter of King\r\nHildebrand, and as royal consent to their union was withheld he made off\r\nwith the girl, hotly followed by the king and seventy horsemen. The\r\nviking reached his vessel first, and hoisting sail continued his flight\r\nover the sea, but the chase was soon upon him, and, having no alternative\r\nbut to fight or be taken, he swung around before the wind and rammed the\r\nside of Hildebrand's galley, crushing in its timbers. The vessel tipped\r\nand sank, and every soul on board went with her, while the viking's boat\r\nkept on her course, and after a voyage of three weeks put in at\r\nNarragansett Bay. The round tower at Newport this impetuous lover built\r\nas a bower for his lady, and there he guarded her from the dangers that\r\nbeset those who are first in savage countries. When the princess died she\r\nwas buried in the tower, and the lonely viking, arraying himself in his\r\narmor, fell on his spear, like Brutus, and expired.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMARTHA'S VINEYARD AND NANTUCKET\r\n\r\nThere is no such place as Martha's Vineyard, except in geography and\r\ncommon speech. It is Martin Wyngaard's Island, and so was named by\r\nSkipper Block, an Albany Dutchman. But they would English his name, even\r\nin his own town, for it lingers there in Vineyard Point. Bartholomew\r\nGosnold was one of the first white visitors here, for he landed in 1602,\r\nand lived on the island for a time, collecting a cargo of sassafras and\r\nreturning thence to England because he feared the savages.\r\n\r\nThis scarred and windy spot was the home of the Indian giant, Maushope,\r\nwho could wade across the sound to the mainland without wetting his\r\nknees, though he once started to build a causeway from Gay Head to\r\nCuttyhunk and had laid the rocks where you may now see them, when a crab\r\nbit his toe and he gave up the work in disgust. He lived on whales,\r\nmostly, and broiled his dinners on fires made at Devil's Den from trees\r\nthat he tore up by the roots like weeds. In his tempers he raised mists\r\nto perplex sea-wanderers, and for sport he would show lights on Gay Head,\r\nthough these may have been only the fires he made to cook his supper\r\nwith, and of which some beds of lignite are to be found as remains. He\r\nclove No-Man's Land from Gay Head, turned his children into fish, and\r\nwhen his wife objected he flung her to Seconnet Point, where she preyed\r\non all who passed before she hardened into a ledge.\r\n\r\nIt is reported that he found the island by following a bird that had been\r\nstealing children from Cape Cod, as they rolled in the warm sand or\r\npaddled on the edge of the sea. He waded after this winged robber until\r\nhe reached Martha's Vineyard, where he found the bones of all the\r\nchildren that had been stolen. Tired with his hunt he sat down to fill\r\nhis pipe; but as there was no tobacco he plucked some tons of poke that\r\ngrew thickly and that Indians sometimes used as a substitute for the\r\nfragrant weed. His pipe being filled and lighted, its fumes rolled over\r\nthe ocean like a mist--in fact, the Indians would say, when a fog was\r\nrising, “Here comes old Maushope's smoke”--and when he finished he\r\nemptied his pipe into the sea. Falling on a shallow, the ashes made the\r\nisland of Nantucket. The first Indians to reach the latter place were the\r\nparents of a babe that had been stolen by an eagle. They followed the\r\nbird in their canoe, but arrived too late, for the little bones had been\r\npicked clean. The Norsemen rediscovered the island and called it\r\nNaukiton. Is Nantucket a corruption of that word, or was that word the\r\nresult of a struggle to master the Indian name?\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLOVE AND TREASON\r\n\r\nThe tribes that inhabited Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard before the\r\nwhites settled the country were constantly at war, and the people of the\r\nwestern island once resolved to surprise those of Nantucket and slay as\r\nmany as possible before they could arm or organize for battle. The attack\r\nwas to be made before daybreak, at an hour when their intended victims\r\nwould be asleep in their wigwams, but on rowing softly to the hostile\r\nshore, while the stars were still lingering in the west, the warriors\r\nwere surprised at finding the enemy alert and waiting their arrival with\r\nbows and spears in hand. To proceed would have been suicidal, and they\r\nreturned to their villages, puzzled and disheartened. Not for some years\r\ndid they learn how the camp had been apprised, but at the end of that\r\ntime, the two tribes being at peace, one of their young men married a\r\ngirl of Nantucket, with whom he had long been in love, and confessed that\r\non the night preceding the attack he had stolen to the beach, crossed to\r\nNantucket on a neck of sand that then joined the islands, and was\r\nuncovered only at low tide, sought his mistress, warned her of the\r\nattack, that she, at least, might not be killed; then, at a mad run, with\r\nwaves of the rising tide lapping his feet, he returned to his people, who\r\nhad not missed him. He set off with a grave and innocent face in the\r\nmorning, and was as much surprised as any one when he found the enemy in\r\narms.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HEADLESS SKELETON OF SWAMPTOWN\r\n\r\nThe boggy portion of North Kingston, Rhode Island, known as Swamptown, is\r\nof queer repute in its neighborhood, for Hell Hollow, Pork Hill, Indian\r\nCorner, and Kettle Hole have their stories of Indian crimes and\r\nwitch-meetings. Here the headless figure of a negro boy was seen by a\r\nbelated traveller on a path that leads over the hills. It was a dark\r\nnight and the figure was revealed in a blaze of blue light. It swayed to\r\nand fro for a time, then rose from the ground with a lurch and shot into\r\nspace, leaving a trail of illumination behind it. Here, too, is\r\nGoose-Nest Spring, where the witches dance at night. It dries up every\r\nwinter and flows through the summer, gushing forth on the same day of\r\nevery year, except once, when a goose took possession of the empty bed\r\nand hatched her brood there. That time the water did not flow until she\r\ngot away with her progeny.\r\n\r\nBut the most grewsome story of the place is that of the Indian whose\r\nskull was found by a roadmender. This unsuspecting person took it home,\r\nand, as the women would not allow him to carry it into the house, he hung\r\nit on a pole outside. Just as the people were starting for bed, there\r\ncame a rattling at the door, and, looking out of the windows, they saw a\r\nskeleton stalking around in quick and angry strides, like those of a\r\nperson looking for something. But how could that be when the skeleton had\r\nneither eyes nor a place to carry them? It thrashed its bony arms\r\nimpatiently and its ribs rattled like a xylophone. The spectators were\r\ntransfixed with fear, all except the culprit, who said, through the\r\nwindow, in a matter-of-fact way, “I left your head on the pole at the\r\nback door.” The skeleton started in that direction, seized the skull,\r\nclapped it into the place where a head should have grown on its own\r\nshoulders, and, after shaking its fists in a threatening way at the\r\nhouse, disappeared in the darkness. It is said that he acts as a kind of\r\nguard in the neighborhood, to see that none of the other Indians buried\r\nthere shall be disturbed, as he was. His principal lounging place is\r\nIndian Corner, where there is a rock from which blood flows when the moon\r\nshines--a memento, doubtless, of some tragedy that occurred there in\r\ntimes before the white men knew the place. There is iron in the soil, and\r\nvisitors say that the red color is due to that, and that the spring would\r\nflow just as freely on dark nights as on bright ones, if any were there\r\nto see it, but the natives, who have given some thought to these matters,\r\nknow better.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CROW AND CAT OF HOPKINSHILL\r\n\r\nIn a wood near Hopkins Hill, Rhode Island, is a bowlder, four feet in\r\ndiameter, scored with a peculiar furrow. Witch Rock, as it is called,\r\ngained its name two centuries ago, when an old woman abode in a deserted\r\ncabin close by and made the forest dreaded. Figures were seen flitting\r\nthrough its shadows; articles left out o' nights in neighboring\r\nsettlements were missing in the morning, though tramps were unknown;\r\ncattle were afflicted with diseases; stones were flung in at windows by\r\nunseen hands; crops were blighted by hail and frost; and in stormy\r\nweather the old woman was seen to rise out of the woods and stir and push\r\nthe clouds before her with a broom. For a hundred yards around Witch Rock\r\nthe ground is still accursed, and any attempt to break it up is\r\nunavailing. Nearly a century ago a scoffer named Reynolds declared that\r\nhe would run his plough through the enchanted boundary, and the neighbors\r\nwatched the attempt from a distance.\r\n\r\nHe started well, but on arriving at the magic circle the plough shied and\r\nthe wooden landside--or chip, as it was called--came off. It was replaced\r\nand the team started again. In a moment the oxen stood unyoked, while the\r\nchip jumped off and whirled away out of sight. On this, most of the\r\npeople edged away in the direction of home, and directly there came from\r\nthe north a crow that perched on a dead tree and cawed. John Hopkins,\r\nowner of the land, cried to the bird, “Squawk, you damned old Pat\r\nJenkins!” and the crow took flight, dropping the chip at Reynolds's feet,\r\nat the same moment turning into a beldam with a cocked hat, who descended\r\nupon the rock. Before the men could reach her she changed into a black\r\ncat and disappeared in the ground. Hunting and digging came to naught,\r\nthough the pursuers were so earnest and excited that one of them made the\r\nfurrow in the rock with a welt from his shovel. After that few people\r\ncared to go near the place, and it became overgrown with weeds and trees\r\nand bushes.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE OLD STONE MILL\r\n\r\nIf the round tower at Newport was not Benedict Arnold's wind-mill, and\r\nany one or two of several other things, it is probably a relic of the\r\noccupancy of this country by Thorwald and his Norsemen. After coasting\r\nWonderstrands (Cape Cod), in the year 1007, they built a town that is\r\nknown to historians--if not in their histories--as Norumbega, the lost\r\ncity of New England. It is now fancied that the city stood on the Charles\r\nRiver, near Waltham, Massachusetts, where a monument may be erected, but\r\nit is also believed that they reached the neighborhood of Newport, Rhode\r\nIsland. After this tower--popularly called the old stone mill-was built,\r\na seer among the Narragansetts had a vision in which he foresaw that when\r\nthe last remnant of the structure had fallen, and not one stone had been\r\nleft on another, the Indian race would vanish from this continent. The\r\nwork of its extermination seems, indeed, to have begun with the\r\npossession of the coast by white men, and the fate of the aborigines is\r\neasily read.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nORIGIN OF A NAME\r\n\r\nThe origin of many curious geographical names has become an object of\r\nmere surmise, and this is the more the pity because they suggest such\r\npicturesque possibilities. We would like to know, for instance, how Burnt\r\nCoat and Smutty Nose came by such titles. The conglomerate that strews\r\nthe fields south of Boston is locally known as Roxbury pudding-stone,\r\nand, according to Dr. Holmes, the masses are fragments of a pudding, as\r\nbig as the State-house dome, that the family of a giant flung about, in a\r\nfit of temper, and that petrified where it fell. But that would have been\r\ncalled pudding-stone, anyway, from its appearance. The circumstance that\r\nnamed the reef of Norman's Woe has passed out of record, though it is\r\nknown that goodman Norman and his son settled there in the seventeenth\r\ncentury. It is Longfellow who has endowed the rock with this legend, for\r\nhe depicts a wreck there in the fury of a winter storm in 1680--the wreck\r\nof the Hesperus, Richard Norman, master, from which went ashore next\r\nmorning the body of an unknown and beautiful girl, clad in ice and lashed\r\nto a broken mast.\r\n\r\nBut one of the oddest preservations of an apposite in name is found in\r\nthe legend of Point Judith, Rhode Island, an innocent _double entendre_.\r\nAbout two centuries ago a vessel was driving toward the coast in a gale,\r\nwith rain and mist. The skipper's eyes were old and dim, so he got his\r\ndaughter Judith to stand beside him at the helm, as he steered the vessel\r\nover the foaming surges. Presently she cried, “Land, father! I see land!”\r\n “Where away?” he asked. But he could not see what she described, and the\r\nroar of the wind drowned her voice, so he shouted, “Point, Judith!\r\nPoint!” The girl pointed toward the quarter where she saw the breakers,\r\nand the old mariner changed his course and saved his ship from wreck. On\r\nreaching port he told the story of his daughter's readiness, and other\r\ncaptains, when they passed the cape in later days, gave to it the name of\r\nPoint Judith.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMICAH ROOD APPLES\r\n\r\nIn Western Florida they will show roses to you that drop red dew, like\r\nblood, and have been doing so these many years, for they sprang out of\r\nthe graves of women and children who had been cruelly killed by Indians.\r\nBut there is something queerer still about the Micah Rood--or\r\n“Mike”--apples of Franklin, Connecticut, which are sweet, red of skin,\r\nsnowy of pulp, and have a red spot, like a blood-drop, near the core;\r\nhence they are sometimes known as bloody-hearts. Micah Rood was a farmer\r\nin Franklin in 1693. Though avaricious he was somewhat lazy, and was more\r\nprone to dream of wealth than to work for it. But people whispered that\r\nhe did some hard and sharp work on the night after the peddler came to\r\ntown--the slender man with a pack filled with jewelry and\r\nknickknacks--because on the morning after that visit the peddler was\r\nfound, beneath an apple-tree on Rood farm, with his pack rifled and his\r\nskull split open.\r\n\r\nSuspicion pointed at Rood, and, while nothing was proved against him, he\r\nbecame gloomy, solitary, and morose, keeping his own counsels more\r\nfaithfully than ever--though he never was disposed to take counsel of\r\nother people. If he had expected to profit by the crime he was obviously\r\ndisappointed, for he became poorer than ever, and his farm yielded less\r\nand less. To be sure, he did little work on it. When the apples ripened\r\non the tree that had spread its branches above the peddler's body, the\r\nneighbors wagged their heads and whispered the more, for in the centre of\r\neach apple was a drop of the peddler's blood: a silent witness and\r\njudgment, they said, and the result of a curse that the dying man had\r\ninvoked against his murderer. Micah Rood died soon after, without saying\r\nanything that his fellow-villagers might be waiting to hear, but his tree\r\nis still alive and its strange fruit has been grafted on hundreds of\r\norchards.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA DINNER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES\r\n\r\nThe Nipmucks were populous at Thompson, Connecticut, where they skilfully\r\ntilled the fields, and where their earthworks, on Fort Hill, provided\r\nthem with a refuge in case of invasion. Their chief, Quinatisset, had his\r\nlodge on the site of the Congregational church in Thompson. They believed\r\nthat Chargoggagmanchogagog Pond was paradise--the home of the Great\r\nSpirit and departed souls--and that it would always yield fish to them,\r\nas the hills did game. They were fond of fish, and would barter deer-meat\r\nand corn for it, occasionally, with the Narragansetts.\r\n\r\nNow, these last-named Indians were a waterloving people, and to this day\r\ntheir “fishing fire”--a column of pale flame--rises out of Quinebaug Lake\r\nonce in seven years, as those say who have watched beside its waters\r\nthrough the night. Knowing their fondness for blue-fish and clams, the\r\nNarragansetts asked the Nipmucks to dine with them on one occasion, and\r\nthis courtesy was eagerly accepted, the up-country people distinguishing\r\nthemselves by valiant trencher deeds; but, alas, that it should be so!\r\nthey disgraced themselves when, soon after, they invited the\r\nNarragansetts to a feast of venison at Killingly, and quarrelled with\r\ntheir guests over the dressing of the food. This rumpus grew into a\r\nbattle in which all but two of the invites were slain. Their hosts buried\r\nthem decently, but grass would never grow above their graves.\r\n\r\nThis treachery the Great Spirit avenged soon after, when the Nipmucks had\r\nassembled for a powwow, with accessory enjoyments, in the grassy vale\r\nwhere Mashapaug Lake now reflects the charming landscape, and where,\r\nuntil lately, the remains of a forest could be seen below the surface. In\r\nthe height of the revel the god struck away the foundations of the hills,\r\nand as the earth sank, bearing the offending men and women, waters rushed\r\nin and filled the chasm, so that every person was drowned, save one good\r\nold woman beneath whose feet the ground held firm. Loon Island, where she\r\nstood, remains in sight to-day.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE NEW HAVEN STORM SHIP\r\n\r\nIn 1647 the New Haven colonists, who even at that early day exhibited the\r\nenterprise that has been a distinguishing feature of the Yankee, sent a\r\nship to Ireland to try to develop a commerce, their trading posts on the\r\nDelaware having been broken up by the Swedes. When their agent, Captain\r\nLamberton, sailed--in January--the harbor was so beset with ice that a\r\ntrack had to be cut through the floes to open water, five miles distant.\r\nShe had, moreover, to be dragged out stern foremost--an ill omen, the\r\nsailors thought--and as she swung before the wind a passing drift of fog\r\nconcealed her, for a moment, from the gaze of those on shore, who, from\r\nthis, foretold things of evil. Though large and new, the ship was so\r\n“walty”--inclined to roll--that the captain set off with misgiving, and\r\nas she moved away the crew heard this solemn and disheartening invocation\r\nfrom a clergyman on the wharf:--“Lord, if it be thy pleasure to bury\r\nthese, our friends, in the bottom of the sea, take them; they are thine:\r\nsave them.”\r\n\r\nWinter passed; so did spring; still the ship came not; but one afternoon\r\nin June, just as a rain had passed, some children cried, “There's a brave\r\nship!” for, flying up the harbor, with all sail set and flaunting colors,\r\nwas a vessel “the very mould of our ship,” the clergyman said.\r\n\r\nStrange to tell, she was going flat against the wind; no sailors were on\r\nher deck; she did not toss with the fling of the waves; there was no\r\nripple at her bow. As she came close to land a single figure appeared on\r\nthe quarter, pointing seaward with a cutlass; then suddenly her main-top\r\nfell, her masts toppled from their holdings, the dismantled hulk careened\r\nand went down. A cloud dropped from heaven and brooded for a time above\r\nthe place where it had vanished, and when it lifted the surface of the\r\nsea was empty and still. The good folk of New Haven believed that the\r\nfate of the absent ship had been revealed, at last, for she never came\r\nback and Captain Lamberton was never heard from.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WINDAM FROGS\r\n\r\nOn a cloudy night in July, 1758, the people of Windham, Connecticut, were\r\nawakened by screams and shrill voices. Some sprang up and looked to the\r\npriming of their muskets, for they were sure that the Indians were\r\ncoming; others vowed that the voices were those of witches or devils,\r\nflying overhead; a few ran into the streets with knives and fire-arms,\r\nwhile others fastened their windows and prayerfully shrank under the\r\nbedclothes. A notorious reprobate was heard blubbering for a Bible, and a\r\nlawyer offered half of all the money that he had made dishonestly to any\r\ncharity if his neighbors would guarantee to preserve his life until\r\nmorning.\r\n\r\nAll night the greatest alarm prevailed. At early dawn an armed party\r\nclimbed the hill to the eastward, and seeing no sign of Indians, or other\r\ninvaders, returned to give comfort to their friends. A contest for office\r\nwas waging at that period between two lawyers, Colonel Dyer and Mr.\r\nElderkin, and sundry of the people vowed that they had heard a\r\nchallenging yell of “Colonel Dyer! Colonel Dyer!” answered by a guttural\r\ndefiance of “Elderkin, too! Elderkin, too!” Next day the reason of it all\r\ncame out: A pond having been emptied by drought, the frogs that had lived\r\nthere emigrated by common consent to a ditch nearer the town, and on\r\narriving there had apparently fought for its possession, for many lay\r\ndead on the bank. The night was still and the voices of the contestants\r\nsounded clearly into the village, the piping of the smaller being\r\nconstrued into “Colonel Dyer,” and the grumble of the bull-frogs into\r\n“Elderkin, too.” The “frog scare” was a subject of pleasantry directed\r\nagainst Windham for years afterward.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LAMB OF SACRIFICE\r\n\r\nThe Revolution was beginning, homes were empty, farms were deserted,\r\nindustries were checked, and the levies of a foreign army had consumed\r\nthe stores of the people. A messenger rode into the Connecticut Valley\r\nwith tidings of the distress that was in the coast towns, and begged the\r\nfarmer folk to spare some of their cattle and the millers some of their\r\nflour for the relief of Boston. On reaching Windham he was received with\r\ngood will by Parson White, who summoned his flock by peal of bell, and\r\nfrom the steps of his church urged the needs of his brethren with such\r\neloquence that by nightfall the messenger had in his charge a flock of\r\nsheep, a herd of cattle, and a load of grain, with which he was to set\r\noff in the morning. The parson's daughter, a shy maid of nine or ten,\r\nwent to her father, with her pet lamb, and said to him, “I must give\r\nthis, too, for there are little children who are crying for bread and\r\nmeat.”\r\n\r\n“No, no,” answered the pastor, patting her head and smiling upon her.\r\n“They do not ask help from babes. Run to bed and you shall play with your\r\nlamb to-morrow.”\r\n\r\nBut in the red of the morning, as he drove his herd through the village\r\nstreet, the messenger turned at the hail of a childish voice, and looking\r\nover a stone wall he saw the little one with her snow-white lamb beside\r\nher.\r\n\r\n“Wait,” she cried, “for my lamb must go to the hungry children of Boston.\r\nIt is so small, please to carry it for some of the way, and let it have\r\nfresh grass and water. It is all I have.”\r\n\r\nSo saying, she kissed the innocent face of her pet, gave it into the arms\r\nof the young man, and ran away, her cheeks shining with tears. Folding\r\nthe little creature to his breast, the messenger looked admiringly after\r\nthe girl: he felt a glow of pride and hope for the country whose very\r\nchildren responded to the call of patriotism. “Now, God help me, I will\r\ncarry this lamb to the city as a sacrifice.” So saying, he set his face\r\nto the east and vigorously strode forward.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMOODUS NOISES\r\n\r\nThe village of Moodus, Connecticut, was troubled with noises. There is no\r\nquestion as to that. In fact, Machimoodus, the Indian name of the spot,\r\nmeans Place of Noises. As early as 1700, and for thirty years after,\r\nthere were crackings and rumblings that were variously compared to\r\nfusillades, to thunder, to roaring in the air, to the breaking of rocks,\r\nto reports of cannon. A man who was on Mount Tom while the noises were\r\nviolent describes the sound as that of rocks falling into immense caverns\r\nbeneath his feet and striking against cliffs as they fell. Houses shook\r\nand people feared.\r\n\r\nRev. Mr. Hosmer, in a letter written to a friend in Boston in 1729, says\r\nthat before white settlers appeared there was a large Indian population,\r\nthat powwows were frequent, and that the natives “drove a prodigious\r\ntrade at worshipping the devil.” He adds:--“An old Indian was asked what\r\nwas the reason of the noises in this place, to which he replied that the\r\nIndian's god was angry because Englishman's god was come here. Now,\r\nwhether there be anything diabolical in these things I know not, but this\r\nI know, that God Almighty is to be seen and trembled at in what has been\r\noften heard among us. Whether it be fire or air distressed in the\r\nsubterranean caverns of the earth cannot be known for there is no\r\neruption, no explosion perceptible but by sounds and tremors which are\r\nsometimes very fearful and dreadful.”\r\n\r\nIt was finally understood that Haddam witches, who practised black magic,\r\nmet the Moodus witches, who used white magic, in a cave beneath Mount\r\nTom, and fought them in the light of a great carbuncle that was fastened\r\nto the roof. The noises recurred in 1888, when houses rattled in\r\nwitch-haunted Salem, eight miles away, and the bell on the village church\r\n“sung like a tuning-fork.” The noises have occurred simultaneously with\r\nearthquakes in other parts of the country, and afterward rocks have been\r\nfound moved from their bases and cracks have been discovered in the\r\nearth. One sapient editor said that the pearls in the mussels in Salmon\r\nand Connecticut Rivers caused the disturbance.\r\n\r\nIf the witch-fights were continued too long the king of Machimoddi, who\r\nsat on a throne of solid sapphire in the cave whence the noises came,\r\nraised his wand: then the light of the carbuncle went out, peals of\r\nthunder rolled through the rocky chambers, and the witches rushed into\r\nthe air. Dr. Steele, a learned and aged man from England, built a\r\ncrazy-looking house in a lonely spot on Mount Tom, and was soon as much a\r\nmystery as the noises, for it was known that he had come to this country\r\nto stop them by magic and to seize the great carbuncle in the cave--if he\r\ncould find it. Every window, crack, and keyhole was closed, and nobody\r\nwas admitted while he stayed there, but the clang of hammers was heard in\r\nhis house all night, sparks shot from his chimney, and strange odors were\r\ndiffused. When all was ready for his adventure he set forth, his path\r\nmarked by a faint light that moved before him and stopped at the closed\r\nentrance to the cavern.\r\n\r\nLoud were the Moodus noises that night. The mountain shook and groans and\r\nhisses were heard in the air as he pried up the stone that lay across the\r\npit-mouth. When he had lifted it off a light poured from it and streamed\r\ninto the heaven like a crimson comet or a spear of the northern aurora.\r\nIt was the flash of the great carbuncle, and the stars seen through it\r\nwere as if dyed in blood. In the morning Steele was gone. He had taken\r\nship for England. The gem carried with it an evil fate, for the galley\r\nsank in mid-ocean; but, though buried beneath a thousand fathoms of\r\nwater, the red ray of the carbuncle sometimes shoots up from the sea, and\r\nthe glow of it strikes fear into the hearts of passing sailors. Long\r\nafter, when the booming was heard, the Indians said that the hill was\r\ngiving birth to another beautiful stone.\r\n\r\nSuch cases are not singular. A phenomenon similar to the Moodus noises,\r\nand locally known as “the shooting of Nashoba Hill,” occurs at times in\r\nthe eminence of that name near East Littleton, Massachusetts. The\r\nstrange, deep rumbling was attributed by the Indians to whirlwinds trying\r\nto escape from caves.\r\n\r\nBald Mountain, North Carolina, was known as Shaking Mountain, for strange\r\nsounds and tremors were heard there, and every moonshiner who had his\r\ncabin on that hill joined the church and was diligent in worship until he\r\nlearned that the trembling was due to the slow cracking and separation of\r\na great ledge.\r\n\r\nAt the end of a hot day on Seneca Lake, New York, are sometimes heard the\r\n“lake guns,” like exploding gas. Two hundred years ago Agayentah, a wise\r\nand honored member of the Seneca tribe, was killed here by a\r\nlightning-stroke. The same bolt that slew him wrenched a tree from the\r\nbank and hurled it into the water, where it was often seen afterward,\r\ngoing about the lake as if driven by unseen currents, and among the\r\nwhites it got the name of the Wandering Jew. It is often missing for\r\nweeks together, and its reappearances are heralded by the low booming\r\nof--what? The Indians said that the sound was but the echo of Agayentah's\r\nvoice, warning them of dangers and summoning them to battle, while the\r\nWandering Jew became his messenger.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHADDAM ENCHANTMENTS\r\n\r\nWhen witchcraft went rampant through New England the Connecticut town of\r\nHaddam owned its share of ugly old women, whom it tried to reform by\r\nlectures and ducking, instead of killing. It was averred that Goody\r\nSo-and-So had a black cat for a familiar, that Dame Thus-and-Thus rode on\r\na broomstick on stormy nights and screeched and gibbered down the\r\nfarm-house chimneys, and there were dances of old crones at Devils' Hop\r\nYard, Witch Woods, Witch Meadows, Giant's Chair, Devil's Footprint, and\r\nDragon's Rock. Farmers were especially fearful of a bent old hag in a red\r\nhood, who seldom appeared before dusk, but who was apt to be found\r\ncrouched on their door-steps if they reached home late, her mole-covered\r\ncheeks wrinkled with a grin, two yellow fangs projecting between her\r\nlips, and a light shining from her eyes that numbed all on whom she\r\nlooked. On stormy nights she would drum and rattle at windows, and by\r\nfirelight and candle-light her face was seen peering through the panes.\r\n\r\nAt Chapman Falls, where the attrition of a stream had worn pot-holes in\r\nthe rocks, there were meetings of Haddam witches, to the number of a\r\ndozen. They brewed poisons in those holes, cast spells, and talked in\r\nharsh tongues with the arch fiend, who sat on the brink of the ravine\r\nwith his tail laid against his shoulder, like a sceptre, and a red glow\r\nemanating from his body.\r\n\r\nIn Devils' Hop Yard was a massive oak that never bears leaves or acorns,\r\nfor it has been enchanted since the time that one of the witches, in the\r\nform of a crow, perched on the topmost branch, looked to the four points\r\nof the compass, and flew away. That night the leaves fell off, the twigs\r\nshrivelled, sap ceased to run, and moss began to beard its skeleton\r\nlimbs.\r\n\r\nThe appearance of witches in the guise of birds was no unusual thing,\r\nindeed, and a farmer named Blakesley shot one of them in that form. He\r\nwas hunting in a meadow when a rush of wings was heard and he saw pass\r\noverhead a bird with long neck, blue feathers, and feet like scrawny\r\nhands. It uttered a cry so weird, so shrill, so like mocking laughter\r\nthat it made him shudder. This bird alighted on a dead tree and he shot\r\nat it. With another laughing yell it circled around his head. Three times\r\nhe fired with the same result. Then he resolved to see if it were\r\nuncanny, for nothing evil can withstand silver--except Congress. Having\r\nno bullets of that metal he cut two silver buttons from his shirt and\r\nrammed them home with a piece of cloth and a prayer. This time the bird\r\nscreamed in terror, and tried, but vainly, to rise from the limb. He\r\nfired. The creature dropped, with a button in its body, and fell on its\r\nright side. At that moment an old woman living in a cabin five miles\r\ndistant arose from her spinning-wheel, gasped, and fell on her right\r\nside-dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBLOCK ISLAND AND THE PALATINE\r\n\r\nBlock Island, or Manisees, is an uplift of clayey moorland between\r\nMontauk and Gay Head. It was for sailors an evil place and “bad medicine”\r\n for Indians, for men who had been wrecked there had been likewise robbed\r\nand ill treated--though the honest islanders of to-day deny it--while the\r\nIndians had been driven from their birthright after hundreds of their\r\nnumber had fallen in its defence. In the winter of 1750-51 the ship\r\nPalatine set forth over the seas with thrifty Dutch merchants and\r\nemigrants, bound for Philadelphia, with all their goods. A gale delayed\r\nthem and kept them beating to and fro on the icy seas, unable to reach\r\nland. The captain died--it was thought that he was murdered--and the\r\nsailors, a brutal set even for those days, threw off all discipline,\r\nseized the stores and arms, and starved the passengers into giving up\r\ntheir money.\r\n\r\nWhen those died of hunger whose money had given out--for twenty guilders\r\nwere demanded for a cup of water and fifty rix dollars for a\r\nbiscuit--their bodies were flung into the sea, and when the crew had\r\nsecured all that excited their avarice they took to their boats, leaving\r\nship and passengers to their fate. It is consoling to know that the\r\nsailors never reached a harbor. The unguided ship, in sight of land, yet\r\ntossed at the mercy of every wind and tenanted by walking skeletons,\r\nstruck off Block Island one calm Sunday morning and the wreckers who\r\nlived along the shore set out for her. Their first work was to rescue the\r\npassengers; then they returned to strip everything from the hulk that the\r\ncrew had left; but after getting her in tow a gale sprang up, and seeing\r\nthat she was doomed to be blown off shore, where she might become a\r\ndangerous obstruction or a derelict, they set her on fire. From the rocks\r\nthey watched her drift into misty darkness, but as the flames mounted to\r\nthe trucks a scream rang across the whitening sea: a maniac woman had\r\nbeen left on board. The scream was often repeated, each time more\r\nfaintly, and the ship passed into the fog and vanished.\r\n\r\nA twelvemonth later, on the same evening of the year, the islanders were\r\nstartled at the sight of a ship in the offing with flames lapping up her\r\nsides and rigging, and smoke clouds rolling off before the wind. It\r\nburned to the water's edge in sight of hundreds. In the winter following\r\nit came again, and was seen, in fact, for years thereafter at regular\r\nintervals, by those who would gladly have forgotten the sight of it (one\r\nof the community, an Indian, fell into madness whenever he saw the\r\nlight), while those who listened caught the sound of a woman's voice\r\nraised in agony above the roar of fire and water.\r\n\r\nSubstantially the same story is told of a point on the North Carolina\r\ncoast, save that in the latter case the passengers, who were from the\r\nBavarian Palatinate, were put to the knife before their goods were taken.\r\nThe captain and his crew filled their boats with treasure and pulled away\r\nfor land, first firing the ship and committing its ghastly freight to the\r\nflames. The ship followed them almost to the beach, ere it fell to\r\npieces, as if it were an animate form, bent on vengeance. The pirates\r\nlanded, but none profited by the crime, all of them dying poor and\r\nforsaken.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BUCCANEER\r\n\r\nAmong the natives of Block Island was a man named Lee. Born in the last\r\ncentury among fishermen and wreckers, he has naturally taken to the sea\r\nfor a livelihood, and, never having known the influences of education and\r\nrefinement, he is rude and imperious in manner. His ship lies in a\r\nSpanish port fitting for sea, but not with freight, for, tired of\r\npeaceful trading, Lee is equipping his vessel as a privateer. A Spanish\r\nlady who has just been bereaved of her husband comes to him to ask a\r\npassage to America, for she has no suspicion of his intent. Her jewels\r\nand well-filled purse arouse Lee's cupidity, and with pretended sympathy\r\nhe accedes to her request, even going so far as to allow Senora's\r\nfavorite horse to be brought aboard.\r\n\r\nHardly is the ship in deep water before the lady's servants are stabbed\r\nin their sleep and Lee smashes in the door of her cabin. Realizing his\r\npurpose, and preferring to sacrifice life to honor, she eludes him,\r\nclimbs the rail, and leaps into the sea, while the ship ploughs on. As a\r\npoor revenge for being thus balked of his prey the pirate has the\r\nbeautiful white horse flung overboard, the animal shrilling a neigh that\r\nseems to reach to the horizon, and is like nothing ever heard before. But\r\nthese things he affects to forget in dice and drinking. In a dispute over\r\na division of plunder Lee stabs one of his men and tosses him overboard.\r\nSoon the rovers come to Block Island, where, under cover of night, they\r\ncarry ashore their stealings to hide them in pits and caves, reserving\r\nenough gold to buy a welcome from the wreckers, and here they live for a\r\nyear, gaming and carousing. Their ship has been reported as a pirate and\r\nto baffle search it is set adrift.\r\n\r\nOne night a ruddy star is seen on the sea-verge and the ruffians leave\r\ntheir revelling to look at it, for it is growing into sight fast. It\r\nspeeds toward them and they can now see that it is a ship--their\r\nshipwrapped in flames. It stops off shore, and out of the ocean at its\r\nprow emerges something white that they say at first is a wave-crest\r\nrolling upon the sands; but it does not dissolve as breakers do: it\r\nrushes on; it scales the bluff it is a milk-white horse, that gallops to\r\nthe men, who inly wonder if this is an alcoholic vision, and glares at\r\nLee. A spell seems to be laid on him, and, unable to resist it, the\r\nbuccaneer mounts the animal. It rushes away, snorting and plunging, to\r\nthe highest bluff, whence Lee beholds, in the light of the burning ship,\r\nthe bodies of all who have been done to death by him, staring into his\r\neyes through the reddening waves.\r\n\r\nAt dawn the horse sinks under him and he stands there alone. From that\r\nhour even his companions desert him. They fear to share his curse. He\r\nwanders about the island, a broken, miserable man, unwilling to live,\r\nafraid to die, refused shelter and friendship, and unable to reach the\r\nmainland, for no boat will give him passage. After a year of this\r\nexistence the ship returns, the spectre horse rises from the deep and\r\nclaims Lee again for a rider. He mounts; the animal speeds away to the\r\ncliff, but does not pause at the brink this time: with a sickening jump\r\nand fall he goes into the sea. Spurning the wave-tops in his flight he\r\nmakes a circuit of the burning ship, and in the hellish light, that fills\r\nthe air and penetrates to the ocean bottom, the pirate sees again his\r\nvictims looking up with smiles and arms spread to embrace him.\r\n\r\nThere is a cry of terror as the steed stops short; then a gurgle, and\r\nhorse and rider have disappeared. The fire ship vanishes and the night is\r\ndark.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nROBERT LOCKWOOD'S FATE\r\n\r\nIn the winter of 1779, General Putnam was stationed at Reading,\r\nConnecticut, with a band of ill-fed, unpaid troops. He was quartered at\r\nthe Marvin house, and Mary, daughter of farmer Marvin, won her way to the\r\nheart of this rough soldier through the excellence of her dumplings and\r\nthe invigorating quality of her flip. He even took her into his\r\nconfidence, and, being in want of a spy in an emergency, he playfully\r\nasked her if she knew any brave fellow who could be trusted to take a\r\nfalse message into the British lines that would avert an impending\r\nattack. Yes, she knew such an one, and would guarantee that he would take\r\nthe message if the fortunes of the colonial army would be helped thereby.\r\nPutnam assured her that it would aid the patriot cause, and, farther,\r\nthat he would reward her; whereat, with a smile and a twinkling eye, the\r\ngirl received the missive and left the room.\r\n\r\nWhen daylight had left the sky, Mary slipped out of the house, crossed a\r\npasture, entered a ravine, and in a field beyond reached a cattle\r\nshelter. On the instant a tall form stepped from the shadows and she sank\r\ninto its embrace. There was a kiss, a moment of whispered talk, and the\r\ngirl hurriedly asked her lover if he would carry a letter to the British\r\nheadquarters, near Ridgefield. Of course he would. But he must not read\r\nit, and he must on no account say from whom he had it. The young man\r\nconsented without a question--that she required it was sufficient; so,\r\nthrusting the tiny paper into his hand and bidding him God-speed, she\r\ngave him another kiss and they parted--he to go on his errand, she to\r\npass the night with the clergyman's daughter at the parsonage. At about\r\nten o'clock Putnam was disturbed by the tramping of feet and a tall,\r\ngoodlooking fellow was thrust into his room by a couple of soldiers. The\r\ncaptive had been found inside the lines, they said, in consultation with\r\nsome unknown person who had escaped the eye of the sentry in the\r\ndarkness. When captured he had put a piece of paper into his mouth and\r\nswallowed it. He gave the name of Robert Lockwood, and when Putnam\r\ndemanded to know what he had been doing near the camp without a permit he\r\nsaid that he was bound by a promise not to tell.\r\n\r\n“Are you a patriot?” asked the general.\r\n\r\n“I am a royalist. I do not sympathize with rebellion. I have been a man\r\nof peace in this war.”\r\n\r\nPutnam strode about the room, giving vent to his passion in language\r\nneither choice nor gentle, for he had been much troubled by spies and\r\ninformers since he had been there. Then, stopping, he said:\r\n\r\n“Some one was with you to-night-some of my men. Tell me that traitor's\r\nname and I'll spare your life and hang him before the whole army.”\r\n\r\nThe prisoner turned pale and dropped his head. He would not violate his\r\npromise.\r\n\r\n“You are a British spy, and I'll hang you at sunrise!” roared Putnam.\r\n\r\nIn vain the young man pleaded for time to appeal to Washington. He was\r\nnot a spy, he insisted, and it would be found, perhaps too late, that a\r\nterrible mistake had been committed. His words were unheeded: he was led\r\naway and bound, and as the sun was rising on the next morning the\r\nsentence of courtmartial was executed upon him.\r\n\r\nAt noon Mary returned from the parsonage, her eyes dancing and her mouth\r\ndimpling with smiles. Going to Putnam, she said, with a dash of\r\nsauciness, “I have succeeded, general. I found a lad last night to take\r\nyour message. I had to meet him alone, for he is a Tory; so he cannot\r\nenter this camp. The poor fellow had no idea that he was doing a service\r\nfor the rebels, for he did not know what was in the letter, and I bound\r\nhim not to tell who gave it to him. You see, I punished him for abiding\r\nby the king.”\r\n\r\nThe general laughed and gazed at her admiringly.\r\n\r\n“You're a brave girl,” he said, “and I suppose you've come for your\r\nreward. Well, what is it to be?”\r\n\r\n“I want a pass for Robert Lockwood. He is the royalist I spoke of, but he\r\nwill not betray you, for he is not a soldier; and--his visits make me\r\nvery happy.”\r\n\r\n“The spy you hanged this morning,” whispered an aide in Putnam's ear.\r\n“Give her the pass and say nothing of what has happened.”\r\n\r\nThe general started, changed color, and paused; then he signed the order\r\nwith a dash, placed it in the girl's hand, gravely kissed her, watched\r\nher as she ran lightly from the house, and going to his bedroom closed\r\nthe door and remained alone for an hour. From that time he never spoke of\r\nthe affair, but when his troops were ordered away, soon after, he almost\r\nblenched as he gave good-by to Mary Marvin, and met her sad, reproachful\r\nlook, though to his last day he never learned whether or no she had\r\ndiscovered Robert Lockwood's fate.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLOVE AND RUM\r\n\r\nBack in the seventeenth century a number of Yankee traders arrived in\r\nNaugatuck to barter blankets, beads, buttons, Bibles, and brandy for\r\nskins, and there they met chief Toby and his daughter. Toby was not a\r\npleasing person, but his daughter was well favored, and one of the\r\ntraders told the chief that if he would allow the girl to go to Boston\r\nwith him he would give to him--Toby--a quart of rum. Toby was willing\r\nenough. He would give a good deal for rum. But the daughter declined to\r\nbe sold off in such a fashion unless--she coyly admitted--she could have\r\nhalf of the rum herself. Loth as he was to do so, Toby was brought to\r\nagree to this proposition, for he knew that rum was rare and good and\r\ngirls were common and perverse, so the gentle forest lily took her mug of\r\nliquor and tossed it off. Now, it is not clear whether she wished to\r\nnerve herself for the deed that followed or whether the deed was a result\r\nof the tonic, but she made off from the paternal wigwam and was presently\r\nseen on the ledge of Squaw Rock, locally known also as High Rock, from\r\nwhich in another moment she had fallen. Toby had pursued her, and on\r\nfinding her dead he vented a howl of grief and anger and flung the now\r\nempty rum-jug after her. A huge bowlder arose from the earth where it\r\nstruck, and there it remains--a monument to the girl and a warning to\r\nTobies.\r\n\r\nAnother version of the story is that the girl sprang from the rock to\r\nescape the pursuit of a lover who was hateful to her, and who had her\r\nalmost in his grasp when she made the fatal leap. In the crevice half-way\r\nup the cliff her spirit has often been seen looking regretfully into the\r\nrich valley that was her home, and on the 20th of March and 20th of\r\nSeptember, in every year, it is imposed on her to take the form of a\r\nseven-headed snake, the large centre head adorned with a splendid\r\ncarbuncle. Many have tried to capture the snake and secure this precious\r\nstone, for an old prophecy promises wealth to whoever shall wrest it from\r\nthe serpent. But thus far the people of Connecticut have found more\r\nwealth in clocks and tobacco than in snakes and carbuncles.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SWIM AT INDIAN HEAD\r\n\r\nAt Indian Head, Maryland, are the government proving-grounds, where the\r\nracket of great guns and splintering of targets are a deterrent to the\r\nmiscellaneous visitations of picnics. Trouble has been frequently\r\nassociated with this neighborhood, as it is now suggested in the noisy\r\nsymbolry of war. In prehistoric days it was the site of an aboriginal\r\ntown, whose denizens were like other Indians in their love for fight and\r\ntheir willingness to shed blood. Great was the joy of all these citizens\r\nwhen a scouting party came in, one day, bringing with them the daughter\r\nof one of their toughest old hunters and a young buck, from another\r\nfaction, who had come a-courting; her in the neighboring shades.\r\n\r\nCapture meant death, usually, and he knew it, but he held himself proudly\r\nand refused to ask for mercy. It was resolved that he should die. The\r\nfather's scorn for his daughter, that she should thus consort with an\r\nenemy, was so great that he was on the point of offering her as a joint\r\nsacrifice with her lover, when she fell on her knees before him and began\r\na fervent appeal, not for herself, but for the prisoner. She would do\r\nanything to prove her strength, her duty, her obedience, if they would\r\nset him free. He had done injury to none. What justice lay in putting him\r\nto the torture?\r\n\r\nHalf in earnest, half in humor, the chief answered, “Suppose we were to\r\nset him on the farther shore of the Potomac, do you love him well enough\r\nto swim to him?”\r\n\r\n“I do.”\r\n\r\n“The river is wide and deep.”\r\n\r\n“I would drown in it rather than that harm should come to him.”\r\n\r\nThe old chief ordered the captive, still bound, to be taken to a point on\r\nthe Virginia shore, full two miles away, in one of their canoes, and when\r\nthe boat was on the water he gave the word to the girl, who instantly\r\nplunged in and followed it. The chief and the father embarked in another\r\nbirch--ostensibly to see that the task was honestly fulfilled; really,\r\nperhaps, to see that the damsel did not drown. It was a long course, but\r\nthe maid was not as many of our city misses are, and she reached the\r\nbank, tired, but happy, for she had saved her lover and gained him for a\r\nhusband.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE MOANING SISTERS\r\n\r\nAbove Georgetown, on the Potomac River, are three rocks, known as the\r\nThree Sisters, not merely because of their resemblance to each other--for\r\nthey are parts of a submerged reef--but because of a tradition that, more\r\nthan a hundred years ago, a boat in which three sisters had gone out for\r\na row was swung against one of these rocks. The day was gusty and the\r\nboat was upset. All three of the girls were drowned. Either the sisters\r\nremain about this perilous spot or the rocks have prescience; at least,\r\nthose who live near them on the shore hold one view or the other, for\r\nthey declare that before every death on the river the sisters moan, the\r\nsound being heard above the lapping of the waves. It is different from\r\nany other sound in nature. Besides, it is an unquestioned fact that more\r\naccidents happen here than at any other point on the river.\r\n\r\nMany are the upsets that have occurred and many are the swimmers who have\r\ngone down, the dark forms of the sisters being the last shapes that their\r\nwater-blurred eyes have seen. It is only before a human life is to be\r\nyielded that this low wailing comes from the rocks, and when, on a night\r\nin May, 1889, the sound floated shoreward, just as the clock in\r\nGeorgetown struck twelve, good people who were awake sighed and uttered a\r\nprayer for the one whose doom was so near at hand. Twelve hours later, at\r\nnoon, a shell came speeding down the Potomac, with a young athlete\r\njauntily pulling at the oars. As he neared the Three Sisters his boat\r\nappeared to be caught in an eddy; it swerved suddenly, as if struck; then\r\nit upset and the rower sank to his death.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA RIDE FOR A BRIDE\r\n\r\nWhen the story of bloodshed at Bunker Hill reached Bohemia Hall, in Cecil\r\nCounty, Maryland, Albert De Courcy left his brother Ernest to support the\r\ndignity of the house and make patriotic speeches, while he went to the\r\nfront, conscious that Helen Carmichael, his affianced wife, was watching,\r\nin pride and sadness, the departure of his company. Letters came and\r\nwent, as they always do, until rumor came of a sore defeat to the\r\ncolonials at Long Island; then the letters ceased.\r\n\r\nIt was a year later when a ragged soldier, who had stopped at the hall\r\nfor supper, told of Albert's heroism in covering the retreat of\r\nWashington. The gallant young officer had been shot, he said, as he\r\nattempted to swim the morasses of Gowanus. But this soldier was in error.\r\nAlbert had been vexatiously bogged on the edge of the creek. While\r\nfloundering in the mud a half dozen sturdy red-coats had lugged him out\r\nand he was packed off to the prison-ships anchored in the Wallabout. In\r\nthese dread hulks, amid darkness and miasma, living on scant, unwholesome\r\nfood, compelled to see his comrades die by dozens every day and their\r\nbodies flung ashore where the tide lapped away the sand thrown over them,\r\nDe Courcy wished that death instead of capture had been his lot, for next\r\nto his love he prized his liberty.\r\n\r\nOne day he was told off, with a handful of others, for transfer to a\r\nstockade on the Delaware, and how his heart beat when he learned that the\r\nnew prison was within twenty miles of home! His flow of spirits returned,\r\nand his new jailers liked him for his frankness and laughed at his honest\r\nexpletives against the king. He had the liberty of the enclosure, and was\r\nnot long in finding where the wall was low, the ditch narrow, and the\r\nabatis decayed--knowledge that came useful to him sooner than he\r\nexpected, for one day a captured horse was led in that made straight for\r\nhim with a whinny and rubbed his nose against his breast.\r\n\r\n“Why!” he cried,--“it's Cecil! My horse, gentlemen--or, was. Not a better\r\nhunter in Maryland!”\r\n\r\n“Yes,” answered one of the officers. “We've just taken him from your\r\nbrother. He's been stirring trouble with his speeches and has got to be\r\nquieted. But we'll have him to-day, for he's to be married, and a\r\nscouting party is on the road to nab him at the altar.”\r\n\r\n“Married! My brother! What! Ernest, the lawyer, the orator? Ho, ho! Ah,\r\nbut it's rather hard to break off a match in that style!”\r\n\r\n“Hard for him, maybe; but they say the lady feels no great love for him.\r\nHe made it seem like a duty to her, after her lover died.”\r\n\r\n“How's that? Her own--what's her name?”\r\n\r\n“Helen--Helen Carmichael, or something like that.”\r\n\r\nField and sky swam before De Courcy's eyes for a moment; then he resumed,\r\nin a calm voice, and with a pale, set face, “Well, you're making an\r\nunhappy wedding-day for him. If he had Cecil here he would outride you\r\nall. Ah, when I was in practice I could ride this horse and snatch a\r\npebble from the ground without losing pace!”\r\n\r\n“Could you do it now?”\r\n\r\n“I'm afraid long lodging in your prison-ships has stiffened my joints,\r\nbut I'd venture at a handkerchief.”\r\n\r\n“Then try,” said the commandant.\r\n\r\nDe Courcy mounted into the saddle heavily, crossed the grounds at a\r\ncanter, and dropped a handkerchief on the grass. Then, taking a few turns\r\nfor practice, he started at a gallop and swept around like the wind. His\r\nseat was so firm, his air so noble, his mastery of the steed so complete,\r\nthat a cheer of admiration went up. He seemed to fall headlong from the\r\nsaddle, but was up again in a moment, waving the handkerchief gayly in\r\nfarewell--for he kept straight on toward the weak place in the wall. A\r\ncouple of musket-balls hummed by his ears: it was neck or nothing now! A\r\ntremendous leap! Then a ringing cry told the astonished soldiers that he\r\nhad reached the road in safety. Through wood and thicket and field he\r\ndashed as if the fiend were after him, and never once did he cease to\r\nurge his steed till he reached the turnpike, and saw ahead the scouting\r\nparty on its way to arrest his brother.\r\n\r\nTurning into a path that led to the rear of the little church they were\r\nso dangerously near, he plied hands and heels afresh, and in a few\r\nmoments a wedding party was startled by the apparition of a black horse,\r\nall in a foam, ridden by a gaunt man, in torn garments, that burst in at\r\nthe open chancel-door. The bridegroom cowered, for he knew his brother.\r\nThe bride gazed in amazement. “'Tis the dead come to life!” cried one. De\r\nCourcy had little time for words. He rode forward to the altar, swung\r\nHelen up behind him, and exclaimed, “Save yourselves! The British are\r\ncoming! To horse, every one, and make for the manor!” There were shrieks\r\nand fainting--and perhaps a little cursing, even if it was in\r\nchurch,--and when the squadron rode up most of the company were in full\r\nflight. Ernest was taken, and next morning held his brother's place on\r\nthe prison-list, while, as arrangements had been made for a wedding,\r\nthere was one, and a happy one, but Albert was the bridegroom.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSPOOKS OF THE HIAWASSEE\r\n\r\nThe hills about the head of the Hiawassee are filled with “harnts,” among\r\nthem many animal ghosts, that ravage about the country from sheer\r\nviciousness. The people of the region, illiterate and superstitious, have\r\nunquestioning faith in them. They tell you about the headless bull and\r\nblack dog of the valley of the Chatata, the white stag of the\r\nSequahatchie, and the bleeding horse of the Great Smoky Mountains--the\r\nlast three being portents of illness, death, or misfortune to those who\r\nsee them.\r\n\r\nOther ghosts are those of men. Near the upper Hiawassee is a cave where a\r\npile of human skulls was found by a man who had put up his cabin near the\r\nentrance. For some reason, which he says he never understood, this farmer\r\ngathered up the old, bleached bones and dumped them into his shed. Quite\r\npossibly he did not dare to confess that he wanted them for fertilizers\r\nor to burn them for his poultry.\r\n\r\nNight fell dark and still, with a waning moon rising over the\r\nmountains--as calm a night as ever one slept through. Along toward the\r\nmiddle of it a sound like the coming of a cyclone brought the farmer out\r\nof his bed. He ran to the window to see if the house were to be uprooted,\r\nbut the forest was still, with a strange, oppressive stillness--not a\r\ntwig moving, not a cloud veiling the stars, not an insect chirping.\r\nFilled with a vague fear, he tried to waken his wife, but she was like\r\none in a state of catalepsy.\r\n\r\nAgain the sound was heard, and now he saw, without, a shadowy band\r\ncircling about his house like leaves whirled on the wind. It seemed to be\r\nmade of human shapes, with tossing arms--this circling band--and the\r\nsound was that of many voices, each faint and hollow, by itself, but loud\r\nin aggregate. He who was watching realized then that the wraiths of the\r\ndead whose skulls he had purloined from their place of sepulture were out\r\nin lament and protest. He went on his knees at once and prayed with vigor\r\nuntil morning. As soon as it was light enough to see his way he replaced\r\nthe skulls, and was not troubled by the “haunts” again. All the gold in\r\nAmerica, said he, would not tempt him to remove any more bones from the\r\ncave-tombs of the unknown dead.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP\r\n\r\nDrummond's Pond, or the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, is a dark and lonely\r\ntarn that lies in the centre of this noted Virginia morass. It is, in a\r\ncentury-old tradition, the Styx of two unhappy ghosts that await the end\r\nof time to pass its confines and enjoy the sunshine of serener worlds. A\r\nyoung woman of a family that had settled near this marsh died of a fever\r\ncaused by its malarial exhalations, and was buried near the swamp. The\r\nyoung man to whom she was betrothed felt her loss so keenly that for days\r\nhe neither ate nor slept, and at last broke down in mind and body. He\r\nrecovered a measure of physical health, after a time, but his reason was\r\nhopelessly lost.\r\n\r\nIt was his hallucination that the girl was not dead, but had been exiled\r\nto the lonely reaches of this watery wilderness. He was heard to mutter,\r\n“I'll find her, and when Death comes I'll hide her in the hollow of a\r\ncypress until he passes on.” Evading restraint, he plunged into the fen,\r\nand for some days he wandered there, eating berries, sleeping on tussocks\r\nof grass, with water-snakes crawling over him and poisonous plants\r\nshedding their baneful dew on his flesh. He came to the lake at last. A\r\nwill-o'the-wisp played along the surface. “'Tis she!” he cried. “I see\r\nher, standing in the light.” Hastily fashioning a raft of cypress boughs\r\nhe floated it and pushed toward the centre of the pond, but the eagerness\r\nof his efforts and the rising of a wind dismembered the frail platform,\r\nand he fell into the black water to rise no more. But often, in the\r\nnight, is seen the wraith of a canoe, with a fire-fly lamp burning on its\r\nprow, restlessly urged to and fro by two figures that seem to be vainly\r\nsearching for an exit from the place, and that are believed to be those\r\nof the maiden and her lover.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BARGE OF DEFEAT\r\n\r\nRappannock River, in Virginia, used to be vexed with shadowy craft that\r\nsome of the populace affirmed to be no boats, but spirits in disguise.\r\nOne of these apparitions was held in fear by the Democracy of Essex\r\nCounty, as it was believed to be a forerunner of Republican victory. The\r\nfirst recorded appearance of the vessel was shortly after the Civil War,\r\non the night of a Democratic mass-meeting at Tappahannock. There were\r\nmusic, refreshments, and jollity, and it was in the middle of a rousing\r\nspeech that a man in the crowd cried, “Look, fellows! What is that queer\r\nconcern going down the river?”\r\n\r\nThe people moved to the shore, and by the light of their torches a hulk\r\nwas seen drifting with the stream--a hulk of fantastic form unlike\r\nanything that sails there in the daytime. As it came opposite the throng,\r\nthe torchlight showed gigantic negroes who danced on deck, showing\r\nhorrible faces to the multitude. Not a sound came from the barge, the\r\nhalloos of the spectators bringing no response, and some boatmen ventured\r\ninto the stream, only to pull back in a hurry, for the craft had become\r\nso strangely enveloped in shadow that it seemed to melt into air.\r\n\r\nNext day the Democracy was defeated at the polls, chiefly by the negro\r\nvote. In 1880 it reappeared, and, as before, the Republicans gained the\r\nday. Just before the election of 1886, Mr. Croxton, Democratic nominee\r\nfor Congress, was haranguing the people, when the cry of “The Black\r\nBarge!” arose. Argument and derision were alike ineffectual with the\r\npopulace. The meeting broke up in silence and gloom, and Mr. Croxton was\r\ndefeated by a majority of two thousand.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nNATURAL BRIDGE\r\n\r\nThough several natural bridges are known in this country, there is but\r\none that is famous the world over, and that is the one which spans Clear\r\nCreek, Virginia--the remnant of a cave-roof, all the rest of the cavern\r\nhaving collapsed. It is two hundred and fifteen feet above the water, and\r\nis a solid mass of rock forty feet thick, one hundred feet wide, and\r\nninety feet in span. Thomas Jefferson owned it; George Washington scaled\r\nits side and carved his name on the rock a foot higher than any one else.\r\nHere, too, came the youth who wanted to cut his name above Washington's,\r\nand who found, to his horror, when half-way up, that he must keep on, for\r\nhe had left no resting-places for his feet at safe and reachable\r\ndistances--who, therefore, climbed on and on, cutting handhold and\r\nfoothold in the limestone until he reached the top, in a fainting state,\r\nhis knife-blade worn to a stump. Here, too, in another tunnel of the\r\ncavern, flows Lost River, that all must return to, at some time, if they\r\ndrink of it. Here, beneath the arch, is the dark stain, so like a flying\r\neagle that the French officer who saw it during the Revolution augured\r\nfrom it a success for the united arms of the nations that used the eagle\r\nas their symbol.\r\n\r\nThe Mohegans knew this wonder of natural masonry, for to this point they\r\nwere pursued by a hostile tribe, and on reaching the gulf found\r\nthemselves on the edge of a precipice that was too steep at that point to\r\ndescend. Behind them was the foe; before them, the chasm. At the\r\nsuggestion of one of their medicine-men they joined in a prayer to the\r\nGreat Spirit for deliverance, and when again they looked about them,\r\nthere stood the bridge. Their women were hurried over; then, like so many\r\nHoratii, they formed across this dizzy highway and gave battle.\r\nEncouraged by the knowledge that they had a safe retreat in case of being\r\novermastered, they fought with such heart that the enemy was defeated,\r\nand the grateful Mohegans named the place the Bridge of God.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SILENCE BROKEN\r\n\r\nIt was in 1734 that Joist Hite moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia, with\r\nhis wife and boys, and helped to make a settlement on the Shenandoah\r\ntwelve miles south of Woodstock. When picking berries at a distance from\r\nthe village, one morning, the boys were surprised by Indians, who hurried\r\nwith them into the wilderness before their friends could be apprised.\r\nAaron, the elder, was strong, and big of frame, with coarse, black hair,\r\nand face tanned brown; but his brother was small and fair, with blue eyes\r\nand yellow locks, and it was doubtless because he was a type of the hated\r\nwhite race that the Indians spent their blows and kicks on him and spared\r\nthe sturdy one. Aaron was wild with rage at the injuries put upon his\r\ngentle brother, but he was bound and helpless, and all that he could do\r\nwas to encourage him to bear a stout heart and not to fall behind.\r\n\r\nBut Peter was too delicate to keep up, and there came a day when he could\r\ngo no farther. The red men consulted for a few moments, then all of them\r\nstood apart but one, who fitted an arrow to his bow. The child's eyes\r\ngrew big with fear, and Aaron tore at his bonds, but uselessly, and\r\nshouted that he would take the victim's place, but no one understood his\r\nspeech, and in another moment Peter lay dead on the earth, with an arrow\r\nin his heart. Aaron gave one cry of hate and despair, and he, too, sank\r\nunconscious. On coming to himself he found that he was in a hut of\r\nboughs, attended by an old Indian, who told him in rude English that he\r\nwas recovering from an illness of several weeks' duration, and that it\r\nwas the purpose of his tribe to adopt him. When the lad tried to protest\r\nhe found to his amazement that he could not utter a sound, and he learned\r\nfrom the Indian that the fever had taken away his tongue. In the dulness\r\nand weakness of his state he submitted to be clothed in Indian dress,\r\nsmeared with a juice that browned his skin, and greeted by his brother's\r\nslayers as one of themselves. When he looked into a pool he found that he\r\nhad, to all intents, become an Indian. In time he became partly\r\nreconciled to this change, for he did not know and could not ask where\r\nthe white settlements lay; his appearance and his inability to speak\r\nwould prevent his recognition by his friends, the red men were not unkind\r\nto him, and every boy likes a free and out-door life. They taught him to\r\nshoot with bow and arrow, but they kept him back if a white settlement\r\nwas to be plundered.\r\n\r\nThree years had elapsed, and Aaron, grown tall and strong, was a good\r\nhunter who stood in favor with the tribe. They had roamed back to the\r\nneighborhood of Woodstock, when, at a council, Aaron overheard a plot to\r\nfall on the village where his parents lived. He begged, by signs, to be\r\nallowed to go with them, and, believing that he could now be trusted,\r\nthey offered no objection. Stoic as he had grown to be, he could not\r\nrepress a tear as he saw his old home and thought of the peril that it\r\nstood in. If only he could give an alarm! The Indians retired into the\r\nforest to cook their food where the smoke could not be seen, while Aaron\r\nlingered at the edge of the wood and prayed for opportunity. He was not\r\ndisappointed. Two girls came up through the perfumed dusk, driving cows\r\nfrom the pasture, and as they drew near, Aaron, pretending not to see\r\nthem, crawled out of the bush with his weapons, and made a show of\r\nstealthily examining the town. The girls came almost upon him and\r\nscreamed, while he dashed into the wood in affected surprise and regained\r\nthe camp. The Indians had heard and seen nothing. The girls would surely\r\ngive the alarm in town.\r\n\r\nOne by one the lights of the village went out, and when it seemed locked\r\nin sleep the red marauders crept toward the nearest house--that of Joist\r\nHite. They arose together and rushed upon it, but at that moment a gun\r\nwas fired, an Indian fell, and in a few seconds more the settlers, whom\r\nthe girls had not failed to put on their guard, were hurrying from their\r\nhiding-places, firing into the astonished crowd of savages, who dashed\r\nfor the woods again, leaving a dozen of their number on the ground. Aaron\r\nremained quietly standing near his father's house, and he was captured,\r\nas he hoped to be. When he saw how his parents had aged with time and\r\ngrief he could not repress a tear, but to his grief was added terror when\r\nhis father, after looking him steadily in the eye without recognition,\r\nbegan to load a pistol. “They killed my boys,” said he, “and I am going\r\nto kill him. Bind him to that tree.”\r\n\r\nIn vain the mother pleaded for mercy; in vain the dumb boy's eyes\r\nappealed to his father's. He was not afraid to die, and would do so\r\ngladly to have saved the settlement; but to die by his father's band! He\r\ncould not endure it. He was bound to a tree, with the light of a fire\r\nshining into his face.\r\n\r\nThe old man, with hard determination, raised the weapon and aimed it\r\nslowly at the boy's heart. A surge of feeling shook the frame of the\r\ncaptive--he threw his whole life into the effort--then the silence of\r\nthree years was broken, and he cried, “Father!” A moment later his\r\nparents were sobbing joyfully, and he could speak to them once more.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSIREN OF THE FRENCH BROAD\r\n\r\nAmong the rocks east of Asheville, North Carolina, lives the Lorelei of\r\nthe French Broad River. This stream--the Tselica of the Indians--contains\r\nin its upper reaches many pools where the rapid water whirls and deepens,\r\nand where the traveller likes to pause in the heats of afternoon and\r\ndrink and bathe. Here, from the time when the Cherokees occupied the\r\ncountry, has lived the siren, and if one who is weary and downcast sits\r\nbeside the stream or utters a wish to rest in it, he becomes conscious of\r\na soft and exquisite music blending with the plash of the wave.\r\n\r\nLooking down in surprise he sees--at first faintly, then with\r\ndistinctness--the form of a beautiful woman, with hair streaming like\r\nmoss and dark eyes looking into his, luring him with a power he cannot\r\nresist. His breath grows short, his gaze is fixed, mechanically he rises,\r\nsteps to the brink, and lurches forward into the river. The arms that\r\ncatch him are slimy and cold as serpents; the face that stares into his\r\nis a grinning skull. A loud, chattering laugh rings through the\r\nwilderness, and all is still again.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HUNTER OF CALAWASSEE\r\n\r\nThrough brisk November days young Kedar and his trusty slave, Lauto,\r\nhunted along the Calawassee, with hope to get a shot at a buck--a buck\r\nthat wore a single horn and that eluded them with easy, baffling gait\r\nwhenever they met it in the fens. Kedar was piqued at this. He drained a\r\ndeep draught and buttoned his coat with an air of resolution. “Now, by my\r\nsoul,” quoth he, “I'll have that buck to-day or die myself!” Then he\r\nlaughed at the old slave, who begged him to unsay the oath, for there was\r\nsomething unusual about that animal--as it ran it left no tracks, and it\r\npassed through the densest wood without halting at trees or undergrowth.\r\n“Bah!” retorted the huntsman. “Have up the dogs. If that buck is the\r\nfiend himself, I'll have him before the day is out!” The twain were\r\nquickly in their saddles, and they had not been long in the wood before\r\nthe one-horned buck was seen ahead, trotting with easy pace, yet with\r\nmarvellous swiftness.\r\n\r\nKedar, who was in advance, whipped up his horse and followed the deer\r\ninto a cypress grove near the Chechesee. As the game halted at a pool he\r\nfired. The report sounded dead in the dense wood, and the deer turned\r\ncalmly, watched his pursuer until he was close at hand, then trotted away\r\nagain. All day long he held the chase. The dogs were nowhere within\r\nsound, and he galloped through the forest, shouting and swearing like a\r\nvery devil, beating and spurring the horse until the poor creature's head\r\nand flanks were reddened with blood. It was just at sunset that Kedar\r\nfound himself again on the bank of the Calawassee, near the point he had\r\nleft in the morning, and heard once more the baying of his hounds. At\r\nlast his prey seemed exhausted, and, swimming the river, it ran into a\r\nthicket on the opposite side and stood still. “Now I have him!” cried the\r\nhunter. “Hillio, Lauto! He's mine!” The old negro heard the call and\r\nhastened forward. He heard his master's horse floundering in the swamp\r\nthat edged the river--then came a plash, a curse, and as the slave\r\narrived at the margin a few bubbles floated on the sluggish current. The\r\ndeer stood in the thicket, staring with eyes that blazed through the\r\nfalling darkness, and, with a wail of fear and sorrow, old Lauto fled the\r\nspot.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nREVENGE OF THE ACCABEE\r\n\r\nThe settlement made by Lord Cardross, near Beaufort, South Carolina, was\r\nbeset by Spaniards and Indians, who laid it in ashes and slew every\r\nperson in it but one. She, a child of thirteen, had supposed the young\r\nchief of the Accabees to be her father, as he passed in the smoke, and\r\nhad thrown herself into his arms. The savage raised his axe to strike,\r\nbut, catching her blue eye raised to his, more in grief and wonder than\r\nalarm, the menacing hand fell to his side, and, tossing the girl lightly\r\nto a seat on his shoulder, he strode off into the forest. Mile after mile\r\nhe bore her, and if she slept he held her to his breast as a father holds\r\na babe. When she awoke it was in his lodge on the Ashley, and he was\r\nsmiling in her face. The chief became her protector; but those who\r\nmarked, with the flight of time, how his fierceness had softened, knew\r\nthat she was more to him than a daughter. Years passed, the girl had\r\ngrown to womanhood, and her captor declared himself her lover. She seemed\r\nnot ill pleased at this, for she consented to be his wife. After the\r\nbetrothal the chief joined a hunting party and was absent for a time. On\r\nhis return the girl was gone. A trader who had been bartering merchandise\r\nfor furs had seen her, had been inspired by passion, and, favored by\r\nsuave manners and a white skin, he had won in a day a stronger affection\r\nthan the Indian could claim after years of loving watchfulness.\r\n\r\nWhen this discovery was made the chief, without a word, set off on the\r\ntrail, and by broken twig, by bended grass and footprints at the\r\nbrook-edge, he followed their course until he found them resting beneath\r\na tree. The girl sprang from her new lover's arms with a cry of fear as\r\nthe savage, with knife and tomahawk girt upon him, stepped into view, and\r\nshe would have clasped his knees, but he motioned her away; then,\r\nordering them to continue their march, he went behind them until they had\r\nreached a fertile spot on the Ashley, near the present site of\r\nCharleston, where he halted. “Though guilty, you shall not die,” said he\r\nto the woman; then, to his rival, “You shall marry her, and a white\r\npriest shall join your hands. Here is your future home. I give you many\r\nacres of my land, but look that you care for her. As I have been merciful\r\nto you, do good to her. If you treat her ill, I shall not be far away.”\r\n\r\nThe twain were married and went to live on the acres that had been so\r\ngenerously ceded to them, and for a time all went well; but the true\r\ndisposition of the husband, which was sullen and selfish, soon began to\r\ndisclose itself; disagreements arose, then quarrels; at last the man\r\nstruck his wife, and, seizing the deed of the Accabee land and a paper\r\nthat he had forced her to sign without knowing its contents, he started\r\nfor the settlements, intending to sell the property and sail for England.\r\nOn the edge of the village his flight was stayed by a tall form that\r\narose in his path-that of the Indian. “I gave you all,” said the chief,\r\n“the woman who should have been my wife, and then my land. This is your\r\nthanks. You shall go no farther.”\r\n\r\nWith a quick stroke of the axe he cleft the skull of the shrinking\r\nwretch, and then, cutting off his scalp, the Indian ran to the cottage\r\nwhere sat the abandoned wife, weeping before the embers of her fire. He\r\nroused her by tossing on fresh fuel, but she shrank back in grief and\r\nshame when she saw who had come to her. “Do not fear,” he said. “The man\r\nwho struck you meant to sell your home to strangers”--and he laid the\r\ndeed of sale before her, “but he will never play you false or lay hands on\r\nyou again. Look!” He tossed the dripping scalp upon the paper. “Now I\r\nleave you forever. I cannot take you back among my people, who do not\r\nknow deceit like yours, nor could I ever love you as I did at first.”\r\n Turning, without other farewell he went out at the door. When this gift\r\nof Accabee land was sold--for the woman could no longer bear to live on\r\nit, but went to a northern city--a handsome house was built by the new\r\nowner, who added game preserves and pleasure grounds to the estate, but\r\nit was “haunted by a grief.” Illness and ill luck followed the purchase,\r\nand the house fell into ruin.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTOCCOA FALLS\r\n\r\nEarly in the days of the white occupation of Georgia a cabin stood not\r\nfar from the Falls of Toccoa (the Beautiful). Its only occupant was a\r\nfeeble woman, who found it ill work to get food enough from the wild\r\nfruits and scanty clearing near the house, and she had nigh forgotten the\r\ntaste of meat; for her two sons, who were her pride no less than her\r\nsupport, had been killed by savages. She often said that she would gladly\r\ndie if she could harm the red men back, in return for her\r\nsuffering--which was not Christian doctrine, but was natural. She was\r\nbrooding at her fire, one winter evening, in wonder as to how one so weak\r\nand old as she could be revenged, when her door was flung open and a\r\nnumber of red men filled her cabin. She hardly changed countenance. She\r\ndid not rise. “You may take my life,” she said, “for it is useless, now\r\nthat you have robbed it of all that made it worth living.”\r\n\r\n“Hush!” said the chief. “What does the warrior want with the scalps of\r\nwomen? We war on your men because they kill our game and steal our land.”\r\n\r\n“Is it possible that you come to our homes except to kill?”\r\n\r\n“We are strangers and have lost our way. You must guide us to the foot of\r\nToccoa and lead us to our friends.”\r\n\r\n“I lead you? Never!”\r\n\r\nThe chief raised his axe, but the woman did not flinch. There was a\r\npause, in which the iron still hung menacing. Suddenly the dame looked up\r\nand said, “If you promise to protect me, I will lead you.”\r\n\r\nThe promise was given and the band set forth, the aged guide in advance,\r\nbending against the storm and clasping her poor rags about her. In the\r\ndarkest part of the wood, where the roaring of wind and groaning of\r\nbranches seemed the louder for the booming of waters, she cautioned the\r\nband to keep in single file, but to make haste, for the way was far and\r\nthe gloom was thickening. Bending their heads against the wind they\r\npressed forward, she in advance. Suddenly, yet stealthily, she sprang\r\naside and crouched beneath a tree that grew at the very brink of the\r\nfall. The Indians came on, following blindly, and in an instant she\r\ndescried the leader as he went whirling over the edge, and one after\r\nanother the party followed. When the last had gone to his death she arose\r\nto her feet with a laugh of triumph. “Now I, too, can die!” she cried. So\r\nsaying, she fell forward into the grayness of space.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTWO LIVES FOR ONE\r\n\r\nThe place of Macon, Georgia, in the early part of this century was marked\r\nonly by an inn. One of its guests was a man who had stopped there on the\r\nway to Alabama, where he had bought land. The girl who was, to be his\r\nwife was to follow in a few days. In the morning when he paid his\r\nreckoning he produced a well-filled pocket-book, and he did not see the\r\nsignificant look that passed between two rough black-bearded fellows who\r\nhad also spent the night there, and who, when he set forth, mounted their\r\nhorses and offered to keep him company. As they rode through the deserted\r\nvillage of Chilicte one of the twain engaged the traveller in talk while\r\nthe other, falling a little behind, dealt him a blow with a loaded whip\r\nthat unseated him. Divining their purpose, and lacking weapons for his\r\nown defence, he begged for mercy, and asked to be allowed to return to\r\nhis bride to be, but the robbers had already made themselves liable to\r\npenalty, and two knife-thrusts in the breast silenced his appeals. The\r\nmoney was secured, the body was dropped into a hollow where the wolves\r\nwould be likely to find and mangle it, and the outlaws went on their way.\r\n\r\nMen of their class do not keep money long, and when the proceeds of the\r\nrobbery had been wasted at cards and in drink they separated. As in\r\nfulfilment of the axiom that a murderer is sure to revisit the scene of\r\nhis crime, one of the men found himself at the Ocmulgee, a long time\r\nafterward, in sight of the new town--Macon. In response to his halloo a\r\nskiff shot forth from the opposite shore, and as it approached the bank\r\nhe felt a stir in his hair and a touch of ice at his heart, for the\r\nferryman was his victim of years ago. Neither spoke a word, but the\r\ncriminal felt himself forced to enter the boat when the dead man waved\r\nhis hand, and he was rowed across, his horse swimming beside the skiff.\r\nAs the jar of the keel was felt on the gravel he leaped out, urged his\r\nhorse to the road, sprang to the saddle, and rushed away in an agony of\r\nfear, that was heightened when a hollow voice called, “Stay!”\r\n\r\nAfter a little he slackened pace, and a farmer, who was standing at the\r\nroadside, asked, in astonishment, “How did you get across? There is a\r\nfreshet, and the ferryman was drowned last night.” With a new thrill he\r\nspurred his horse forward, and made no other halt until he reached the\r\ntavern, where he fell in a faint on the steps, for the strain was no\r\nlonger to be endured. A crowd gathered, but he did not see it when he\r\nawoke--he saw only one pair of eyes, that seemed to be looking into his\r\ninmost soul--the eyes of the man he had slain. With a yell of terror and\r\nof insane fury he rushed upon the ghost and thrust a knife into its\r\nbreast. The frenzy passed. It was no ghost that lay on the earth before\r\nhim, staring up with sightless eyes. It was his fellow-murderer--his own\r\nbrother. That night the assassin's body hung from a tree at the\r\ncross-roads.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA GHOSTLY AVENGER\r\n\r\nIn Cuthbert, Georgia, is a gravestone thus inscribed: “Sacred to the\r\nmemory of Jim Brown.” No date, no epitaph--for Jim Brown was hanged. And\r\nthis is the story: At the close of the Civil War a company of Federal\r\nsoldiers was stationed in Cuthbert, to enforce order pending the return\r\nof its people to peaceful occupations. Charles Murphy was a lieutenant in\r\nthis company. His brother, an officer quartered in a neighboring town,\r\nwas sent to Cuthbert one day to receive funds for the payment of some\r\nmen, and left camp toward evening to return to his troop. That night\r\nCharles Murphy was awakened by a violent flapping of his tent. It sounded\r\nas though a gale was coming, but when he arose to make sure that the pegs\r\nand poles of his canvas house were secure, the noise ceased, and he was\r\nsurprised to find that the air was clear and still. On returning to bed\r\nthe flapping began again, and this time he dressed himself and went out\r\nto make a more careful examination. In the shadow of a tree a man stood\r\nbeckoning. It was his brother, who, in a low, grave voice, told him that\r\nhe was in trouble, and asked him to follow where he should lead him. The\r\nlieutenant walked swiftly through fields and woods for some miles with\r\nhis relative--he had at once applied for and received a leave of absence\r\nfor a few hours--and they descended together a slope to the edge of a\r\nswamp, where he stumbled against something. Looking down at the object on\r\nwhich he had tripped, he saw that it was his brother's corpse--not newly\r\ndead, but cold and rigid--the pockets rifled, the clothing soaked with\r\nmire and blood.\r\n\r\nDazed and terrified, he returned to camp, roused some of his men, and at\r\ndaybreak secured the body. An effort to gain a clue to the murderer was\r\nat once set on foot. It was not long before evidence was secured that led\r\nto the arrest of Jim Brown, and there was a hint that his responsibility\r\nfor the crime was revealed through the same supernatural agency that had\r\napprised Lieutenant Murphy of his bereavement. Brown was an ignorant farm\r\nlaborer, who had conceived that it was right to kill Yankees, and whose\r\ncupidity had been excited by learning that the officer had money\r\nconcealed about him. He had offered, for a trifling sum, to take his\r\nvictim by a short cut to his camp, but led him to the swamp instead,\r\nwhere he had shot him through the heart. On the culprit's arrival in\r\nCuthbert he was lynched by the soldiers, but was cut down by their\r\ncommander before life was extinct, and was formally and conclusively\r\nhanged in the next week, after trial and conviction.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WRAITH RINGER OF ATLANTA\r\n\r\nA man was killed in Elliott Street, Atlanta, Georgia, by a cowardly\r\nstroke from a stiletto. The assassin escaped. Strange what a humming\r\nthere was in the belfry of St. Michael's Church that night! Had the\r\nmurderer taken refuge there? Was it a knell for his lost soul, chasing\r\nhim through the empty streets and beginning already an eternal punishment\r\nof terror? Perhaps the guilty one did not dare to leave Atlanta, for the\r\nchimes sang in minor chords on several nights after. The old policeman\r\nwho kept ward in an antiquated guardhouse that stood opposite the\r\nchurch--it was afterward shaken down by earthquake--said that he saw a\r\nhuman form, which he would avouch to be that of the murdered man, though\r\nit was wrapped in a cloak, stalk to the doors, enter without opening\r\nthem, glide up the winding stair, albeit he bent neither arm nor knee,\r\npass the ropes by which the chimes were rung, and mount to the belfry. He\r\ncould see the shrouded figure standing beneath the gloomy mouths of\r\nmetal. It extended its bony hands to the tongues of the bells and swung\r\nthem from side to side, but while they appeared to strike vigorously they\r\nseemed as if muffled, and sent out only a low, musical roar, as if they\r\nwere rung by the wind. Was the murderer abroad on those nights? Did he,\r\ntoo, see that black shadow of his victim in the belfry sounding an alarm\r\nto the sleeping town and appealing to be avenged? It may be. At all\r\nevents, the apparition boded ill to others, for, whenever the chimes were\r\nrung by spectral hands, mourners gathered at some bedside within hearing\r\nof them and lamented that the friend they had loved would never know them\r\nmore on earth.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SWALLOWING EARTHQUAKE\r\n\r\nThe Indian village that in 1765 stood just below the site of Oxford,\r\nAlabama, was upset when the news was given out that two of the squaws had\r\ngiven simultaneous birth to a number of children that were spotted like\r\nleopards. Such an incident betokened the existence of some baneful spirit\r\namong them that had no doubt leagued itself with the women, who were at\r\nonce tried on the charge of witchcraft, convicted, and sentenced to death\r\nat the stake, while a watch was to be set on the infants, so early\r\norphaned, lest they, too, should show signs of malevolent possession. The\r\nwhole tribe, seventeen hundred in number, assembled to see the execution,\r\nbut hardly were the fires alight when a sound like thunder rolled beneath\r\ntheir feet, and with a hideous crack and groan the earth opened and\r\nnearly every soul was engulfed in a fathomless and smoking pit-all,\r\nindeed, save two, for a couple of young braves who were on the edge of\r\nthe crowd flung themselves flat on the heaving ground and remained there\r\nuntil the earthquake wave had passed. The hollow afterward filled with\r\nwater and was called Blue Pond. It is popularly supposed to be\r\nfathomless, but it was shown that a forest once spread across the bottom,\r\nwhen, but a few years ago, a great tree arose from the water, lifting\r\nfirst its branches, then turning so as to show its roots above the\r\nsurface, and afterward disappeared.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLAST STAND OF THE BILOXI\r\n\r\nThe southern part of this country was once occupied by a people called\r\nthe Biloxi, who had kept pace with the Aztecs in civilization and who\r\ncultivated especially the art of music. In lives of gentleness and peace\r\nthey so soon forgot the use of arms that when the Choctaws descended on\r\ntheir fields they were powerless to prevent the onset. Town after town\r\nthey evacuated before the savages, and at last the Biloxi, reduced to a\r\nfew thousands, were driven to the mouth of the Pascagoula River,\r\nMississippi, where they intrenched themselves, and for a few months\r\nwithstood the invaders. But the time came when their supplies were\r\nexhausted, and every form was pinched with hunger. Flight was impossible.\r\nSurrender commonly meant slaughter and outrage. They resolved to die\r\ntogether.\r\n\r\nOn a fair spring morning the river-ward gates of their fort were opened\r\nand the survivors of that hapless tribe marched forth, their chief in\r\nadvance, with resolution on his wasted face, then the soldiers and\r\ncounsellors, the young men, the women and children, and the babes asleep\r\non the empty breasts of their mothers. As they emerged from the walls\r\nwith slow but steady step they broke into song, and their assailants, who\r\nhad retired to their tents for their meal, listened with surprise to the\r\nchorus of defiance and rejoicing set up by the starving people. Without\r\npause or swerving they entered the bay and kept their march. Now the\r\nwaters closed over the chief, then the soldiers--at last only a few\r\nvoices of women were heard in the chant, and in a few moments all was\r\nstill. Not one shrank from the sacrifice. And for years after the echo of\r\nthat death-song floated over he waves.\r\n\r\nAnother version of the legend sets forth that the Biloxi believed\r\nthemselves the children of the sea, and that they worshipped the image of\r\na lovely mermaid with wondrous music. After the Spaniards had come among\r\nthis gay and gentle people, they compelled them, by tyranny and murder,\r\nto accept the religion of the white man, but of course it was only\r\nlip-service that they rendered at the altar. The Biloxi were awakened one\r\nnight by the sound of wings and the rising of the river. Going forth they\r\nsaw the waters of Pascagoula heaped in a quivering mound, and bright on\r\nits moonlit crest stood a mermaid that sang to them, “Come to me,\r\nchildren of the sea. Neither bell, book, nor cross shall win you from\r\nyour queen.” Entranced by her song and the potency of her glances, they\r\nmoved forward until they encircled the hill of waters. Then, with hiss\r\nand roar, the river fell back to its level, submerging the whole tribe.\r\nThe music that haunts the bay, rising through the water when the moon is\r\nout, is the sound of their revels in the caves below--dusky Tannhausers\r\nof a southern Venusberg. An old priest, who was among them at the time of\r\nthis prodigy, feared that the want of result to his teachings was due to\r\nhis not being in a perfect state of grace. On his death-bed he declared\r\nthat if a priest would row to the spot where the music sounded, at\r\nmidnight on Christmas, and drop a crucifix into the water, he would\r\ninstantly be swallowed by the waves, but that every soul at the bottom\r\nwould be redeemed. The souls have never been ransomed.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SACRED FIRE OF NACHEZ\r\n\r\nThe Indians of the South, being in contact with the civilized races of\r\nCentral America, were among the most progressive and honorable of the red\r\nmen. They were ruled by intelligence rather than force, and something of\r\nthe respect that Europeans feel for their kingly families made them\r\nsubmit to woman's rule. The valley of Nacooche, Georgia, indeed,\r\nperpetuates in its name one of these princesses of a royal house, for\r\nthough she ruled a large tribe with wisdom she was not impervious to the\r\npassions of common mortals. The “Evening Star” died by her own hand,\r\nbeing disappointed in love affair. Her story is that of Juliet, and she\r\nand her lover--united in death, as they could not be in life--are buried\r\nbeneath a mound in the centre of he valley.\r\n\r\nThe Indians of that region had towns built for permanency, and possessed\r\nsome knowledge of the arts, while in religion their belief and rites were\r\ncuriously like those of the Persian fire-worshippers. It was on the site\r\nof the present city in Mississippi which bears their name that the\r\nNatchez Indians built their Temple of the Sun. When it was finished a\r\nmeteor fell from heaven and kindled the fire on their altar, and from\r\nthat hour the priests guarded he flame continually, until one night when\r\nit was extinguished by mischance. This event was believed to be an omen,\r\nand the people so took it to heart that when the white men came, directly\r\nafter, they had little courage to prosecute a war, and fell back before\r\nthe conqueror, never to hold their ancient home again.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPASS CHRISTIAN\r\n\r\nSenhor Vineiro, a Portuguese, having wedded Julia Regalea, a Spaniard, in\r\nSouth America, found it needful to his fortunes to leave Montevideo, for\r\na revolution was breeding, and no less needful to his happiness to take\r\nhis wife with him from that city, for he was old and she was young. But\r\nhe chose the wrong ship to sail on, for Captain Dane, of the Nightingale,\r\nwas also young, presentable, and well schooled, but heartless. On the\r\nvoyage to New Orleans he not only won the affection of the wife, but slew\r\nthe husband and flung his body overboard. Vainly the wife tried to\r\nrepress the risings of remorse, and vainly, too, she urged Dane to seek\r\nabsolution from her church. She had never loved her husband, and she had\r\nloved Dane from the first, but she was not at heart a bad woman and her\r\npeace was gone. The captain was disturbed and suspicious. His sailors\r\nglanced at him out of the corners of their eyes in a way that he did not\r\nlike. Had the woman in some unintentional remark betrayed him? Could he\r\nconceal his crime, save with a larger one?\r\n\r\nPass Christian was a village then. On a winter night its people saw a\r\nglare in the sky, and hurrying to their doors found a ship burning in the\r\ngulf. Smacks and row-boats put off to the rescue, but hardly were they\r\nunder way ere the ship disappeared as suddenly as if the sea had\r\nswallowed it. As the night was thick the boats returned, but next morning\r\nfive men were encountered on the shore-all that were left of the crew of\r\nthe Nightingale. Captain Dane was so hospitably received by the people of\r\nthe district, and seemed to take so great a liking for the place, that he\r\nresolved to live there. He bought a plantation with a roomy old house\r\nupon it and took his fellow-survivors there to live, as he hoped, an easy\r\nlife. That was not to be. Yellow fever struck down all the men but Dane,\r\nand one of them, in dying, raved to his negro nurse that Dane had taken\r\nall the treasure from the ship and put it into a boat, after serving grog\r\nenough to intoxicate all save the trusted ones of the crew; that he and\r\nhis four associates fired the ship and rowed away, leaving an unhappy\r\nwoman to a horrible fate. Senhora Vineiro was pale but composed when she\r\nsaw the manner of death she was to die. She brought from her cabin a harp\r\nwhich had been a solace of her husband and herself and began to play and\r\nsing an air that some of the listeners remembered. It was an “Ave Maria,”\r\n and the sound of it was so plaintive that even Dane stopped rowing; but\r\nhe set his teeth when his shoe touched the box of gold at his feet and\r\nordered the men to row on. There was an explosion and the vessel\r\ndisappeared. On reaching shore the treasure was buried at the foot of a\r\nlarge oak.\r\n\r\nThis story was repeated by the nurse, but she was ignorant, she had no\r\nproofs, so it was not generally believed; yet there was a perceptible\r\ndifference in the treatment of Dane by his neighbors, and among the\r\nsuperstitious negroes it was declared that he had sold himself to the\r\ndevil. If he had, was it an air from hell that sounded in his ears when\r\nhe was alone?--the “Ave Maria” of a sinning but repentant woman. The\r\ncoldness and suspicion were more than he could stand. Besides, who could\r\ntell? Evidence might be found against him. He would dig up his treasure\r\nand fly the country. It was a year from the night when he had fired his\r\nship. Going out after dark, that none might see him, he stole to the tree\r\nand began to dig. Presently a red light grew through the air, and looking\r\nup he saw a flaming vessel advancing over the sea. It stopped, and he\r\ncould see men clambering into a boat at its side. They rowed toward him\r\nwith such miraculous speed that the ocean seemed to steam with a blue\r\nlight as they advanced. He stood like a stone, for now he could see the\r\nfaces of the rowers, and every one was the face of a corpse--a corpse\r\nthat had been left on board of that vessel and had been in the bottom of\r\nthe sea for the last twelvemonth. They sprang on shore and rushed upon\r\nhim. Next morning Dane's body was found beneath the oak with his hands\r\nfilled with gems and gold.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE UNDER LAND\r\n\r\nWhen the Chatas looked into the still depths of Bayou Lacombe, Louisiana,\r\nthey said that the reflection of the sky was the empyrean of the Under\r\nLand, whither all good souls were sure to go after death. Their chief,\r\nOpaleeta, having fallen into this bayou, was so long beneath the water\r\nthat he was dead when his fellows found him, but by working over him for\r\nhours, and through resort to prayers and incantations of medicine men,\r\nhis life returned and he stood on his feet once more. Then he grieved\r\nthat his friends had brought him back, for he had been at the gates of\r\nthe Under Land, where the air is blithe and balmy, and so nourishing that\r\npeople live on it; where it is never winter; where the sun shines\r\nbrightly, but never withers and parches; and where stars dance to the\r\nswing of the breezes. There no white man comes to rob the Indian and\r\nteach him to do wrong. Gorgeous birds fly through changing skies that\r\nborrow the tints of flowers, the fields are spangled with blossoms of red\r\nand blue and gold that load each wind with perfume, the grass is as fine\r\nas the hair of deer, and the streams are thick with honey.\r\n\r\nAt sunset those who loved each other in life are gathered to their\r\nlodges, and raise songs of joy and thankfulness. Their voices are soft\r\nand musical, their faces are young again and beam with smiles, and there\r\nis no death. It was only the chiefs who heard his story, for, had all the\r\ntribe known it, many who were old and ill and weary would have gone to\r\nthe bayou, and leaped in, to find that restful, happy Under Land. Those\r\nwho had gone before they sometimes tried to see, when the lake was still\r\nand dappled with pictures of sunset clouds, but the dead never came\r\nback--they kept away from the margin of the water lest they should be\r\ncalled again to a life of toil and sorrow. And Opaleeta lived for many\r\nyears and ruled his tribe with wisdom, yet he shared in few of the\r\nmerry-makings of his people, and when, at last, his lodge was ready in\r\nthe Under Land, he gave up his life without a sigh.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CENRAL STATES AND THE GREAT LAKES\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAN AVERTED PERIL\r\n\r\nIn 1786 a little building stood at North Bend, Ohio, near the junction of\r\nthe Miami and Ohio Rivers, from which building the stars and stripes were\r\nflying. It was one of a series of blockhouses built for the protecting of\r\ncleared land while the settlers were coming in, yet it was a trading\r\nstation rather than a fort, for the attitude of government toward the red\r\nmen was pacific. The French of the Mississippi Valley were not\r\nreconciled, however, to the extension of power by a Saxon people, and the\r\nEnglish in Canada were equally jealous of the prosperity of those\r\nprovinces they had so lately lost. Both French and English had emissaries\r\namong the Shawnees when it had become known that the United States\r\nintended to negotiate a treaty with them.\r\n\r\nIt was the mild weather that comes for a time in October, when\r\nCantantowit blesses the land from his home in the southwest with rich\r\ncolors, plaintive perfumes of decay, soft airs, and tender lights a time\r\nfor peace; but the garrison at the fort realized that the situation was\r\nprecarious. The Shawnees had camped about them, and the air was filled\r\nwith the neighing of their ponies and the barking of their dogs. To let\r\nthem into the fort was to invite massacre; to keep them out after they\r\nhad been summoned was to declare war.\r\n\r\nColonel George Rogers Clarke, of Virginia, who was in command, scoffed at\r\nthe fears of his men, and would not give ear to their appeals for an\r\nadjournment of the meeting or a change of the place of it. At the\r\nappointed hour the doors were opened and the Indians came in. The pipe of\r\npeace was smoked in the usual form, but the red men were sullen and\r\ninsolent, and seemed to be seeking a cause of quarrel. Clarke explained\r\nthat the whites desired only peace, and he asked the wise men to speak\r\nfor their tribe. A stalwart chief arose, glanced contemptuously at the\r\nofficer and his little guard, and, striding to the table where Clarke was\r\nseated, threw upon it two girdles of wampum--the peace-belt and the\r\nwar-belt. “We offer you these belts,” he said. “You know what they mean.\r\nTake which you like.”\r\n\r\nIt was a deliberate insult and defiance. Both sides knew it, and many of\r\nthe men held their breath. Clarke carelessly picked up the war-belt on\r\nthe point of his cane and flung it among the assembled chiefs. Every man\r\nin the room sprang to his feet and clutched his weapon. Then, with a\r\nsternness that was almost ferocious, Clarke pointed to the door with an\r\nimperative action, and cried, “Dogs, you may go!”\r\n\r\nThe Indians were foiled in their ill intent by his self-possession and\r\nseeming confidence, which made them believe that he had forces in the\r\nvicinity that they were not prepared to meet. They had already had a\r\nbitter experience of his strength and craft, and in the fear that a trap\r\nhad been set for them they fled tumultuously. The treaty was ratified\r\nsoon after.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE OBSTINACY OF SAINT CLAIR\r\n\r\nWhen the new First Regiment of United States Infantry paused at Marietta,\r\nOhio, on its way to garrison Vincennes, its officers made a gay little\r\ncourt there for a time. The young Major Hamtramck--contemptuously called\r\nby the Indians “the frog on horseback,” because of his round\r\nshoulders--found especial pleasure in the society of Marianne Navarre,\r\nwho was a guest at the house of General Arthur St. Clair; but the old\r\ngeneral viewed this predilection with disfavor, because he had hoped that\r\nhis own daughter would make a match with the major. But Louisa longed for\r\nthe freedom of the woods. She was a horsewoman and a hunter, and she had\r\na sentimental fondness for Indians.\r\n\r\nWhen Joseph Brandt (Thayendanegea) camped with his dreaded band near the\r\ntown, it was she who--without her father's knowledge, and in the disguise\r\nof an Indian girl--took the message that had been entrusted to a soldier\r\nasking the tribe to send delegates to a peace council at the fort. Louisa\r\nand Brandt had met in Philadelphia some years before, when both were\r\nstudents in that city, and he was rejoiced to meet her again, for he had\r\nmade no secret of his liking for her, and in view of the bravery she had\r\nshown in thus riding into a hostile camp his fondness increased to\r\nadmiration. After she had delivered the message she said, “Noble warrior,\r\nI have risked my life to obtain this interview. You must send some one\r\nback with me.” Brandt replied, “It is fitting that I alone should guard\r\nso courageous a maiden,” and he rode with her through the lines, under\r\nthe eyes of a wondering and frowning people, straight to the general's\r\ndoor. Soon after, Brandt made a formal demand for the hand of this\r\ndashing maid, but the stubborn general refused to consider it. He was\r\ndetermined that she ought to love Major Hamtramck, and he told her so in\r\ntones so loud that they reached the ears of Marianne, as she sat reading\r\nin her room. Stung by this disclosure of the general's wishes, and\r\ndoubting whether the major had been true to her--fearful, too, that she\r\nmight be regarded as an interloper--she made a pretext to return as\r\nquickly as possible to her home in Detroit, and left no adieus for her\r\nlover.\r\n\r\nIt was not long after that war broke out between the settlers and the\r\nIndians, for Brandt now had a personal as well as a race grudge to\r\ngratify, though when he defeated St. Clair he spared his life in the hope\r\nthat the general would reward his generosity by resigning to him his\r\ndaughter. At all events, he resolved that the “frog on horseback,” whom\r\nhe conceived to be his rival, should not win her. The poor major, who\r\ncared nothing for Louisa, and who was unable to account for the flight of\r\nMarianne, mourned her absence until it was rumored that she had been\r\nmarried, when, as much in spite as in love, he took to himself a mate.\r\nAfter he had been for some time a widower he met Marianne again, and\r\nlearned that she was still a maiden. He renewed his court with ardor, but\r\nthe woman's love for him had died when she learned of his marriage.\r\nAffecting to make light of this second disappointment, he said, “Since I\r\ncannot be united to you in life, I shall be near you in death.”\r\n\r\n“A soldier cannot choose where he shall die,” she answered.\r\n\r\n“No matter. I shall sleep in the shadow of your tomb.”\r\n\r\nAs it fell out they were indeed buried near each other in Detroit. Thus,\r\nthe stupidity and obstinacy of General St. Clair, in supposing that he\r\ncould make young folks love to order, thwarted the happiness of four\r\npeople and precipitated a war.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HUNDREDTH SKULL\r\n\r\nIn the early part of this century Bill Quick, trapper and frontiersman,\r\nlived in a cabin on the upper Scioto, not far from the present town of\r\nKenton, Ohio. One evening when he returned from the hunt he found his\r\nhome rifled of its contents and his aged father weltering in his blood on\r\nthe floor. He then and there took oath that he would be revenged a\r\nhundredfold. His mission was undertaken at once, and for many a year\r\nthereafter the Indians of the region had cause to dread the doom that\r\ncame to them from brake and wood and fen,--now death by knife that\r\nflashed at them from behind a tree, and the next instant whirled through\r\nthe air and was buried to the hilt in a red man's heart; now, by bullet\r\nas they rowed across the rivers; now, by axe that clove their skulls as\r\nthey lay asleep.\r\n\r\nBill Quick worked secretly, and, unlike other men of the place and time,\r\nhe did not take his trophies Indian-fashion. The scalp was not enough. He\r\ntook the head. And presently a row of grinning skulls was ranged upon his\r\nshelves. Ninety-nine of these ghastly prizes occupied his cabin, and the\r\nman was confident that he should accomplish his intent. But the Indians,\r\nin terror, were falling away toward the lakes; they were keeping better\r\nguard; and ere the hundredth man had fallen before his rifle he was\r\nseized with fatal illness. Calling to him his son, Tom, he pointed to the\r\nskulls, and charged him to fulfil the oath he had taken by adding to the\r\nlist a hundredth skull. Should he fail in this the murdered ancestor and\r\nhe himself would come back to haunt the laggard. Tom accepted the trust,\r\nbut everything seemed to work against him. He never was much of a hunter\r\nnor a very true shot, and he had no liking for war; besides, the Indians\r\nhad left the country, as he fancied. So he grumbled at the uncongenial\r\ntask appointed for him and kept deferring it from week to week and from\r\nyear to year. When his conscience pricked him he allayed the smart with\r\ndrink, and his conscience seemed to grow more active as he grew older.\r\n\r\nOn returning to the cabin after a carouse he declared that he had heard\r\nvoices, that the skulls gibbered and cracked their teeth together as if\r\nmocking his weakness, and that a phosphorescent glare shone through the\r\nsockets of their eyes. In his cups he prattled his secret, and soon the\r\nwhole country knew that he was under oath to kill a red-skin-and the\r\ncountry laughed at him. On a certain day it was reported that a band of\r\nIndians had been seen in the neighborhood, and what with drink and the\r\ntaunts of his friends, he was impelled to take his rifle and set out once\r\nmore on the war-path. A settler heard a shot fired not long after. Next\r\nday a neighbor passing Tom Quick's cabin tapped at the door, and,\r\nreceiving no answer, pushed it open and entered. The hundredth skull was\r\nthere, on the shelves, a bullet-hole in the forehead, and the scalp gone.\r\nThe head was Quick's.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE CRIME OF BLACK SWAMP\r\n\r\nTwo miles south of Munger, Ohio, in the heart of what used to be called\r\nthe Black Swamp, stood the Woodbury House, a roomy mansion long gone to\r\ndecay. John Cleves, the last to live in it, was a man whose evil\r\npractices got him into the penitentiary, but people had never associated\r\nhim with the queer sights and sounds in the lower chambers, nor with the\r\nfact that a man named Syms, who had gone to that house in 1842, had never\r\nbeen known to leave it. Ten years after Syms's disappearance it happened\r\nthat Major Ward and his friend John Stow had occasion to take shelter\r\nthere for the night--it being then deserted,--and, starting a blaze in\r\nthe parlor fireplace, they lit their pipes and talked till late. Stow\r\nwould have preferred a happier topic, but the major, who feared neither\r\nman nor devil, constantly turned the talk on the evil reputation of the\r\nhouse.\r\n\r\nWhile they chatted a door opened with a creak and a human skeleton\r\nappeared before them.\r\n\r\n“What do you want? Speak!” cried Ward. But waiting for no answer he drew\r\nhis pistols and fired two shots at the grisly object. There was a\r\nrattling sound, but the skeleton was neither dislocated nor disconcerted.\r\nAdvancing deliberately, with upraised arm, it said, in a husky voice, “I,\r\nthat am dead, yet live in a sense that mortals do not know. In my earthly\r\nlife I was James Syms, who was robbed and killed here in my sleep by John\r\nCleves.” With bony finger it pointed to a rugged gap in its left temple.\r\n“Cleves cut off my head and buried it under the hearth. My body he cast\r\ninto his well.” At these words the head disappeared and the voice was\r\nheard beneath the floor, “Take up my skull.” The watchers obeyed the\r\ncall, and after digging a minute beneath the hearth a fleshless head with\r\na wound on the left temple came to view. Ward took it into his hands, but\r\nin a twinkling it left them and reappeared on the shoulders of the\r\nskeleton.\r\n\r\n“I have long wanted to tell my fate,” it resumed, “but could not until\r\none should be found brave enough to speak to me. I have appeared to many,\r\nbut you are the first who has commanded me to break my long silence. Give\r\nmy bones a decent burial. Write to my relative, Gilmore Syms, of\r\nColumbus, Georgia, and tell him what I have revealed. I have found\r\npeace.” With a grateful gesture it extended its hand to Ward, who, as he\r\ntook it, shook like one with an ague, his wrist locked in its bony clasp.\r\nAs it released him it raised its hand impressively. A bluish light burned\r\nat the doorway for an instant. The two men found themselves alone.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE HOUSE ACCURSED\r\n\r\nNear Gallipolis, Ohio, there stood within a few years an old house of\r\nfour rooms that had been occupied by Herman Deluse. He lived there alone,\r\nand, though his farming was of the crudest sort, he never appeared to\r\nlack for anything. The people had an idea that the place was under ban,\r\nand it was more than suspected that its occupant had been a pirate. In\r\nfact, he called his place the Isle of Pines, after a buccaneers'\r\nrendezvous in the West Indies, and made no attempt to conceal the strange\r\nplunder and curious weapons that he had brought home with him, but of\r\nmoney he never appeared to have much at once. When it came his time to\r\ndie he ended his life alone, so far as any knew--at least, his body was\r\nfound in his bed, without trace of violence or disorder. It was buried\r\nand the public administrator took charge of the estate, locking up the\r\nhouse until possible relatives should come to claim it, and the rustic\r\njury found that Deluse “came to his death by visitation of God.”\r\n\r\nIt was but a few nights after this that the Rev. Henry Galbraith returned\r\nfrom a visit of a month to Cincinnati and reached his home after a night\r\nof boisterous storm. The snow was so deep and the roads so blocked with\r\nwindfalls that he put up his horse in Gallipolis and started for his\r\nhouse on foot.\r\n\r\n“But where did you pass the night?” inquired his wife, after the\r\ngreetings were over. “With old Deluse in the Isle of Pines,” he answered.\r\n“I saw a light moving about the house, and rapped. No one came; so, as I\r\nwas freezing, I forced open the door, built a fire, and lay down in my\r\ncoat before it. Old Deluse came in presently and I apologized, but he\r\npaid no attention to me. He seemed to be walking in his sleep and to be\r\nsearching for something. All night long I could hear his footsteps about\r\nthe house, in pauses of the storm.”\r\n\r\nThe clergyman's wife and son looked at each other, and a friend who was\r\npresent--a lawyer, named Maren--remarked, “You did not know that Deluse\r\nwas dead and buried?” The clergyman was speechless with amazement. “You\r\nhave been dreaming,” said the lawyer. “Still, if you like, we will go\r\nthere to-night and investigate.”\r\n\r\nThe clergyman, his son, and the lawyer went to the house about nine\r\no'clock, and as they approached it a noise of fighting came from\r\nwithin--blows, the clink of steel, groans, and curses. Lights appeared,\r\nfirst at one window, then at another. The men rushed forward, burst in\r\nthe door, and were inside--in darkness and silence. They had brought\r\ncandles and lighted them, but the light revealed nothing. Dust lay thick\r\non the floor except in the room where the clergyman had passed the\r\nprevious night, and the door that he had then opened stood ajar, but the\r\nsnow outside was drifted and unbroken by footsteps. Then came the sound\r\nof a fall that shook the building. At the same moment it was noticed by\r\nthe other two men that young Galbraith was absent. They hurried into the\r\nroom whence the noise had come. A board was wrenched from the wall there,\r\ndisclosing a hollow that had been used for a hiding-place, and on the\r\nfloor lay young Galbraith with a sack of Spanish coins in his hand. His\r\nfather stooped to pick him up, but staggered back in horror, for the\r\nyoung man's life had gone. A post-mortem examination revealed no cause of\r\ndeath, and a rustic jury again laid it to a “visitation of God.”\r\n MARQUETTE'S MAN-EATER\r\n\r\nUntil it was worn away by the elements a curious relief was visible on\r\nthe bluffs of the Mississippi near Alton, Illinois. It was to be seen as\r\nlate as 1860, and represented a monster once famous as the “piasa bird.”\r\n Father Marquette not only believed it but described it as a man-eater in\r\nthe account of his explorations, where he mentions other zoological\r\ncuriosities, such as unicorns with shaggy mane and land-turtles three\r\nfeet long with two heads, “very mischievous and addicted to biting.” He\r\neven showed a picture of the maneater that accorded rudely with the\r\npicture on the rocks. It was said to prey on human flesh, and to be held\r\nin fear by the Indians, who encountered it on and near the Mississippi.\r\nIt had the body of a panther, wings like a bat, and head and horns of a\r\ndeer. Father Marquette gave it a human face. The sculpture was\r\nundoubtedly made by Indians, but its resemblance to the winged bulls of\r\nAssyria and the sphinxes of Egypt has been quoted as confirmation of a\r\nprehistoric alliance of Old and New World races or the descent of one\r\nfrom the other. It has also been thought to stand for the totem of some\r\ngreat chief-symbolizing, by its body, strength; by its wings, speed; by\r\nits head, gentleness and beauty. But may not the tradition of it have\r\ndescended from the discovery of comparatively late remains, by primitive\r\nman, of the winged saurians that crawled, swam, dived, or flew, lingering\r\non till the later geologic period? The legend of the man-eater may even\r\nhave been told by those who killed the last of the pterodactyls.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMICHEL DE COUCY'S TROUBLES\r\n\r\nMichel De Coucy, of Prairie de Rocher, Illinois, sat before his door\r\nhumming thoughtfully, and trying to pull comfort out of a black pipe.. He\r\nwas in debt, and he did not like the sensation. As hunter, boatman,\r\nfiddler he had done well enough, but having rashly ventured into trade he\r\nhad lost money, and being unable to meet a note had applied to Pedro\r\nGarcia for a loan at usurious interest. Garcia was a black-whiskered\r\nSpaniard who was known to have been a gambler in New Orleans, and as\r\nMichel was in arrears in his payments he was now threatening suit.\r\nPresently the hunter jumped up with a glad laugh, for two horsemen were\r\napproaching his place--the superior of the Jesuit convent at Notre Dame\r\nde Kaskaskia and the governor of the French settlements in Illinois, of\r\nwhom he had asked advice, and who had come from Fort Chartres, on the\r\nMississippi, to give it in person. It was good advice, too, for the\r\neffect of it was that there was no law of that time--1750--by which a\r\nSpaniard could sue a Frenchman on French territory. Moreover, the bond\r\nwas invalid because it was drawn up in Spanish, and Garcia could produce\r\nno witness to verify the cross at the bottom of the document as of\r\nMichel's making.\r\n\r\nGreat was the wrath of the Spaniard when Michel told him this, nor was it\r\nlessened when the hunter bade him have no fear--that he might be obliged\r\nto repudiate part of the interest, but that every livre of the principal\r\nwould be forthcoming, if only a little time were allowed. The money\r\nlender walked away with clenched fists, muttering to himself, and Michel\r\nlit his pipe again.\r\n\r\nAt supper-time little Genevieve, the twelve-year-old daughter of Michel,\r\ndid not appear. The table was kept waiting for an hour. Michel sat down\r\nbut could not eat, and, after scolding awhile in a half-hearted fashion,\r\nhe went to the clearing down the road, where the child had been playing.\r\nA placard was seen upon a tree beside the way, and he called a passing\r\nneighbor to read to him these words: “Meshell Coosy. French rascal. Pay\r\nme my money and you have your daughter. Pedro Garcia.”\r\n\r\nAccustomed as he was to perils, and quick as he generally was in\r\nexpedient, Michel was overwhelmed by this stroke. The villagers offered\r\nto arm themselves and rescue the child, but he would not consent to this,\r\nfor he was afraid that Garcia might kill her, if he knew that force was\r\nto be set against him. In a day or two Michel was told to go to Fort\r\nChartres, as favorable news awaited him. He rode with all speed to that\r\npost, went to the official quarters, where the governor was sitting, and\r\nas he entered he became almost insane with rage, for Garcia stood before\r\nhim. Nothing but the presence of others saved the Spaniard's life, and it\r\nwas some time before Michel could be made to understand that Garcia was\r\nthere under promise of safe conduct, and that the representatives of King\r\nLouis were in honor bound to see that he was not injured. The points at\r\nissue between the two men were reviewed, and the governor gave it as his\r\ndecision that Michel must pay his debt without interest, that being\r\nforfeit by the Spaniard's abduction of Genevieve, and that the Spaniard\r\nwas to restore the girl, both parties in the case being remanded to\r\nprison until they had obeyed this judgment.\r\n\r\n“But I have your promise of safe conduct!” cried the Spaniard, blazing\r\nwith wrath.\r\n\r\n“And you shall have it when the girl returns,” replied the governor. “You\r\nshall be protected in going and coming, but there is no reference in the\r\npaper that you hold as to how long we may wish to keep you with us.”\r\n\r\nBoth men were marched away forthwith, but Michel was released in an hour,\r\nfor in that time the people had subscribed enough to pay his debt. The\r\nSpaniard sent a messenger to a renegade who had little Genevieve in\r\nkeeping, and next day he too went free, swearing horribly, but glad to\r\naccept the service of an armed escort until he was well out of town.\r\nMichel embraced his child with ardor when once she was in his arms again;\r\nthen he lighted his pipe and set out with her for home, convinced that\r\nFrench law was the best in the world, that Spaniards were not to be\r\ntrusted, and that it is safer to keep one's earnings under the floor than\r\nto venture them in trade.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nWALLEN'S RIDGE\r\n\r\nA century ago this rough eminence, a dozen miles from Chattanooga,\r\nTennessee, was an abiding place of Cherokee Indians, among whom was\r\nArinook, their medicine-man, and his daughter. The girl was pure and\r\nfair, and when a white hunter saw her one day at the door of her father's\r\nwigwam he was so struck with her charm of person and her engaging manner\r\nthat he resolved not to return to his people until he had won her for his\r\nwife. She had many lovers, though she favored none of them, and while the\r\nCherokees were at first loth to admit a stranger to their homes they\r\nforgot their jealousy when they found that this one excelled as a hunter\r\nand fisherman, that he could throw the knife and tomahawk better than\r\nthemselves, and that he was apt in their work and their sports.\r\n\r\nThey even submitted to the inevitable with half a grace when they found\r\nthat the stranger and the girl of whom they were so fond were in love.\r\nWith an obduracy that seems to be characteristic of fathers, the\r\nmedicine-man refused his consent to the union, and the hearts of the\r\ntwain were heavy. Though the white man pleaded with her to desert her\r\ntribe, she refused to do so, on the score of duty to her father, and the\r\ncouple forlornly roamed about the hill, watching the sunset from its top\r\nand passing the bright summer evenings alone, sitting hand in hand,\r\nloving, sorrowing, and speaking not. In one of their long rambles they\r\nfound themselves beside the Tennessee River at a point where the current\r\nswirls among rocks and sucks down things that float, discharging them at\r\nthe surface in still water, down the stream. Here for a time they stood,\r\nwhen the girl, with a gush of tears, began to sing--it was her\r\ndeath-song. The white man grasped her hand and joined his voice to hers.\r\nThen they took a last embrace and flung themselves into the water, still\r\nhand in hand.\r\n\r\nWhen the river is low you may hear their death-song sounding there. The\r\nmanitous of the river and the wood were offended with the medicine-man\r\nbecause of his stubbornness and cruelty, although he suffered greatly\r\nbecause of the death his daughter died, and he the cause of it. For now\r\nstrange Indians appeared among the Cherokees and drove the deer and bear\r\naway. Tall, strong, and large were these intruders, and they hung about\r\nthe village by day and night--never speaking, yet casting a fear about\r\nthem, for they would throw great rocks farther than a warrior could shoot\r\nan arrow with the wind behind him; they had horns springing from their\r\nheads; their eyes were the eyes of wild-cats, and shone in the dark; they\r\ngrowled like animals, shaking the earth when they did so, and breathing\r\nflame; they were at the bedside, at the council-fire, at the banquet,\r\nseeming only to wait for a show of enmity to annihilate the tribe.\r\n\r\nAt length the people could endure their company no longer, and taking\r\ndown their lodges they left Wallen's Ridge and wandered far away until\r\nthey came to a valley where no foot had left its impress, and there they\r\nbesought the Great Spirit to forgive the wrong their medicine-man had\r\ndone, and to free them from the terrible spirits that had been living\r\namong them. The prayer was granted, and the lodges stood for many years\r\nin a safe and happy valley.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SKY WALKER OF HURON\r\n\r\nHere is the myth of Endymion and Diana, as told on the shores of Saginaw\r\nBay, in Michigan, by Indians who never heard of Greeks. Cloud Catcher, a\r\nhandsome youth of the Ojibways, offended his family by refusing to fast\r\nduring the ceremony of his coming of age, and was put out of the paternal\r\nwigwam. It was so fine a night that the sky served him as well as a roof,\r\nand he had a boy's confidence in his ability to make a living, and\r\nsomething of fame and fortune, maybe. He dropped upon a tuft of moss to\r\nplan for his future, and drowsily noted the rising of the moon, in which\r\nhe seemed to see a face. On awaking he found that it was not day, yet the\r\ndarkness was half dispelled by light that rayed from a figure near\r\nhim--the form of a lovely woman.\r\n\r\n“Cloud Catcher, I have come for you,” she said. And as she turned away he\r\nfelt impelled to rise and follow. But, instead of walking, she began to\r\nmove into the air with the flight of an eagle, and, endowed with a new\r\npower, he too ascended beside her. The earth was dim and vast below,\r\nstars blazed as they drew near them, yet the radiance of the woman seemed\r\nto dull their glory. Presently they passed through a gate of clouds and\r\nstood on a beautiful plain, with crystal ponds and brooks watering noble\r\ntrees and leagues of flowery meadow; birds of brightest colors darted\r\nhere and there, singing like flutes; the very stones were agate, jasper,\r\nand chalcedony. An immense lodge stood on the plain, and within were\r\nembroideries and ornaments, couches of rich furs, pipes and arms cut from\r\njasper and tipped with silver. While the young man was gazing around him\r\nwith delight, the brother of his guide appeared and reproved her,\r\nadvising her to send the young man back to earth at once, but, as she\r\nflatly refused to do so, he gave a pipe and bow and arrows to Cloud\r\nCatcher, as a token of his consent to their marriage, and wished them\r\nhappiness, which, in fact, they had.\r\n\r\nThis brother, who was commanding, tall, and so dazzling in his gold and\r\nsilver ornaments that one could hardly look upon him, was abroad all day,\r\nwhile his sister was absent for a part of the night. He permitted Cloud\r\nCatcher to go with him on one of his daily walks, and as they crossed the\r\nlovely Sky Land they glanced down through open valley bottoms on the\r\ngreen earth below. The rapid pace they struck gave to Cloud Catcher an\r\nappetite and he asked if there were no game. “Patience,” counselled his\r\ncompanion. On arriving at a spot where a large hole had been broken\r\nthrough the sky they reclined on mats, and the tall man loosing one of\r\nhis silver ornaments flung it into a group of children playing before a\r\nlodge. One of the little ones fell and was carried within, amid\r\nlamentations. Then the villagers left their sports and labors and looked\r\nup at the sky. The tall man cried, in a voice of thunder, “Offer a\r\nsacrifice and the child shall be well again.” A white dog was killed,\r\nroasted, and in a twinkling it shot up to the feet of Cloud Catcher, who,\r\nbeing empty, attacked it voraciously.\r\n\r\nMany such walks and feasts came after, and the sights of earth and taste\r\nof meat filled the mortal with a longing to see his people again. He told\r\nhis wife that he wanted to go back. She consented, after a time, saying,\r\n“Since you are better pleased with the cares, the ills, the labor, and\r\nthe poverty of the world than with the comfort and abundance of Sky Land,\r\nyou may return; but remember you are still my husband, and beware how you\r\nventure to take an earthly maiden for a wife.”\r\n\r\nShe arose lightly, clasped Cloud Catcher by the wrist, and began to move\r\nwith him through the air. The motion lulled him and he fell asleep,\r\nwaking at the door of his father's lodge. His relatives gathered and gave\r\nhim welcome, and he learned that he had been in the sky for a year. He\r\ntook the privations of a hunter's and warrior's life less kindly than he\r\nthought to, and after a time he enlivened its monotony by taking to wife\r\na bright-eyed girl of his tribe. In four days she was dead. The lesson\r\nwas unheeded and he married again. Shortly after, he stepped from his\r\nlodge one evening and never came back. The woods were filled with a\r\nstrange radiance on that night, and it is asserted that Cloud Catcher was\r\ntaken back to the lodge of the Sun and Moon, and is now content to live\r\nin heaven.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE COFFIN OF SNAKES\r\n\r\nNo one knew how it was that Lizon gained the love of Julienne, at L'Anse\r\nCreuse (near Detroit), for she was a girl of sweet and pious disposition,\r\nthe daughter of a God-fearing farmer, while Lizon was a dark, ill-favored\r\nwretch, who had come among the people nobody knew whence, and lived on\r\nthe profits of a tap-room where the vilest liquor was sold, and where\r\ngaming, fighting, and carousing were of nightly occurrence. Perhaps they\r\nwere right in saying that it was witchcraft. He impudently laid siege to\r\nher heart, and when she showed signs of yielding he told her and her\r\nfriends that he had no intention of marrying her, because he did not\r\nbelieve in religion.\r\n\r\nYet Julienne deserted her comfortable home and went to live with this\r\ndisreputable scamp in his disreputable tavern, to the scandal of the\r\ncommunity, and especially of the priest, who found Lizon's power for evil\r\ngreater than his own for good, for as the tavern gained in hangers-on the\r\nchurch lost worshippers. One Sunday morning Julienne surprised the people\r\nby appearing in church and publicly asking pardon for her wrong-doing. It\r\nwas the first time she had appeared there since her flight, and she was\r\nas one who had roused from a trance or fever-sleep. Her father gladly\r\ntook her home again, and all went well until New-Year's eve, when the\r\nyoung men called d'Ignolee made the rounds of the settlement to sing and\r\nbeg meat for the poor--a custom descended from the Druids. They came to\r\nthe house of Julienne's father and received his welcome and his goods,\r\nbut their song was interrupted by a cry of distress--Lizon was among the\r\nmaskers, and Julienne was gone. A crowd of villagers ran to the cabaret\r\nand rescued the girl from the room into which the fellow had thrust her,\r\nbut it was too late--she had lost her reason. Cursing and striking and\r\nblaspheming, Lizon was at last confronted by the priest, who told him he\r\nhad gone too far; that he had been a plague to the people and an enemy to\r\nthe church. He then pronounced against him the edict of excommunication,\r\nand told him that even in his grave he should not rest; that the church,\r\nabandoned by so many victims of his wiles and tyrannies, should be swept\r\naway.\r\n\r\nThe priest left the place forthwith, and the morals of the village fell\r\nlower and lower. Everything was against it, too. Blight and storm and\r\ninsect pest ravaged the fields and orchards, as if nature had engaged to\r\nmake an expression of the iniquity of the place. Suddenly death came upon\r\nLizon. A pit was dug near his tavern and he was placed in a coffin, but\r\nas the box was lowered it was felt to grow lighter, while there poured\r\nfrom it a swarm of fat and filthy snakes. The fog that overspread the\r\nearth that morning seemed to blow by in human forms, the grave rolled\r\nlike a wave after it had been covered, and after darkness fell a blue\r\nwill-o'-the-wisp danced over it. A storm set in, heaping the billows on\r\nshore until the church was undermined, and with a crash it fell into the\r\nseething flood. But the curse had passed, and when a new chapel was built\r\nthe old evils had deserted L'Anse Crease.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMACKINACK\r\n\r\nNot only was Mackinack the birthplace of Hiawatha: it was the home of God\r\nhimself--Gitchi Manitou, or Mitchi Manitou--who placed there an Indian\r\nAdam and Eve to watch and cultivate his gardens. He also made the beaver,\r\nthat his children might eat, and they acknowledged his goodness in\r\noblations. Bounteous sacrifices insured entrance after death to the happy\r\nhunting-grounds beyond the Rocky Mountains. Those who had failed in these\r\nofferings were compelled to wander about the Great Lakes, shelterless,\r\nand watched by unsleeping giants who were ten times the stature of\r\nmortals.\r\n\r\nThese giants still exist, but in the form of conical rocks, one of\r\nwhich-called Sugar-Loaf, or Manitou's Wigwam--is ninety feet high. A cave\r\nin this obelisk is pointed out as Manitou's abiding-place, and it was\r\nbelieved that every other spire in the group had its wraith, whence has\r\ncome the name of the island--Michillimackinack (place of great dancing\r\nspirits). Arch Rock is the place that Manitou built to reach his home\r\nfrom Sunrise Land the better. There were many such monuments of\r\ndivinities in the north. They are met with all about the lakes and in the\r\nwooded wilderness, the most striking one being the magnificent spire of\r\nbasalt in the Black Hills region of Wyoming. It is known as Devil's\r\nTower, or Mateo's Tepee, and by the red men is held to be the wigwam of a\r\nwere-animal that can become man at pleasure. This singular rock towers\r\nabove the Belle Fourche River to a height of eight hundred feet.\r\n\r\nDeep beneath Mackinack was a stately and beautiful cavern hall where\r\nspirits had their revels. An Indian who got leave to quit his body saw it\r\nin company with one of the spirits, and spread glowing reports of its\r\nbeauties when he had clothed himself in flesh again. When Adam and Eve\r\ndied they, too, became spirits and continued to watch the home of\r\nManitou.\r\n\r\nNow, there is another version of this tradition which gives the, original\r\nname of the island as Moschenemacenung, meaning “great turtle.” The\r\nFrench missionaries and traders, finding the word something too large a\r\nmouthful, softened it to Michillimackinack, and, when the English came,\r\nthree syllables served them as well as a hundred, so Mackinack it is to\r\nthis day. Manitou, having made a turtle from a drop of his own sweat,\r\nsent it to the bottom of Lake Huron, whence it brought a mouthful of mud,\r\nand from this Mackinack was created. As a reward for his service the\r\nturtle was allowed to sleep there in the sun forever.\r\n\r\nYet another version has it that the Great Spirit plucked a sand-grain\r\nfrom the primeval ocean, set it floating on those waters, and tended it\r\nuntil it grew so large that a young wolf, running constantly, died of old\r\nage before reaching its limits. The sand became the earth. Prophecy has\r\nwarned the Winnebagoes that Manibozho (Michabo or Hiawatha) shall smite\r\nby pestilence at the end of their thirteenth generation. Ten are gone.\r\nAll shall perish but one pure pair, who will people the recreated world.\r\nManibozho, or Minnebojou, is called a “culture myth,” but the Indians\r\nhave faith in him. They say that he lies asleep on the north shore of\r\nLake Superior, beneath the “hill of four knobs,” known as the Sleeping\r\nGiant. There offerings are made to him, and it was a hope of his speedy\r\nrising that started the Messiah craze in the West in 1890.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLAKE SUPERIOR WATER GODS\r\n\r\nThere were many water gods about Lake Superior to whom the Indians paid\r\nhomage, casting implements, ornaments, and tobacco into the water\r\nwhenever they passed a spot where one of these manitous sat enthroned. At\r\nThunder Cape, on the north shore, lies Manibozho, and in the pillared\r\nrecess of La Chapelle, among the Pictured Rocks, dwelt powerful rulers of\r\nthe storm to whose mercy the red men commended themselves with quaint\r\nrites whenever they were to set forth on a voyage over the great unsalted\r\nsea. At Le Grand Portal were hidden a horde of mischievous imps, among\r\nwhose pranks was the repetition of every word spoken by the traveller as\r\nhe rested on his oars beneath this mighty arch. The Chippewas worked the\r\ncopper mines at Keweenaw Point before the white race had learned of a\r\nWestern land, but they did so timidly, for they believed that a demon\r\nwould visit with injury or death the rash mortal who should presume to\r\npillage his treasure, unless he had first bestowed gifts upon him. Even\r\nthen they went ashore with fear, lighted fires around a surface of native\r\ncopper, hacked off a few pounds of the softened metal, and ran to their\r\ncanoes without looking behind them.\r\n\r\nThere was another bad manitou at the mouth of Superior Bay, where\r\nconflicting currents make a pother of waters. This spirit sat on the\r\nbottom of the lake, gazing upward, and if any boatman ventured to cross\r\nhis domain without dropping a pipe or beads or hatchet into it, woe\r\nbetide him, for his boat would be caught in a current and smashed against\r\na rocky shore. Perhaps the most vexatious god was he who ruled the\r\nFloating Islands. These islands were beautiful with trees and flowers,\r\nmetal shone and crystals sparkled on their ledges, sweet fruits grew in\r\nplenty, and song-birds flitted over them. In wonder and delight the\r\nhunter would speed toward them in his canoe, but as he neared their turfy\r\nbanks the jealous manitou, who kept these fairy lands for his own\r\npleasure, would throw down a fog and shut them out of sight. Never could\r\nthe hunter set foot on them, no matter how long he kept up his search.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WITCH OF PICTURED ROCKS\r\n\r\nOn the Pictured Rocks of Lake Superior dwelt an Ojibway woman, a widow,\r\nwho was cared for by a relative. This relative was a hunter, the husband\r\nof an agreeable wife, the father of two bright children. Being of a mean\r\nand jealous nature, the widow begrudged every kindness that the hunter\r\nshowed to his wife--the skins he brought for her clothing, the moose's\r\nlip or other dainty that he saved for her; and one day, in a pretence of\r\nfine good-nature, the old woman offered to give the younger a swing in a\r\nvine pendent from a tree that overhung the lake.\r\n\r\nThe wife accepted, and, seating herself on the vine, was swayed to and\r\nfro, catching her breath, yet laughing as she swept out over the water.\r\nWhen the momentum was greatest the old woman cut the stem. A splash was\r\nheard--then all was silent. Returning to the lodge, the hag disguised\r\nherself in a dress of the missing woman, and sitting in a shadow,\r\npretended to nurse the infant of the household. The hunter, returning,\r\nwas a little surprised that his wife should keep her face from him, and\r\nmore surprised that the old woman did not appear for her share of the\r\nfood that he had brought; but after their meal he took his little ones to\r\nthe lake, to enjoy the evening breeze, when the elder burst into tears,\r\ndeclaring that the woman in the lodge was not his mother, and that he\r\nfeared his own mother was dead or lost.\r\n\r\nThe hunter hurled his spear into the earth and prayed that, if his wife\r\nwere dead, her body might be found, so he could mourn over it and give it\r\nburial. Instantly a bolt of lightning came from a passing cloud and shot\r\ninto the lake, while the thunder-peal that followed shook the stones he\r\nstood on. It also disturbed the water and presently something was seen\r\nrising through it. The man stepped into a thicket and watched. In a few\r\nmoments a gull arose from the lake and flew to the spot where the\r\nchildren were seated. Around its body was a leather belt, embroidered\r\nwith beads and quills, which the hunter recognized, and, advancing\r\nsoftly, he caught the bird--that changed at once into the missing woman.\r\nThe family set forth toward home, and as they entered the lodge the\r\nwitch--for such she was--looked up, with a start, then uttered a cry of\r\ndespair. Bending low, she moved her arms in both imprecation and appeal.\r\nA moment later a black, ungainly bird flew from the wigwam and passed\r\nfrom sight among the trees. The witch never came back to plague them.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE ORIGIN OF WHITE-FISH\r\n\r\nAn Indian who lived far in the north was so devoted to the chase that he\r\nwas never at home for the whole of a day, to the sorrow of his two boys,\r\nwho liked nothing so much as to sport with him and to be allowed to\r\npractise with his weapons. Their mother told them that on no account were\r\nthey to speak to him of the young man who visited the lodge while their\r\nfather was away, and it was not until they were well grown and knew what\r\nthe duty of wives should be that they resolved to disobey her. The hunter\r\nstruck the woman dead when he learned of her perfidy. So greatly did her\r\nspirit trouble them, however, that they could no longer abide in their\r\nold home in peace and comfort, and they left the country and journeyed\r\nsouthward until they came to the Sault Sainte Marie.\r\n\r\nAs they stood beside the falls a head came rolling toward them on the\r\nearth--the head of the dead woman. At that moment, too, a crane was seen\r\nriding on the surface of the water, whirling about in its strongest\r\neddies, and when one of the boys called to it, “O Grandfather, we are\r\npersecuted by a spirit; take us across the falls,” the crane flew to\r\nthem. “Cling to my back and do not touch my head,” it said to them, and\r\nlanded them safely on the farther shore.\r\n\r\nBut now the head screamed, “Come, grandfather, and carry me over, for I\r\nhave lost my children and am sorely distressed,” and the bird flew to her\r\nlikewise. “Be careful not to touch my head,” it said. The head promised\r\nobedience, but succumbed to curiosity when half-way over and touched the\r\nbird's head to see what was the matter with him. With a lurch the crane\r\nflung off his burden and it fell into the rapids. As it swept down,\r\nbumping against the rocks, the brains were pounded out and strewn over\r\nthe water. “You were useless in life,” cried the crane. “You shall not be\r\nso in death. Become fish!” And the bits of brain changed to roe that\r\npresently hatched to a delicate white fish, the flesh whereof is esteemed\r\nby Indians of the lakes, and white men, likewise. The family pitched a\r\nlodge near the spot and took the crane as their totem or name-mark. Many\r\nof their descendants bear it to this day.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SPIRIT OF CLOUDY\r\n\r\nAmong the lumbermen of Alger, Michigan, was William Cloud, an Indian,\r\nusually called Cloudy, who was much employed on a chute a mile and a half\r\nout of the village. The rains were heavy one spring, and a large raft of\r\nlogs had been floated down to the chute, where they were held back by a\r\ngate until it was time to send them through in a mass. When the creek had\r\nreached its maximum height the foreman gave word to the log-drivers to\r\nlower the gate and let the timber down. This order came on a chilly April\r\nnight, and, as it was pitchy dark and rain was falling in sheets, the\r\nlumbermen agreed to draw cuts to decide which of them should venture out\r\nand start the logs. Cloudy drew the fatal slip. He was a quiet fellow,\r\nand without a word he opened the door, bent against the storm, and passed\r\ninto the darkness. An hour went by, and the men in the cabin laughed as\r\nthey described the probable appearance of their comrade when he should\r\nreturn, soaked through and through, and they wondered if he was waiting\r\nin some shelter beside the path for the middle of the night to pass, for\r\nthe Indians believed that an evil spirit left the stream every night and\r\nwas abroad until that hour.\r\n\r\nAs time lengthened the jest and talk subsided and a moody silence\r\nsupervened. At length one of the number resolved to sally out and see if\r\nany mishap had fallen to the Indian. He was joined by three others, and\r\nthe party repaired to the creek. Above the chute it was seen that the\r\ngate--which was released by the withdrawal of iron pins and sank of its\r\nown weight-had not quite settled into place, and by the light of a\r\nlantern held near the surface of the rushing current an obstruction could\r\nbe dimly seen. The gate was slightly raised and the object drawn up with\r\npike-poles. It was the mangled body of Cloudy. He was buried beside the\r\ncreek; but the camp was soon abandoned and the chute is in decay, for\r\nbetween the hours of ten and twelve each night the wraith of the Indian,\r\naccompanied by the bad spirit of the stream, ranges through the wood, his\r\nform shining blue in the gloom, his groans sounding above the swish and\r\nlap of the waters.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SUN FIRE AT SAULT SAINTE MARIE\r\n\r\nFather Marquette reached Sault Sainte Marie, in company with Greysolon Du\r\nLhut, in August, 1670, and was received in a manner friendly enough, but\r\nthe Chippewas warned him to turn back from that point, for the Ojibways\r\nbeyond were notoriously hostile to Europeans, their chief--White\r\nOtter--having taken it on himself to revenge, by war, his father's\r\ndesertion of his mother. His father was a Frenchman. Inspired by his\r\nmission, and full of the enthusiasm of youth and of the faith that had\r\nled him safely through a host of dangers and troubles, Marquette refused\r\nto change his plans, and even ventured the assertion that he could tame\r\nthe haughty Otter and bring him to the cross. At dawn he and his doughty\r\nhenchman set off in a war-canoe, but, on arriving in White Otter's camp\r\nand speaking their errand, they were seized and bound, to await death on\r\nthe morrow. The wife of the chief spoke, out of the kindness of her\r\nheart, and asked mercy for the white men. To no avail. The brute struck\r\nher to the ground. That night his daughter, Wanena, who had seen Du Lhut\r\nat the trading post and had felt the stir of a generous sentiment toward\r\nhim, appeared before the prisoners when sleep was heaviest in the camp,\r\ncut their bonds, led them by an obscure path to the river, where she\r\nenjoined them to enter a canoe, and guided the boat to the Holy Isle.\r\nThis was where the Ojibways came to lay offerings before the image of\r\nManitou, whose home was there believed to be. There the friendly red men\r\nwould be sure to find and rescue them, she thought, and after a few hours\r\nof sleep she led them into a secluded glen where stood the figure rudely\r\ncarved from a pine trunk, six feet high, and tricked with gewgaws. As\r\nthey stood there, stealthy steps were heard, and before they could\r\nconceal themselves White Otter and eight of his men were upon them. Du\r\nLhut grasped a club from among the weapons that--with other\r\nofferings--strewed the earth at the statue's feet and prepared to sell\r\nhis life dearly. The priest drew forth his crucifix and prayed. The girl\r\ndropped to the ground, drew her blanket over her head, and began to sing\r\nher death-song.\r\n\r\n“So the black-coat and the woman-stealer have come to die before the\r\nIndian's god?” sneered the chief.\r\n\r\n“If it be God's will, we will die defying your god and you,” replied\r\nMarquette. “Yet we fear not death, and if God willed he could deliver us\r\nas easily as he could destroy that worthless image.” He spoke in an\r\nundertone to Du Lhut, and continued, confidently, “challenge your god to\r\nwithstand mine. I shall pray my God to send his fire from the sky and\r\nburn this thing. If he does so will you set us free and become a\r\nChristian?”\r\n\r\n“I will; but if you fail, you die.”\r\n\r\n“And if I win you must pardon your daughter.”\r\n\r\nWhite Otter grunted his assent.\r\n\r\nThe sun was high and brought spicy odors from the wood; an insect hummed\r\ndrowsily, and a bird-song echoed from the distance. Unconscious of what\r\nwas being enacted about her, Wanena kept rocking to and fro, singing her\r\ndeath-song, and waiting the blow that would stretch her at her father's\r\nfeet. The savages gathered around the image and watched it with eager\r\ninterest. Raising his crucifix with a commanding gesture, the priest\r\nstrode close to the effigy, and in a loud voice cried, in Chippewa, “In\r\nthe name of God, I command fire to destroy this idol!”\r\n\r\nA spot of light danced upon the breast of the image. It grew dazzling\r\nbright and steady. Then a smoke began to curl from the dry grass and\r\nfeathers it was decked with. The Indians fell back in amazement, and when\r\na faint breeze passed, fanning the sparks into flame, they fell on their\r\nfaces, trembling with apprehension, for Marquette declared, “As my God\r\ntreats this idol, so can he treat you!”\r\n\r\nThen, looking up to see the manitou in flames, White Otter exclaimed,\r\n“The white man's God has won. Spare us, O mighty medicine!”\r\n\r\n“I will do so, if you promise to become as white men in the faith and be\r\nbaptized.” Tamed by fear, the red men laid aside their weapons and knelt\r\nat a brook where Marquette, gathering water in his hands, gave the rite\r\nof baptism to each, and laid down the moral law they were to live by.\r\nWanena, who had fainted from sheer fright when she saw the idol burning,\r\nwas restored, and it may be added that the priest who Christianized her\r\nalso married her to Du Lhut, who prospered and left his name to the city\r\nof the lake. News of the triumph of the white men's God went far and\r\nwide, and Marquette found his missions easier after that. Du Lhut alone,\r\nof all those present, was in the father's secret. He had perpetrated a\r\npious fraud, justified by the results as well as by his peril. A\r\nburning-glass had been fastened to the crucifix, and with that he had\r\ndestroyed the idol.\r\n\r\nTrading thus on native ignorance a Frenchman named Lyons at another time\r\nimpressed the Indians at Dubuque and gained his will by setting a creek\r\non fire. They did not know that he had first poured turpentine over it.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SNAKE GOD OF BELLE ISLE\r\n\r\nThe Indian demi-god, Sleeping Bear, had a daughter so beautiful that he\r\nkept her out of the sight of men in a covered boat that swung on Detroit\r\nRiver, tied to a tree on shore; but the Winds, having seen her when her\r\nfather had visited her with food, contended so fiercely to possess her\r\nthat the little cable was snapped and the boat danced on to the keeper of\r\nthe water-gates, who lived at the outlet of Lake Huron. The keeper,\r\nfilled with admiration for the girl's beauty, claimed the boat and its\r\ncharming freight, but he had barely received her into his lodge when the\r\nangry Winds fell upon him, buffeting him so sorely that he died, and was\r\nburied on Peach Island (properly Isle au Peche), where his spirit\r\nremained for generations--an oracle sought by Indians before emprise in\r\nwar. His voice had the sound of wind among the reeds, and its meanings\r\ncould not be told except by those who had prepared themselves by fasting\r\nand meditation to receive them. Before planning his campaign against the\r\nEnglish, Pontiac fasted here for seven days to “clear his ear” and hear\r\nthe wisdom of the sighing voice.\r\n\r\nBut the Winds were not satisfied with the slaying of the keeper. They\r\ntore away his meadows and swept them out as islands. They smashed the\r\ndamsel's boat and the little bark became Belle Isle. Here Manitou placed\r\nthe girl, and set a girdle of vicious snakes around the shore to guard\r\nher and to put a stop to further contests. These islands in the straits\r\nseem to have been favorite places of exile and theatres of\r\ntransformation. The Three Sisters are so called because of three Indian\r\nwomen who so scolded and wrangled that their father was obliged to\r\nseparate them and put one on each of the islands for the sake of peace.\r\n\r\nIt was at Belle Isle that the red men had put up and worshipped a natural\r\nstone image. Hearing of this idol, on reaching Detroit, Dollier and De\r\nGalinee crossed over to it, tore it down, smashed it, flung the bigger\r\npiece of it into the river, and erected a cross in its place. The sunken\r\nportion of the idol called aloud to the faithful, who had assembled to\r\nwonder at the audacity of the white men and witness their expected\r\npunishment by Manitou, and told them to cast in the other portions. They\r\ndid so, and all the fragments united and became a monster serpent that\r\nkept the place from further intrusion. Later, when La Salle ascended the\r\nstraits in his ship, the Griffin, the Indians on shore invoked the help\r\nof this, their manitou, and strange forms arose from the water that\r\npushed the ship into the north, her crew vainly singing hymns with a hope\r\nof staying the demoniac power.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nWERE-WOLVES OF DETROIT\r\n\r\nLong were the shores of Detroit vexed by the Snake God of Belle Isle and\r\nhis children, the witches, for the latter sold enchantments and were the\r\nterror of good people. Jacques Morand, the _coureur de bois_, was in love\r\nwith Genevieve Parent, but she disliked him and wished only to serve the\r\nchurch. Courting having proved of no avail, he resolved on force when she\r\nhad decided to enter a convent, and he went to one of the witches, who\r\nserved as devil's agent, to sell his soul. The witch accepted the slight\r\ncommodity and paid for it with a grant of power to change from a man's\r\nform to that of a were-wolf, or _loup garou_, that he might the easier\r\nbear away his victim. Incautiously, he followed her to Grosse Pointe,\r\nwhere an image of the Virgin had been set up, and as Genevieve dropped at\r\nthe feet of the statue to implore aid, the wolf, as he leaped to her\r\nside, was suddenly turned to stone.\r\n\r\nHarder was the fate of another maiden, Archange Simonet, for she was\r\nseized by a were-wolf at this place and hurried away while dancing at her\r\nown wedding. The bridegroom devoted his life to the search for her, and\r\nfinally lost his reason, but he prosecuted the hunt so vengefully and\r\nshrewdly that he always found assistance. One of the neighbors cut off\r\nthe wolf's tail with a silver bullet, the appendage being for many years\r\npreserved by the Indians. The lover finally came upon the creature and\r\nchased it to the shore, where its footprint is still seen in one of the\r\nbowlders, but it leaped into the water and disappeared. In his crazy\r\nfancy the lover declared that it had jumped down the throat of a catfish,\r\nand that is why the French Canadians have a prejudice against catfish as\r\nan article of diet.\r\n\r\nThe man-wolf dared as much for gain as for love. On the night that Jean\r\nChiquot got the Indians drunk and bore off their beaver-skins, the wood\r\nwitches, known as “the white women,” fell upon him and tore a part of his\r\ntreasure from him, while a were-wolf pounced so hard on his back that he\r\nlost more. He drove the creatures to a little distance, but was glad to\r\nbe safe inside of the fort again, though the officers laughed at him and\r\ncalled him a coward. When they went back over the route with him they\r\nwere astonished to find the grass scorched where the women had fled\r\nbefore him, and little springs in the turf showed where they had been\r\nswallowed up. Sulphur-water was bubbling from the spot where the wolf\r\ndived into the earth when the trader's rosary fell out of his jacket.\r\nBelle Fontaine, the spot was called, long afterward.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE ESCAPE OF FRANCOIS NAVARRE\r\n\r\nWhen the Hurons came to Sandwich, opposite the Michigan shore, in 1806,\r\nand camped near the church for the annual “festival of savages,” which\r\nwas religious primarily, but incidentally gastronomic, athletic, and\r\nalcoholic, an old woman of the tribe foretold to Angelique Couture that,\r\nere long, blood would be shed freely and white men and Indians would take\r\neach other's lives. That was a reasonably safe prophecy in those days,\r\nand, though Angelique repeated it to her friends, she did not worry over\r\nit. But when the comet of 1812 appeared the people grew afraid--and with\r\ncause, for the war soon began with England. The girl's brothers fought\r\nunder the red flag; her lover, Francois Navarre, under the stars and\r\nstripes.\r\n\r\nThe cruel General Proctor one day passed through Sandwich with prisoners\r\non his way to the Hurons, who were to put them to death in the usual\r\nmanner. As they passed by, groaning in anticipation of their fate,\r\nfoot-sore and covered with dust, Angelique nearly swooned, for among them\r\nshe recognized her lover. He, too, had seen her, and the recognition had\r\nbeen noticed by Proctor. Whether his savage heart was for the moment\r\nsoftened by their anguish, or whether he wished to heighten their pain by\r\na momentary taste of joy, it is certain that on reaching camp he paroled\r\nFrancrois until sunset. The young man hastened to the girl's house, and\r\nfor one hour they were sadly happy. She tried to make him break his\r\nparole and escape, but he refused, and as the sun sank he tore himself\r\nfrom her arms and hastened to rejoin his companions in misery.\r\n\r\nHis captors admired him for this act of honor, and had he so willed he\r\ncould have been then and there received into their tribe. As it was, they\r\nallowed him to remain unbound. Hardly had the sun gone down when a number\r\nof boats drew up at the beach with another lot of prisoners, and with\r\nyells of rejoicing the Indians ran to the river to drive them into camp.\r\nFrancois's opportunity was brief, but he seized it. In the excitement he\r\nhad been unobserved. He was not under oath now, and with all speed he\r\ndashed into the wood. Less than a minute had elapsed before his absence\r\nwas discovered, but he was a cunning woodman, and by alternately running\r\nand hiding, with gathering darkness in his favor, he had soon put the\r\nsavages at a distance.\r\n\r\nA band of English went to Angelique's home, thinking that he would be\r\nsure to rejoin her; but he was too shrewd for that, and it was in vain\r\nthat they fired guns up the chimneys and thrust bayonets into beds.\r\nAngelique was terrified at this intrusion, but the men had been ordered\r\nnot to injure the woman, and she was glad, after all, to think that\r\nFrancois had escaped. Some days later one of the Hurons came to her door\r\nand pointed significantly to a fresh scalp that hung at his belt. In the\r\nbelief that it was her lover's she grew ill and began to fade, but one\r\nevening there came a faint tap at the door. She opened it to find a cap\r\non the door-step.\r\n\r\nThere was no writing, yet her heart rose in her bosom and the color came\r\nback to her cheeks, for she recognized it as her lover's. Later, she\r\nlearned that Francois had kept to the forest until he reached the site of\r\nWalkerville, where he had found a canoe and reached the American side in\r\nsafety. She afterward rejoined him in Detroit, and they were married at\r\nthe end of the war, through which he served with honor and satisfaction\r\nto himself, being enabled to pay many old scores against the red-coats\r\nand the Indians.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE OLD LODGER\r\n\r\nIn 1868 there died in Detroit a woman named Marie Louise Thebault, more\r\nusually called Kennette. She was advanced in years, and old residents\r\nremembered when she was one of the quaintest figures and most assertive\r\nspirits in the town, for until a few years before her death she was rude\r\nof speech, untidy in appearance, loved nothing or respected nothing\r\nunless it might be her violin and her money, and lived alone in a little\r\nold house on the river-road to Springwells. Though she made shoes for a\r\nliving, she was of so miserly a nature that she accepted food from her\r\nneighbors, and in order to save the expense of light and fuel she spent\r\nher evenings out. Yet she read more or less, and was sufficiently\r\nacquainted with Volney, Voltaire, and other skeptics to shock her church\r\nacquaintances. Love of gain, not of company, induced her to lease one of\r\nher rooms to a pious old woman, from whom she got not only a little rent,\r\nbut the incidental use of her fuel and light.\r\n\r\nWhen the pious one tried to win her to the church it angered her, and\r\nthen, too, she had a way of telling ghost stories that Kennette laughed\r\nat. One of these narratives that she would dwell on with especial\r\nself-conviction was that of Lieutenant Muir, who had left his mistress,\r\nwhen she said No to his pleadings, supposing that she spoke the truth,\r\nwhereas she was merely trying to be coquettish.\r\n\r\nHe fell in an attack on the Americans that night, and came back,\r\nbleeding, to the girl who had made him throw his life away; he pressed\r\nher hand, leaving the mark of skeleton fingers there, so that she always\r\nkept it gloved afterward. Then there was the tale of the two men of\r\nDetroit who were crushed by a falling tree: the married one, who was not\r\nfatally hurt, begged his mate to call his wife, as soon as his soul was\r\nfree, and the woman, hearing the mournful voice at her door, as the\r\nspirit passed on its way to space, ran out and rescued her husband from\r\nhis plight. She told, too, of the _feu follet_, or will-o'-the-wisp, that\r\nled a girl on Grosse Isle to the swamp where her lover was engulfed in\r\nmire and enabled her to rescue him. There was Grand'mere Duchene,\r\nlikewise, who worked at her spinning-wheel for many a night after death,\r\nstriking fear to her son's heart, by its droning, because he had not\r\nbought the fifty masses for the repose of her soul, but when he had\r\nfulfilled the promise she came no more. Another yarn was about the\r\nghost-boat of hunter Sebastian that ascends the straits once in seven\r\nyears, celebrating his return, after death, in accordance with the\r\npromise made to Zoe, his betrothed, that--dead or alive--he would return\r\nto her from the hunt at a certain time.\r\n\r\nTo all this Kennette turned the ear of scorning. “Bah!” she cried. “I\r\ndon't believe your stories. I don't believe in your hell and your\r\npurgatory. If you die first, come back. If I should, and I can, I will\r\ncome. Then we may know whether there is another world.”\r\n\r\nThe bargain was made to this effect, but the women did not get on well\r\ntogether, and soon Kennette had an open quarrel with her lodger that\r\nended by her declaring that she never could forgive her, but that she\r\nwould hold her to her after-death compact. The lodger died, and while\r\ntalking of her death at the house of a neighbor a boy, who had arrived\r\nfrom town, casually asked Kennette--knowing her saving ways--why she had\r\nleft the light burning in her house. Grasping a poker, she set off at\r\nonce to punish the intruder who had dared to enter in her absence, but\r\nwhen she arrived there was no light. On several evenings the light was\r\nreported by others, but as she was gadding in the neighborhood she never\r\nsaw it until, one night, resolved to see for herself, she returned early,\r\nsoftly entered at the back door, and went to bed. Hardly had she done so\r\nwhen she saw a light coming up-stairs. Sitting bolt upright in bed she\r\nwaited. The light came up noiselessly and presently stood in the\r\nroom--not a lantern or candle, but a white phosphorescence. It advanced\r\ntoward her, changing its form until she saw a cloudy likeness to a human\r\nbeing. For the first time in her life she feared. “Come no nearer!” she\r\ncried. “I know you. I believe you, and I forgive.”\r\n\r\nThe light vanished. From that night it was remarked that Kennette began\r\nto age fast--she began to change and become more like other women. She\r\nwent to church and her face grew softer and kinder. It was the only time\r\nthat she saw the spirit, but the effect of the visit was permanent.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE NAIN ROUGE\r\n\r\nAmong all the impish offspring of the Stone God, wizards and witches,\r\nthat made Detroit feared by the early settlers, none were more dreaded\r\nthan the Nain Rouge (Red Dwarf), or Demon of the Strait, for it appeared\r\nonly when there was to be trouble. In that it delighted. It was a\r\nshambling, red-faced creature, with a cold, glittering eye and teeth\r\nprotruding from a grinning mouth. Cadillac, founder of Detroit, having\r\nstruck at it, presently lost his seigniory and his fortunes. It was seen\r\nscampering along the shore on the night before the attack on Bloody Run,\r\nwhen the brook that afterward bore this name turned red with the blood of\r\nsoldiers. People saw it in the smoky streets when the city was burned in\r\n1805, and on the morning of Hull's surrender it was found grinning in the\r\nfog. It rubbed its bony knuckles expectantly when David Fisher paddled\r\nacross the strait to see his love, Soulange Gaudet, in the only boat he\r\ncould find--a wheel-barrow, namely--but was sobered when David made a\r\nsafe landing.\r\n\r\nIt chuckled when the youthful bloods set off on Christmas day to race the\r\nfrozen strait for the hand of buffer Beauvais's daughter Claire, but when\r\nher lover's horse, a wiry Indian nag, came pacing in it fled before their\r\nhappiness. It was twice seen on the roof of the stable where that\r\nsour-faced, evil-eyed old mumbler, Jean Beaugrand, kept his horse, Sans\r\nSouci--a beast that, spite of its hundred years or more, could and did\r\nleap every wall in Detroit, even the twelve-foot stockade of the fort, to\r\nsteal corn and watermelons, and that had been seen in the same barn,\r\nsitting at a table, playing seven-up with his master, and drinking a\r\nliquor that looked like melted brass. The dwarf whispered at the sleeping\r\near of the old chief who slew Friar Constantine, chaplain of the fort, in\r\nanger at the teachings that had parted a white lover from his daughter\r\nand led her to drown herself--a killing that the red man afterward\r\nconfessed, because he could no longer endure the tolling of a mass bell\r\nin his ears and the friar's voice in the wind.\r\n\r\nThe Nain Rouge it was who claimed half of the old mill, on Presque Isle,\r\nthat the sick and irritable Josette swore that she would leave to the\r\ndevil when her brother Jean pestered her to make her will in his favor,\r\ngiving him complete ownership. On the night of her death the mill was\r\nwrecked by a thunder-bolt, and a red-faced imp was often seen among the\r\nruins, trying to patch the machinery so as to grind the devil's grist. It\r\ndirected the dance of black cats in the mill at Pont Rouge, after the\r\nwidow's curse had fallen on Louis Robert, her brother-in-law. This man,\r\nsucceeding her husband as director of the property, had developed such\r\nmiserly traits that she and her children were literally starved to death,\r\nbut her dying curse threw such ill luck on the place and set afloat such\r\nevil report about it that he took himself away. The Nain Rouge may have\r\nbeen the Lutin that took Jacques L'Esperance's ponies from the stable at\r\nGrosse Pointe, and, leaving no tracks in sand or snow, rode them through\r\nthe air all night, restoring them at dawn quivering with fatigue, covered\r\nwith foam, bloody with the lash of a thorn-bush. It stopped that exercise\r\non the night that Jacques hurled a font of holy water at it, but to keep\r\nit away the people of Grosse Pointe still mark their houses with the sign\r\nof a cross.\r\n\r\nIt was lurking in the wood on the day that Captain Dalzell went against\r\nPontiac, only to perish in an ambush, to the secret relief of his\r\nsuperior, Major Gladwyn, for the major hoped to win the betrothed of\r\nDalzell; but when the girl heard that her lover had been killed at Bloody\r\nRun, and his head had been carried on a pike, she sank to the ground\r\nnever to rise again in health, and in a few days she had followed the\r\nvictims of the massacre. There was a suspicion that the Nain Rouge had\r\npower to change his shape for one not less offensive. The brothers\r\nTremblay had no luck in fishing through the straits and lakes until one\r\nof them agreed to share his catch with St. Patrick, the saint's half to\r\nbe sold at the church-door for the benefit of the poor and for buying\r\nmasses to relieve souls in purgatory. His brother doubted if this benefit\r\nwould last, and feared that they might be lured into the water and turned\r\ninto fish, for had not St. Patrick eaten pork chops on a Friday, after\r\ndipping them into holy water and turning them into trout? But his good\r\nbrother kept on and prospered and the bad one kept on grumbling. Now, at\r\nGrosse Isle was a strange thing called the rolling muff, that all were\r\nafraid of, since to meet it was a warning of trouble; but, like the _feu\r\nfollet_, it could be driven off by holding a cross toward it or by asking\r\nit on what day of the month came Christmas. The worse of the Tremblays\r\nencountered this creature and it filled him with dismay. When he returned\r\nhis neighbors observed an odor--not of sanctity--on his garments, and\r\ntheir view of the matter was that he had met a skunk. The graceless man\r\nfelt convinced, however, that he had received a devil's baptism from the\r\nNain Rouge, and St. Patrick had no stancher allies than both the\r\nTremblays, after that.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTWO REVENGES\r\n\r\nIt is no more possible to predicate the conduct of an Indian than that of\r\na woman. In Detroit lived Wasson, one of the warriors of the dreaded\r\nPontiac, who had felt some tender movings of the spirit toward a girl of\r\nhis tribe. The keeper of the old red mill that stood at the foot of\r\nTwenty-fourth Street adopted her, with the consent of her people, and did\r\nhis best to civilize her. But Wasson kept watch. He presently discovered\r\nthat whenever the miller was away a candle shone in the window until a\r\nfigure wrapped in a military cloak emerged from the shadows, knocked, and\r\nwas admitted. On the night that Wasson identified his rival as Colonel\r\nCampbell, an English officer, he stole into the girl's room through the\r\nwindow and cut her down with his hatchet. Colonel Campbell, likewise, he\r\nslew after Pontiac had made prisoners of the garrison. The mill was\r\nshunned, after that, for the figure of a girl, with a candle in her hand,\r\nfrightened so many people by moving about the place that it was torn down\r\nin 1795.\r\n\r\nBut the red man was not always hostile. Kenen, a Huron, loved a\r\nhalf-breed girl, whom he could never persuade into a betrothal. One day\r\nhe accidentally wounded a white man in the wood, and lifting him on his\r\nshoulder he hurried with him to camp. It was not long before he found\r\nthat the soft glances of the half-breed girl were doing more to cure his\r\nvictim than the incantations of the medicine-man, and in a fit of anger,\r\none day, he plucked forth his knife and fell upon the couple. Her look of\r\ninnocent surprise shamed him. He rushed away, with an expression of\r\nself-contempt, and flung his weapon far into the river. Soon after, the\r\nwhite man was captured by the Iroquois. They were preparing to put him to\r\nthe torture when a tall Indian leaped in among them, with the cry, “I am\r\nKenen. Let the pale face go, for a Huron chief will take his place.” And,\r\nas the bonds fell from the prisoner's wrists and ankles, he added, “Go\r\nand comfort the White Fawn.” The white man was allowed to enter a canoe\r\nand row away, but as he did so his heart misgave him: the words of a\r\ndeathsong and the crackling of flames had reached his ears.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHIAWATHA\r\n\r\nThe story of Hiawatha--known about the lakes as Manabozho and in the East\r\nas Glooskapis the most widely disseminated of the Indian legends. He came\r\nto earth on a Messianic mission, teaching justice, fortitude, and\r\nforbearance to the red men, showing them how to improve their handicraft,\r\nridding the woods and hills of monsters, and finally going up to heaven\r\namid cries of wonder from those on whose behalf he had worked and\r\ncounselled. He was brought up as a child among them, took to wife the\r\nDakota girl, Minnehaha (“Laughing Water”), hunted, fought, and lived as a\r\nwarrior; yet, when need came, he could change his form to any shape of\r\nbird, fish, or plant that he wished. He spoke to friends in the voice of\r\na woman and to enemies in tones like thunder. A giant in form, few dared\r\nto resist him in battle, yet he suffered the common pains and adversities\r\nof his kind, and while fishing in one of the great lakes in his white\r\nstone canoe, that moved whither he willed it, he and his boat were\r\nswallowed by the king of fishes. He killed the creature by beating at its\r\nheart with a stone club, and when the gulls had preyed on its flesh, as\r\nit lay floating on the surface, until he could see daylight, he clambered\r\nthrough the opening they had made and returned to his lodge.\r\n\r\nBelieving that his father had killed his mother, he fought against him\r\nfor several days, driving him to the edge of the world before peace was\r\nmade between them. The evil Pearl Feather had slain one of his relatives,\r\nand to avenge that crime Hiawatha pressed through a guard of\r\nfire-breathing serpents which surrounded that fell personage, shot them\r\nwith arrows as they struck at him, and having thus reached the lodge of\r\nhis enemy he engaged him in combat. All day long they battled to no\r\npurpose, but toward evening a woodpecker flew overhead and cried, “Your\r\nenemy has but one vulnerable point. Shoot at his scalp-lock.” Hiawatha\r\ndid so and his foe fell dead. Anointing his finger with the blood of his\r\nfoe, he touched the bird, and the red mark is found on the head of every\r\nwoodpecker to this day. A duck having led him a long chase when he was\r\ntrying to capture it for food, he angrily kicked it, thus flattening its\r\nback, bowing its legs, despoiling it of half of its tail-feathers, and\r\nthat is why, to this day, ducks are awkward.\r\n\r\nIn return for its service in leading him to where the prince of serpents\r\nlived, he invested the kingfisher with a medal and rumpled the feathers\r\nof its head in putting it on; hence all kingfishers have rumpled knots\r\nand white spots on their breasts. After slaying the prince of serpents he\r\ntravelled all over America, doing good work, and on reaching Onondaga he\r\norganized a friendly league of thirteen tribes that endured for many\r\nyears. This closed his mission. As he stood in the assemblage of chiefs a\r\nwhite bird, appearing at an immense height, descended like a meteor,\r\nstruck Hiawatha's daughter with such force as to drive her remains into\r\nthe earth and shattered itself against the ground. Its silvery feathers\r\nwere scattered, and these were preserved by the beholders as ornaments\r\nfor their hair--so the custom of wearing feather head-dresses endures to\r\nour time. Though filled with consternation, Hiawatha recognized the\r\nsummons. He addressed his companions in tones of such sweetness and terms\r\nof such eloquence as had never been heard before, urging them to live\r\nuprightly and to enforce good laws, and unhappy circumstance!--promising\r\nto come back when the time was ripe. The expectancy of his return has led\r\nto ghost-dances and similar demonstrations of enmity against the whites.\r\nWhen he had ended he entered his stone canoe and began to rise in air to\r\nstrains of melting music. Higher and higher he arose, the white vessel\r\nshining in the sunlight, until he disappeared in the spaces of the sky.\r\n\r\nIncidents of the Hiawatha legend are not all placed, but he is thought to\r\nhave been born near the great lakes, perhaps at Mackinack. Some legends,\r\nindeed, credit him with making his home at Mackinack, and from that\r\npoint, as a centre, making a new earth around him. The fight with his\r\nfather began on the upper Mississippi, and the bowlders found along its\r\nbanks were their missiles. The south shore of Lake Superior was the scene\r\nof his conflict with the serpents. He hunted the great beaver around Lake\r\nSuperior and brought down his dam at the Sault Sainte Marie. A depression\r\nin a rock on the southern edge of Michipicotea Bay is where he alighted\r\nafter a jump across the lake. In a larger depression, near Thunder Bay,\r\nhe sat when smoking his last pipe. The big rocks on the east side of\r\nGrand Traverse Bay, near Antrim City, Michigan, are the bones of a stone\r\nmonster that he slew.\r\n\r\nSo trifling an incident as the kicking of the duck has been localized at\r\nLake Itasca. [It is worth passing mention that this name, which sounds as\r\nif it were of Indian origin, is held by some to be composed of the last\r\nsyllables of _veritas_ and the first letters of _caput_, these\r\nwords-signifying “the true head”--being applied by early explorers as\r\nshowing that they were confident of having found the actual source of the\r\nMississippi.] Minnehaha lived near the fall in Minneapolis that bears her\r\nname. The final apotheosis took place on the shores of Lake Onondaga, New\r\nYork, though Hiawatha lies buried under a mountain, three miles long, on\r\nthe east side of Thunder Bay, Lake Superior, which, from the water,\r\nresembles a man lying on his back. The red man makes oblation, as he rows\r\npast, by dropping a pinch of tobacco into the water. Some say that\r\nHiawatha now lives at the top of the earth, amid the ice, and directs the\r\nsun. He has to live in a cold country because, if he were to return, he\r\nwould set the earth on fire with his footsteps.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE INDIAN MESSIAH\r\n\r\nThe promise of the return to earth of various benign spirits has caused\r\nmuch trouble among the red men, and incidentally to the white men who are\r\nthe objects of their fanatic dislike. The New Mexicans believed that when\r\nthe Emperor Montezuma was about to leave the earth he planted a tree and\r\nbade them watch it, for when it fell he would come back in glory and lead\r\nthem to victory, wealth, and power. The watch was kept in secret on\r\naccount of the determination of the Spaniards to breakup all fealty to\r\ntribal heroes and traditions. As late as 1781 they executed a sentence of\r\ndeath on a descendant of the Peruvian Incas for declaring his royal\r\norigin. When Montezuma's tree fell the people gathered on the house-tops\r\nto watch the east-in vain, for the white man was there. In 1883 the\r\nSanpoels, a small tribe in Washington, were stirred by the teaching of an\r\nold chief, who told them that the wicked would soon be destroyed, and\r\nthat the Great Spirit had ordered him to build an ark for his people. The\r\nremains of this vessel, two hundred and eighty-eight feet long, are still\r\nto be seen near one of the tributaries of the Columbia.\r\n\r\nA frenzy swept over the West in 1890, inspiring the Indians by promise of\r\nthe coming of one of superhuman power, who was generally believed to be\r\nHiawatha, to threaten the destruction of the white population, since it\r\nhad been foretold that the Messiah would drive the white men from their\r\nland. Early in the summer of that year it was reported that the Messiah\r\nhad appeared in the north, and the chiefs of many tribes went to Dakota,\r\nas the magi did to Bethlehem, to learn if this were true. Sitting Bull,\r\nthe Sioux chief, told them, in assembly, that it was so, and declared\r\nthat he had seen the new Christ while hunting in the Shoshone Mountains.\r\nOne evening he lost his way and was impelled by a strange feeling to\r\nfollow a star that moved before him. At daybreak it paused over a\r\nbeautiful valley, and, weary with his walk, he sank on a bed of moss. As\r\nhe sat there throngs of Indian warriors appeared and began a spirit\r\ndance, led by chiefs who had long been dead. Presently a voice spoke in\r\nhis ear, and turning he saw a strange man dressed in white. The man said\r\nhe was the same Christ who had come into the world nineteen hundred years\r\nbefore to save white men, and that now he would save the red men by\r\ndriving out the whites. The Indians were to dance the ghost-dance, or\r\nspirit dance, until the new moon, when the globe would shiver, the wind\r\nwould glow, and the white soldiers and their horses would sink into the\r\nearth. The Messiah showed to Sitting Bull the nail-wounds in his hands\r\nand feet and the spear-stab in his side. When night came on the form in\r\nwhite had disappeared--and, returning, the old chief taught the\r\nghost-dance to his people.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE VISION OF RESCUE\r\n\r\nSurmounting Red Banks, twelve miles north of Green Bay, Wisconsin, on the\r\neastern shore, and one hundred feet above the water, stands an earthwork\r\nthat the first settlers found there when they went into that country. It\r\nwas built by the Sauks and Outagamies, a family that ruled the land for\r\nmany years, rousing the jealousy of neighboring tribes by their wealth\r\nand power. The time came, as it did in the concerns of nearly every band\r\nof Indians, when war was declared against this family, and the enemy came\r\nupon them in the darkness, their canoes patroling the shore while the\r\nmain body formed a line about the fort. So silently was this done that\r\nbut one person discovered it--a squaw, who cried, “We are all dead!”\r\n\r\nThere was nothing to see or hear, and she was rated for alarming the camp\r\nwith foolish dreams; but dawn revealed the beleaguering line, and at the\r\nlifting of the sun a battle began that lasted for days, those within the\r\nearthworks sometimes fighting while ankle-deep in the blood of their\r\nfellows. The greatest lack of the besieged was that of water, and they\r\nlet down earthen jars to the lake to get it, but the cords were cut ere\r\nthey could be drawn up, the enemy shouting, derisively, “Come down and\r\ndrink!” Several times they tried to do so, but were beaten back at every\r\nsally, and it seemed at last as if extermination was to be their fate.\r\n\r\nWhen matters were at their darkest one of the young men who had been\r\nfasting for ten days--the Indian custom when divine direction was sought\r\naddressed his companions to this effect: “Last night there stood by me\r\nthe form of a young man, clothed in white, who said, 'I was once alive,\r\nbut I died, and now I live forever. Trust me and I will deliver you. Be\r\nfearless. At midnight I will cast a sleep on your enemies. Go forth\r\nboldly and you shall escape.'” The condition was too desperate to\r\nquestion any means of freedom, and that night all but a handful of\r\ndisbelievers left the fort, while the enemy was in a slumber of\r\nexhaustion, and got away in safety. When the besiegers, in the morning,\r\nfound that the fort had been almost deserted, they fell on the few that\r\nremained to repent their folly, and put them to the knife and axe, for\r\ntheir fury was excessive at the failure of the siege.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nDEVIL'S LAKE\r\n\r\nAny of the noble rivers and secluded lakes of Wisconsin were held in\r\nesteem or fear by the northern tribes, and it was the now-forgotten\r\nevents and superstitions connected with them, not less than the frontier\r\ntendency for strong names, that gave a lurid and diabolical nomenclature\r\nto parts of this region. Devils, witches, magicians, and manitous were\r\nperpetuated, and Indians whose prowess was thought to be supernatural\r\nleft dim records of themselves here and there--as near the dells of the\r\nWisconsin, where a chasm fifty feet wide is shown as the ravine leaped by\r\nchief Black Hawk when flying from the whites. Devil's Lake was the home\r\nof a manitou who does not seem to have been a particularly evil genius,\r\nthough he had unusual power. The lake fills what is locally regarded as\r\nthe crater of an extinct volcano, and the coldness and purity kept by the\r\nwater, in spite of its lacking visible inlets or outlets, was one cause\r\nfor thinking it uncanny.\r\n\r\nThis manitou piled the heavy blocks of Devil's Door-Way and set up Black\r\nMonument and the Pedestalled Bowlder as thrones where he might sit and\r\nview the landscape by day--for the Indians appreciated the beautiful in\r\nnature and supposed their gods did, too--while at night he could watch\r\nthe dance of the frost spirits, the aurora borealis. Cleft Rock was\r\nsundered by one of his darts aimed at an offending Indian, who owed his\r\nlife to the manitou's bad aim. The Sacrifice Stone is shown where, at\r\nanother time, a girl was immolated to appease his anger. Cleopatra's\r\nNeedle, as it is now called, is the body of an ancient chief, who was\r\nturned into stone as a punishment for prying into the mysteries of the\r\nlake, a stone on East Mountain being the remains of a squaw who had\r\nsimilarly offended. On the St. Croix the Devil's Chair is pointed out\r\nwhere he sat in state. He had his play spells, too, as you may guess when\r\nyou see his toboggan slide in Weber Canon, Utah, while Cinnabar Mountain,\r\nin the Yellowstone country, he scorched red as he coasted down.\r\n\r\nThe hunter wandering through this Wisconsin wilderness paused when he\r\ncame within sight of the lake, for all game within its precincts was in\r\nthe manitou's protection; not a fish might be taken, and not even a drop\r\nof water could be dipped to cool the lips of the traveller. So strong was\r\nthis fear of giving offence to the manitou that Indians who were dying of\r\nwounds or illness, and were longing for a swallow of water, would refuse\r\nto profane the lake by touching their lips to it.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE KEUSCA ELOPEMENT\r\n\r\nKeusca was a village of the Dakota Indians on the Wisconsin bluffs of the\r\nMississippi eighteen hundred miles from its mouth. The name means, to\r\noverthrow, or set aside, for it was here that a tribal law was broken.\r\nSacred Wind was a coquette of that village, for whose hand came many\r\nyoung fellows wooing with painted faces. For her they played the bone\r\nflute in the twilight, and in the games they danced and leaped their\r\nhardest and shot their farthest and truest when she was looking on.\r\nThough they amused her she cared not a jot for these suitors, keeping her\r\nlove for the young brave named the Shield--and keeping it secret, for he\r\nwas her cousin, and cousins might not wed. If a relative urged her to\r\nmarry some young fellow for whom she had no liking, she would answer that\r\nif forced to do so she would fling herself into the river, and spoke of\r\nWinonah and Lovers' Leap.\r\n\r\nShe was afraid to wed the Shield, for the medicine-men had threatened all\r\nwho dared to break the marriage laws with unearthly terrors; yet when the\r\nShield had been absent for several weeks on the war-path she realized\r\nthat life without his companionship was too hollow to be endured--and she\r\nadmired him all the more when he returned with two scalps hanging at his\r\nbelt. He renewed his wooing. He allayed her fears by assurances that he,\r\ntoo, was a medicine-man and could counteract the spells that wizards\r\nmight cast on them. Then she no longer repressed the promptings of her\r\nheart, but yielded to his suit. They agreed to elope that night.\r\n\r\nAs they left the little clearing in the wood where their interview had\r\ntaken place, a thicket stirred and a girl stole from it, looking intently\r\nat their retreating forms. The Swan, they had named her; but, with a\r\nflush in her dusky cheeks, her brows dark, her eyes glittering, she more\r\nrecalled the vulture--for she, too, loved the Shield; and she had now\r\nseen and heard that her love was hopeless. That evening she alarmed the\r\ncamp; she told the parents of Sacred Wind of the threatened violation of\r\ncustom, and the father rose in anger to seek her. It was too late, for\r\nthe flight had taken place. The Swan went to the river and rowed out in a\r\ncanoe. From the middle of the stream she saw a speck on the water to the\r\nsouthward, and knew it to be Sacred Wind and her lover, henceforth\r\nhusband. She watched until the speck faded in the twilight--then leaning\r\nover the side of the boat she capsized it, and passed from the view of\r\nmen.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPIPESTONE\r\n\r\nPipestone, a smooth, hard, even-textured clay, of lively color, from\r\nwhich thousands of red men cut their pipe-bowls, forms a wall on the\r\nCoteau des Prairies, in Minnesota, that is two miles long and thirty feet\r\nhigh. In front of it lie five bowlders, the droppings from an iceberg to\r\nthe floor of the primeval sea, and beneath these masses of granite live\r\nthe spirits of two squaws that must be consulted before the stone can be\r\ndug. This quarry was neutral ground, and here, as they approached it, the\r\nmen of all tribes sheathed their knives and belted up their axes, for to\r\nthis place the Great Spirit came to kill and eat the buffalo, and it is\r\nthe blood of this animal that has turned the stone to red. Here, too, the\r\nThunder Bird had her nest, and her brood rent the skies above it with the\r\nclashing of their iron wings.\r\n\r\nA snake having crawled into this nest to steal the unhatched thunders,\r\nManitou caught up a piece of pipestone, hastily pressed it between his\r\nhands, giving it the shape of a man, and flung it at the reptile. The\r\nstone man's feet stuck fast in the ground, and there he stood for a\r\nthousand years, growing like a tree and drawing strength and knowledge\r\nout of the earth. Another shape grew up beside him--woman. In time the\r\nsnake gnawed them free from their foundations and the red-earth pair\r\nwandered off together. From them sprang all people.\r\n\r\nAges after, the Manitou called the red men to the quarry, fashioned a\r\npipe for them, told them it was a part of their flesh, and smoked it over\r\nthem, blowing the smoke to north, south, east, and west, in token that\r\nwherever the influence of the pipe extended there was to be brotherhood\r\nand peace. The place was to be sacred from war and they were to make\r\ntheir pipes from this rock. As the smoke rolled about him he gradually\r\ndisappeared from view. At the last whiff the ashes fell out and the\r\nsurface of the rock for miles burst into flame, so that it melted and\r\nglazed. Two ovens opened at its foot, and through the fire entered the\r\ntwo spirits Tsomecostee and Tsomecostewondee--that are still its\r\nguardians, answering the invocations of the medicine-men and accepting\r\nthe oblations of those who go to make pipes or carve their totems on the\r\nrock.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE VIRGINS' FEAST\r\n\r\nA game of lacrosse was played by Indian girls on the ice near the present\r\nFort Snelling, one winter day, and the victorious trophies were awarded\r\nto Wenonah, sister of the chief, to the discomfiture of Harpstenah, her\r\nopponent, an ill-favored woman, neglected by her tribe, and jealous of\r\nWenonah's beauty and popularity. This defeat, added to some fancied\r\nslights, was almost more than she could bear, and during the contest she\r\nhad been cut in the head by one of the rackets--an accident that she\r\nfalsely attributed to her adversary in the game. She had an opportunity\r\nof proving her hatred, for directly that it was known how Wenonah had\r\nrefused to marry Red Cloud, a stalwart boaster, openly preferring a\r\nyounger warrior of the tribe, the ill-thinking Harpstenah sought out the\r\ndisappointed suitor, who sat moodily apart, and thus advised him,\r\n“To-morrow is the Feast of Virgins, when all who are pure will sit at\r\nmeat together. Wenonah will be there. Has she the right to be? Have you\r\nnot seen how shamelessly she favors your rival's suit? Among the Dakotas\r\nto accuse is to condemn, and the girl who is accused at the Virgins'\r\nFeast is disgraced forever. She has shown for Red Cloud nothing but\r\ncontempt. If he shows no anger at it the girls will laugh at him.”\r\n\r\nWith this she turned away and left Red Cloud to his meditations. Wenonah,\r\nat the door of her brother's wigwam, looked into the north and saw the\r\nstars grow pale through streams of electric fire. “The Woman of the North\r\nwarns us of coming evil,” muttered the chief. “Some danger is near. Fire\r\non the lights!” And a volley of musketry sent a shock through the still\r\nair.\r\n\r\n“They shine for me,” said Wenonah, sadly. “For I shall soon join our\r\nfather, mother, and sister in the land of spirits. Before the leaves fell\r\nI sat beside the Father of Waters and saw a manitou rise among the waves.\r\nIt said that my sisters in the sunset world were calling to me and I must\r\nsoon go to them.” The chief tried to laugh away her fancies and comforted\r\nher as well as he might, then leading her to the wigwam he urged her to\r\nsleep.\r\n\r\nNext day is the Virgins' Feast and Wenonah is among those who sit in the\r\nring, dressed in their gayest. None who are conscious of a fault may\r\nshare in the feast; nor, if one were exposed and expelled, might any\r\ninterpose to ask for mercy; yet a groan of surprise and horror goes\r\nthrough the company when Red Cloud, stalking up to the circle, seizes the\r\ngirl roughly by the shoulder and orders her away. No use to deny or\r\nappeal. An Indian warrior would not be so treacherous or unjust as to act\r\nin this way unless he had proofs. Without a word she enters the adjacent\r\nwood, draws her knife, and strikes it to her heart. With summer came the\r\nfever, and it ravaged through the band, laying low the infant and the\r\ncounsellor. Red Cloud was the first to die, and as he was borne away\r\nHarpstenah lifted her wasted form and followed him with dimming eyes,\r\nthen cried, “He is dead. He hated Wenonah because she slighted him. I\r\nhated her because she was happy. I told him to denounce her. But she was\r\ninnocent.”\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nFALLS OF ST. ANTHONY\r\n\r\nSeveral of the Dakotas, who had been in camp near the site of St. Paul,\r\nleft their families and friends, when the hunting season opened, and went\r\ninto the north. On their arrival at another village of their tribe, they\r\nstayed to rest for a little, and one of the men used the time to\r\nill-advantage, as it fell out, for he conceived an attachment for a girl\r\nof this northern family, and on his way southward he wedded her and took\r\nher home with him. Proper enough to do, if he had not been married\r\nalready. The first wife knew that any warrior might take a second, if he\r\ncould support both; but the woman was stronger than the savage in her\r\nnature, and when her husband came back, with a red-cheeked woman walking\r\nbeside him, she felt that she should never know his love again. The man\r\nwas all attention to the young wife, whether the tribe tarried or\r\ntravelled. When they shifted camp the elder walked or rowed behind with\r\nher boy, a likely lad of ten or twelve.\r\n\r\nIt was when they were returning down the river after a successful hunt\r\nthat the whole company was obliged to make a carry around the quick water\r\nnear the head of St. Anthony's Falls. While the others were packing the\r\nboats and goods for transportation by hand to the foot of the cataract,\r\nthe forsaken wife chose a moment when none were watching to embark with\r\nher boy in one of the canoes. Rowing out to an island, she put on all her\r\nornaments, and dressed the lad in beads and feathers as if he were a\r\nwarrior. Her husband, finding her absent from the party, looked anxiously\r\nabout for some time, and was horrified to see her put out from the island\r\ninto the rapid current. She had placed the child high in the boat, and\r\nwas rowing with a steady stroke down the stream. He called and beckoned\r\nfranticly. She did not seem to hear him, nor did she turn her head when\r\nthe others joined their cries to his. For a moment those who listened\r\nheard her death-song, then the yeasty flood hid them from sight, and the\r\nhusband on the shore fell to the earth with a wail of anguish.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nFLYING SHADOW AND TRACK MAKER\r\n\r\nThe Chippewas and Sioux had come together at Fort Snelling to make merry\r\nand cement friendships. Flying Shadow was sad when the time came for the\r\ntribes to part, for Track Maker had won her heart, and no less strong\r\nthan her love was the love he felt for her. But a Chippewa girl might not\r\nmarry among the Sioux, and, if she did, the hand of every one would be\r\nagainst her should ever the tribes wage war upon each other, and war was\r\nnearer than either of them had expected. The Chippewas left with feelings\r\nof good will, Flying Shadow concealing in her bosom the trinkets that\r\ntestified to the love of Track Maker and sighing as she thought of the\r\nyears that might elapse ere they met again.\r\n\r\nTwo renegade Chippewas, that had lingered behind the band, played the\r\nvillain after this pleasant parting, for they killed a Sioux. Hardly was\r\nthe news of this outrage received at the fort ere three hundred warriors\r\nwere on the trail of their whilom guests and friends, all clamoring for\r\nrevenge. Among them was Track Maker, for he could not, as a warrior,\r\nremain behind after his brother had been shot, and, while his heart sank\r\nwithin him as he thought of the gentle Flying Shadow, he marched in\r\nadvance, and early in the morning the Chippewas were surprised between\r\nSt. Anthony's Falls and Rum River, where they had camped without fear,\r\nbeing alike ignorant and innocent of the murder for which so many were to\r\nbe punished.\r\n\r\nThe Sioux fell upon them and cut down all alike--men, women, and\r\nchildren. In the midst of the carnage Track Maker comes face to face with\r\nFlying Shadow, and with a cry of gladness she throws herself into his\r\narms. But there is no refuge there. Gladly as he would save her, he knows\r\ntoo well that the thirst for blood will not be sated until every member\r\nof that band is dead. He folds her to his bosom for an instant, looks\r\ninto her eyes with tenderness--then bowing his head he passes on and\r\nnever glances back. It is enough. She falls insensible, and a savage,\r\nrushing upon her, tears the scalp from her head.\r\n\r\nThe Sioux win a hundred scalps and celebrate their victory with dance and\r\nsong. Track Maker has returned with more scalps than any, and the maidens\r\nwelcome him as a hero, but he keeps gravely apart from all, and has no\r\nshare in the feasting and merry-making. Ever the trusting, pleading,\r\nwondering face of Flying Shadow comes before him. It looks out at him in\r\nthe face of the deer he is about to kill. He sees it in the river, the\r\nleaves, the clouds. It rises before him in dreams. The elder people say\r\nhe is bewitched, but he will have none of their curatives. When war\r\nbreaks out he is the first to go, the first to open battle. Rushing among\r\nhis enemies he lays about him with his axe until he falls, pierced with a\r\nhundred spears and arrows. It is the fate he has courted, and as he falls\r\nhis face is lighted with a smile.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSAVED BY A LIGHTNING-STROKE\r\n\r\nThere was rough justice in the West in the old days. It had to be dealt\r\nseverely and quickly, for it was administered to a kind of men that\r\nbecame dangerous if they saw any advantage or any superiority in their\r\nstrength or numbers over the decent people with whom they were cast. They\r\nwere uncivilized foreigners and native renegades, for the most part, who\r\nhad drifted to the frontier in the hope of making a living without work\r\nmore easily than in the cities. As there were no lawyers or courts and\r\nfew recognized laws, the whole people constituted themselves a jury, and\r\nif a man were known to be guilty it was foolishness for any one to waste\r\nlogic on his case. And there is almost no record of an innocent man being\r\nhanged by lynchers in the West. For minor offences the penalty was to be\r\nmarched out of camp, with a warning to be very cautious about coming that\r\nway again, but for graver ones it was death.\r\n\r\nIn 1840 a number of desperate fellows had settled along Cedar River, near\r\nits confluence with the Iowa, who subsisted by means of theft from the\r\nfrugal and industrious. Some of these men applied themselves especially\r\nto horse-stealing, and in thinly settled countries, where a man has often\r\nto go twenty or thirty miles for supplies, or his mail, or medical\r\nattendance, it is thought to be a calamity to be without a horse.\r\n\r\nAt last the people organized themselves into a vigilance committee and\r\nran down the thieves. As the latter were a conscienceless gang of\r\nrascals, it was resolved that the only effectual way of reforming them\r\nwould be by hanging. One man of the nine, it is true, was supposed before\r\nhis arrest to be a respectable citizen, but his evil communications\r\nclosed the ears of his neighbors to his appeals, and it was resolved that\r\nhe, too, should hang.\r\n\r\nNot far away stood an oak with nine stout branches, and to this natural\r\ngallows the rogues were taken. As a squall was coming up the ceremonies\r\nwere short, and presently every limb was weighted with the form of a\r\ncaptive. The formerly respectable citizen was the last one to be drawn\r\nup, and hardly had his halter been secured before the storm burst and a\r\nbolt of lightning ripped off the limb on which he hung. During the delay\r\ncaused by this accident the unhappy man pleaded so earnestly for a\r\nrehearing that it was decided to give it to him, and when he had secured\r\nit he conclusively proved his innocence and was set free. The tree is\r\nstill standing. To the ruffians it was a warning and they went away. Even\r\nthe providential saving of one man did not detract from the value of the\r\nlesson to avoid bad company.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE KILLING OF CLOUDY SKY\r\n\r\nIn the Dakota camp on the bank of Spirit Lake, or Lake Calhoun, Iowa,\r\nlived Cloudy Sky, a medicine-man, who had been made repellent by age and\r\naccident, but who was feared because of his magic power. At eighty years\r\nof age he looked for a third wife, and chose the daughter of a warrior,\r\nhis presents of blankets and calicoes to the parents winning their\r\nconsent. The girl, Harpstenah (a common name for a third daughter among\r\nthe Sioux), dreaded and hated this man, for it was rumored that he had\r\nkilled his first wife and basely sold his second. When she learned what\r\nhad been decided for her she rushed from the camp in tears and sat in a\r\nlonely spot near the lake to curse and lament unseen. As she sat there\r\nthe waters were troubled. There was no wind, yet great waves were thrown\r\nup, and tumbled hissing on the shore. Presently came a wave higher than\r\nthe rest, and a graceful form leaped from it, half shrouded in its own\r\nlong hair.\r\n\r\n“Do not tremble,” said the visitant, for Harpstenah had hidden her face.\r\n“I am the daughter of Unktahe, the water god. In four days your parents\r\nwill give you to Cloudy Sky, as his wife, though you love Red Deer. It is\r\nwith you to wed the man you hate or the man you love. Cloudy Sky has\r\noffended the water spirits and we have resolved upon his death. If you\r\nwill be our agent in destroying him, you shall marry Red Deer and live\r\nlong and happily. The medicine-man wandered for years through the air\r\nwith the thunder birds, flinging his deadly fire-spears at us, and it was\r\nfor killing the son of Unktahe that he was last sent to earth, where he\r\nhas already lived twice before. Kill him while he sleeps and we will\r\nreward you.”\r\n\r\nAs Harpstenah went back to the village her prospective bridegroom ogled\r\nher as he sat smoking before his lodge, his face blackened and blanket\r\ntorn in mourning for an enemy he had killed. She resolved to heed the\r\nappeal of the manitou. When Red Deer heard how she had been promised to\r\nthe old conjurer, he was filled with rage. Still, he became thoughtful\r\nand advised caution when she told him of the water spirit's counsel, for\r\nthe dwellers in the lakes were, of all immortals, most deceitful, and had\r\never been enemies of the Dakotas. “I will do as I am bidden,” she said,\r\nsternly. “Go away and visit the Tetons for a time. It is now the moon of\r\nstrawberries” (June), “but in the moon when we gather wild rice”\r\n (September) “return and I will be your wife.”\r\n\r\nRed Deer obeyed, after finding that she would not elope with him, and\r\nwith the announcement that he was going on a long hunt he took his leave\r\nof the village. Harpstenah made ready for the bridal and greeted her\r\nfuture husband with apparent pleasure and submissiveness. He gave a\r\nmedicine feast in token of the removal of his mourning, and appeared in\r\nnew clothing, greased and braided hair, and a white blanket decorated\r\nwith a black hand--the record of a slain enemy.\r\n\r\nOn the night before the wedding the girl creeps to his lodge, but\r\nhesitates when she sees his medicine-bag hanging beside the door--the\r\nmedicine that has kept its owner from evil and is sacred from the touch\r\nof woman. As she lingers the night-breeze seems to bring a voice from the\r\nwater: “Can a Dakota woman want courage when she is forced to marry the\r\nman she hates?”\r\n\r\nShe delays no longer. A knife-blade glitters for an instant in the\r\nmoonlight--and Cloudy Sky is dead. Strange, is it not, that the thunder\r\nbirds flap so heavily along the west at that moment and a peal of\r\nlaughter sounds from the lake? She washes the blood from the blade,\r\nsteals to her father's lodge, and pretends to sleep. In the morning she\r\nis loud in her grief when it is made known to her that the medicine-man\r\nwas no more, and the doer of the deed is never discovered. In time her\r\nwan face gets its color and when the leaves begin to fall Red Deer\r\nreturns and weds her.\r\n\r\nThey seem to be happy for a time, and have two sons who promise to be\r\nfamous hunters, but consumption fastens on Red Deer and he dies far from\r\nthe village. The sons are shot by enemies, and while their bodies are on\r\ntheir way to Harpstenah's lodge she, too, is stricken dead by lightning.\r\nThe spirit of Cloudy Sky had rejoined the thunder birds, and the water\r\nmanitou had promised falsely.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nPROVIDENCE HOLE\r\n\r\nThe going of white men into the prairies aroused the same sort of\r\nanimosity among the Indians that they have shown in other parts of the\r\ncountry when retiring before the advance of civilization, and many who\r\ntried to plant corn on the rolling lands of Iowa, though they did no harm\r\nto the red men, paid for the attempt with their lives. Such was the fate\r\nof a settler who had built his cabin on the Wyoming hills, near\r\nDavenport. While working in his fields an arrow, shot from a covert, laid\r\nhim low, and his scalp was cut away to adorn the belt of a savage. His\r\nlittle daughter, left alone, began to suffer from fears and loneliness as\r\nthe sun went lower and lower, and when it had come to its time of setting\r\nshe put on her little bonnet and went in search of him. As she gained the\r\nslope where he had last been seen, an Indian lifted his head from the\r\ngrass and looked at her.\r\n\r\nStarting back to run, she saw another behind her. Escape seemed hopeless,\r\nand killing or captivity would have been her lot had not a crevice opened\r\nin the earth close to where she stood. Dropping on hands and knees she\r\nhastily crawled in, and found herself in what seemed to be an extensive\r\ncavern. Hardly had she time to note the character of the place when the\r\ngap closed as strangely as it had opened and she was left in darkness.\r\nNot daring to cry aloud, lest Indians should hear her, she sat upright\r\nuntil her young eyes could keep open no longer; then, lying on a mossy\r\nrock, she fell asleep. In the morning the sun was shining in upon her and\r\nthe way to escape was open. She ran home, hungry, but thankful, and was\r\nfound and cared for by neighbors. “Providence Hole” then passed into the\r\nlegends of the country. It has closed anew, however.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SCARE CURE\r\n\r\nEarly in this century a restless Yankee, who wore the uninspiring name of\r\nTompkinson, found his way into Carondelet--or Vuide Poche, the French\r\nsettlement on the Mississippi since absorbed by St. Louis--and cast about\r\nfor something to do. He had been in hard luck on his trip from New\r\nEngland to the great river. His schemes for self-aggrandizement and the\r\nincidental enlightenment and prosperity of mankind had not thriven, and\r\nit was largely in pity that M. Dunois gave shelter to the ragged,\r\nhalf-starved, but still jaunty and resourceful adventurer. Dunois was the\r\none man in the place who could pretend to some education, and the two got\r\non together famously.\r\n\r\nAs soon as Tompkinson was in clothes and funds--the result of certain\r\nspeculations--he took a house, and hung a shingle out announcing that\r\nthere he practised medicine. Now, the fellow knew less about doctoring\r\nthan any village granny, but a few sick people that he attended had the\r\nrare luck to get well in spite of him, and his reputation expanded to\r\nmore than local limits in consequence. In the excess of spirits that\r\nprosperity created he flirted rather openly with a number of virgins in\r\nCarondelet, to the scandal of Dunois, who forbade him his house, and of\r\nthe priest, who put him under ban.\r\n\r\nFor the priest he cared nothing, but Dunois's anger was more serious--for\r\nthe only maid of all that he really loved was Marie Dunois, his daughter.\r\nHe formally proposed for her, but the old man would not listen to him.\r\nThen his “practice” fell away. The future looked as dark for him as his\r\nrecent past had been, until a woman came to him with a bone in her throat\r\nand begged to be relieved. His method in such cases was to turn a\r\nwheel-of-fortune and obey it. The arrow this time pointed to the word,\r\n“Bleeding.”\r\n\r\nHe grasped a scalpel and advanced upon his victim, who, supposing that he\r\nintended to cut her throat open to extract the obstacle, fell a-screaming\r\nwith such violence that the bone flew out. What was supposed to be his\r\nready wit in this emergency restored him to confidence, and he was able\r\nto resume the practice that he needed so much. In a couple of years he\r\ndisplayed to the wondering eyes of Dunois so considerable an accumulation\r\nof cash that he gave Marie to him almost without the asking, and, as\r\nTompkinson afterward turned Indian trader and quadrupled his wealth by\r\ncheating the red men, he became one of the most esteemed citizens of the\r\nWest.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTWELFTH NIGHT AT CAHOKIA\r\n\r\nIt was Twelfth Night, and the French village of Cahokia, near St. Louis,\r\nwas pleasantly agitated at the prospect of a dance in the old court\r\nsaloon, which was assembly-room and everything else for the little place.\r\nThe thirteen holy fires were alight--a large one, to represent Christ; a\r\nlesser one, to be trampled out by the crowd, typing Judas. The twelfth\r\ncake, one slice with the ring in it, was cut, and there were drink and\r\nlaughter, but, as yet, no music. Gwen Malhon, a drift-wood collector, was\r\nthe most anxious to get over the delay, for he had begged a dance from\r\nLouison. Louison Florian was pretty, not badly off in possessions and\r\nprospects, and her lover, Beaurain, had gone away. She was beginning to\r\nlook a little scornful and impatient, so Gwen set off for a fiddler.\r\n\r\nHe had inquired at nearly every cabin without success, and was on his way\r\ntoward the ferry when he heard music. Before him, on the moonlit river,\r\nwas a large boat, and near it, on the bank, he saw a company of men\r\nsquatted about a fire and bousing together from a bottle. At a little\r\ndistance, on a stump, sat a thin, bent man, enveloped in a cloak, and it\r\nwas he who played. Gwen complimented him and pleaded the disappointment\r\nof the dancers in excuse of an urgent appeal that he should hurry with\r\nhim to the court saloon. The stranger was courteous. He sprang into the\r\nroad with a limping bound, shook down his cloak so as to disclose a\r\ncurled moustache, shaggy brows, a goat's beard, and a pair of glittering\r\neyes. “I'll give them a dance!” he exclaimed. “I know one tune. They call\r\nit 'Returned from the Grave.' Pay? We'll see how you like my playing.”\r\n\r\nOn entering the room where the caperish youth were already shuffling in\r\ncorners, the musician met Mamzel Florian, who offered him a slice of the\r\ncake. He bent somewhat near to take it, and she gave a little cry. He had\r\nfound the ring, and that made him king of the festival, with the right to\r\nchoose the prettiest girl as queen. A long drink of red wine seemed to\r\nput him in the best of trim, and he began to fiddle with a verve that was\r\nirresistible. In one minute the whole company--including the priest, some\r\nsaid--was jigging it lustily. “Whew!” gasped one old fellow. “It is the\r\ndevil who plays. Get some holy water and sprinkle the floor.”\r\n\r\nGwen watched the musician as closely as his labors would allow, for he\r\ndid not like the way the fiddler had of looking at Louison, and he\r\nthought to himself that Louison never blushed so prettily for him.\r\nForgetting himself when he saw the fiddler smile at the girl, he made a\r\nrush for the barrel where that artist was perched. He bumped against a\r\ndancer and fell. At that moment the light was put out and the hall rang\r\nwith screams and laughter. The tones of one voice sounded above the rest:\r\n“By right of the ring the girl is mine.”\r\n\r\n“He has me,” Louison was heard to say, yet seemingly not in fear. Lights\r\nwere brought. Louison and the fiddler were gone, the stranger's cloak and\r\nhalf of a false moustache were on the floor, while Gwen was jammed into\r\nthe barrel and was kicking desperately to get out. When released he\r\nrushed for the river-side where he had seen the boat. Two figures flitted\r\nbefore him, but he lost sight of them, and in the silence and loneliness\r\nhis choler began to cool. Could it really have been the devil? An owl\r\nhooted in the bush. He went away in haste. There was a rumor in after\r\nyears that Beaurain was an actor in a company that went up and down the\r\ngreat river on a barge, and that a woman who resembled Louison was also\r\nin the troupe. But Gwen never told the story of his disappointment\r\nwithout crossing himself.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SPELL OF CREVE CIUR LAKE\r\n\r\nNot far west of St. Louis the Lake of Creve Coeur dimples in the breezes\r\nthat bend into its basin of hills, and there, in summer, swains and\r\nmaidens go to confirm their vows, for the lake has an influence to\r\nstrengthen love and reunite contentious pairs. One reason ascribed for\r\nthe presence of this spell concerns a turbulent Peoria, ambitious of\r\nleadership and hungry for conquest, who fell upon the Chawanons at this\r\nplace, albeit he was affianced to the daughter of their chief. The girl\r\nherself, enraged at the treachery of the youngster, put herself at the\r\nhead of her band--a dusky Joan of Arc,--and the fight waged so furiously\r\nthat the combatants, what were left of them, were glad when night fell\r\nthat they might crawl away to rest their exhausted bodies and nurse their\r\nwounds. Neither tribe daring to invite a battle after that, hostilities\r\nwere stopped, but some time later the young captain met the girl of his\r\nheart on the shore, and before the amazon could prepare for either fight\r\nor flight he had caught her in his arms. They renewed their oaths of\r\nfidelity, and at the wedding the chief proclaimed eternal peace and\r\nblessed the waters they had met beside, the blessing being potent to this\r\nday.\r\n\r\nAnother reason for the enchantments that are worked here may be that the\r\nlake is occupied by a demon-fish or serpent that crawls, slimy and\r\ndripping, through the underbrush, whenever it sees two lovers together,\r\nand listens to their words. If the man prove faithless he would best\r\nbeware of returning to this place, for the demon is lurking there to\r\ndestroy him. This monster imprisons the soul of an Ozark princess who\r\nflung herself into the lake when she learned that the son of the Spanish\r\ngovernor, who had vowed his love to her, had married a woman of his own\r\nrank and race in New Orleans. So they call the lake Creve Coeur, or\r\nBroken Heart. On the day after the suicide the Ozark chief gathered his\r\nmen about him and paddled to the middle of the water, where he solemnly\r\ncursed his daughter in her death, and asked the Great Spirit to confine\r\nher there as a punishment for giving her heart to the treacherous white\r\nman, the enemy of his people. The Great Spirit gave her the form in which\r\nshe is occasionally seen, to warn and punish faithless lovers.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHOW THE CRIME WAS REVEALED\r\n\r\nIn 1853 a Hebrew peddler, whose pack was light and his purse was full,\r\nasked leave to pass the night at the house of Daniel Baker, near Lebanon,\r\nMissouri. The favor was granted, and that was the last seen of Samuel\r\nMoritz; although, when some neighbors shook their heads and wondered how\r\nit was that Baker was so well in funds, there were others who replied\r\nthat it was impossible to keep track of peddlers, and that if Moritz\r\nwanted to start on his travels early in the morning, or to return to St.\r\nLouis for goods, it mattered to nobody. On an evening in 1860 when there\r\nwas a mist in the gullies and a new moon hung in the west, Rev. Mr.\r\nCummings, a clergyman of that region, was driving home, and as he came to\r\na bridge near “old man” Baker's farm he saw a man standing on it, with a\r\npack on his back and a stick in his hand, who was staring intently at\r\nsomething beneath the bridge. The clergyman greeted him cheerily and\r\nasked him if he would like to ride, whereat the man looked him in the\r\nface and pointed to the edge of the bridge. Mr. Cummings glanced down,\r\nsaw nothing, and when he looked up again the man with the pack had\r\ndisappeared. His horse at the same moment gave a snort and plunged\r\nforward at a run, so that the clergyman's attention was fully occupied\r\nuntil he had brought the animal under control again; when he glanced back\r\nand saw that the man was still standing in the bridge and looking over\r\nthe edge of it. The minister told his neighbors of this adventure, and on\r\nreturning with two of them to the spot next morning they found the body\r\nof old man Baker swinging by the neck from a beam of the bridge exactly\r\nbeneath where the apparition had stood--for it must have been an\r\napparition, inasmuch as the dust, damped though it had been with dew,\r\nshowed no trace of footprint. In taking down the body the men loosened\r\nthe earth on a shelving bank, and the gravel rolling away disclosed a\r\nskeleton with some bits of clothing on it that were identified as\r\nbelongings of Samuel Moritz. Was it conscience, craziness, or fate that\r\nled old man Baker to hang himself above the grave of his victim?\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBANSHEE OF THE BAD LANDS\r\n\r\n“Hell, with the fires out,” is what the Bad Lands of Dakota have been\r\ncalled. The fearless Western nomenclature fits the place. It is an\r\nancient sea-bottom, with its clay strata worn by frost and flood into\r\nforms like pagodas, pyramids, and terraced cities. Labyrinthine canons\r\nwind among these fantastic peaks, which are brilliant in color, but\r\nbleak, savage, and oppressive. Game courses over the castellated hills,\r\nrattlesnakes bask at the edge of the crater above burning coal seams, and\r\nwild men have made despairing stand here against advancing civilization.\r\nIt may have been the white victim of a red man's jealousy that haunts the\r\nregion of the butte called “Watch Dog,” or it may have been an Indian\r\nwoman who was killed there, but there is a banshee in the desert whose\r\ncries have chilled the blood that would not have cooled at the sight of a\r\nbear or panther. By moonlight, when the scenery is most suggestive and\r\nunearthly, and the noises of wolves and owls inspire uneasy feelings, the\r\nghost is seen on a hill a mile south of the Watch Dog, her hair blowing,\r\nher arms tossing in strange gestures.\r\n\r\nIf war parties, emigrants, cowboys, hunters, any who for good or ill are\r\ngoing through this country, pass the haunted butte at night, the rocks\r\nare lighted with phosphor flashes and the banshee sweeps upon them. As if\r\nwishing to speak, or as if waiting a question that it has occurred to\r\nnone to ask, she stands beside them in an attitude of appeal, but if\r\nasked what she wants she flings her arms aloft and with a shriek that\r\nechoes through the blasted gulches for a mile she disappears and an\r\ninstant later is seen wringing her hands on her hill-top. Cattle will not\r\ngraze near the haunted butte and the cowboys keep aloof from it, for the\r\nword has never been spoken that will solve the mystery of the region or\r\nquiet the unhappy banshee.\r\n\r\nThe creature has a companion, sometimes, in an unfleshed skeleton that\r\ntrudges about the ash and clay and haunts the camps in a search for\r\nmusic. If he hears it he will sit outside the door and nod in time to it,\r\nwhile a violin left within his reach is eagerly seized and will be played\r\non through half the night. The music is wondrous: now as soft as the stir\r\nof wind in the sage, anon as harsh as the cry of a wolf or startling as\r\nthe stir of a rattler. As the east begins to brighten the music grows\r\nfainter, and when it is fairly light it has ceased altogether. But he who\r\nlistens to it must on no account follow the player if the skeleton moves\r\naway, for not only will it lead him into rocky pitfalls, whence escape is\r\nhopeless, but when there the music will intoxicate, madden, and will\r\nfinally charm his soul from his body.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSTANDING ROCK\r\n\r\nThe stone that juts from one of the high banks of the Missouri, in South\r\nDakota, gives its name to the Standing Rock Agency, which, by reason of\r\nmany councils, treaties, fights, feasts, and dances held there, is the\r\nbest known of the frontier posts. It was a favorite gathering place of\r\nthe Sioux before the advent of the white man. The rock itself is only\r\ntwenty-eight inches high and fifteen inches wide, and could be plucked up\r\nand carried away without difficulty, but no red man is brave enough to do\r\nthat, for this is the transformed body of a squaw who was struck into\r\nstone by Manitou for falsely suspecting her husband of unfaithfulness.\r\n\r\nAfter her transformation she not only remained sentient but acquired\r\nsupernatural powers that the Sioux propitiated by offerings of beads,\r\ntobacco, and ribbons, paint, fur, and game--a practice that was not\r\nabandoned until the teachings of missionaries began to have effect among\r\nthem. Soldiers and trappers think the story an ingenious device to\r\nprevent too close inquiry into the lives of some of the nobility of the\r\ntribe. The Arickarees, however, regard this stone as the wife of one of\r\ntheir braves, who was so pained and mortified when her husband took a\r\nsecond wife that she went out into the prairie and neither ate nor drank\r\nuntil she died, when the Great Spirit turned her into the Standing Stone.\r\nThe squaws still resort to it in times of domestic trouble.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SALT WITCH\r\n\r\nA pillar of snowy salt once stood on the Nebraska plain, about forty\r\nmiles above the point where the Saline flows into the Platte, and white\r\nmen used to hear of it as the Salt Witch. An Indian tribe was for a long\r\ntime quartered at the junction of the rivers, its chief a man of blood\r\nand muscle in whom his people gloried, but so fierce, withal, that nobody\r\nmade a companion of him except his wife, who alone could check his\r\ntigerish rages.\r\n\r\nIn sooth, he loved her so well that on her death he became a recluse and\r\nshut himself within his lodge, refusing to see anybody. This mood endured\r\nwith him so long that mutterings were heard in the tribe and there was\r\ntalk of choosing another chief. Some of this talk he must have heard, for\r\none morning he emerged in war-dress, and without a word to any one strode\r\nacross the plain to westward. On returning a full month later he was more\r\ncommunicative and had something unusual to relate. He also proved his\r\nprowess by brandishing a belt of fresh scalps before the eyes of his\r\nwarriors, and he had also brought a lump of salt.\r\n\r\nHe told them that after travelling far over the prairie he had thrown\r\nhimself on the earth to sleep, when he was aroused by a wailing sound\r\nclose by. In the light of a new moon he saw a hideous old woman\r\nbrandishing a tomahawk over the head of a younger one, who was kneeling,\r\nbegging for mercy, and trying to shake off the grip from her throat. The\r\nsight of the women, forty miles from the village, so surprised the chief\r\nthat he ran toward them. The younger woman made a desperate effort to\r\nfree herself, but in vain, as it seemed, for the hag wound her left hand\r\nin her hair while with the other she raised the axe and was about to\r\nstrike.\r\n\r\nAt that moment the chief gained a view of the face of the younger\r\nwoman-it was that of his dead wife. With a snarl of wrath he leaped upon\r\nthe hag and buried his own hatchet in her brain, but before he could\r\ncatch his wife in his arms the earth had opened and both women\r\ndisappeared, but a pillar of salt stood where he had seen this thing. For\r\nyears the Indians maintained that the column was under the custody of the\r\nSalt Witch, and when they went there to gather salt they would beat the\r\nground with clubs, believing that each blow fell upon her person and kept\r\nher from working other evil.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nALONG THE ROCKY RANGE\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOVER THE DIVIDE\r\n\r\nThe hope of finding El Dorado, that animated the adventurous Spaniards\r\nwho made the earlier recorded voyages to America, lived in the souls of\r\nWestern mountaineers as late as the first half of this century. Ample\r\ndiscoveries of gold in California and Colorado gave color to the belief\r\nin this land of riches, and hunger, illness, privation, the persecutions\r\nof savages, and death itself were braved in the effort to reach and\r\nunlock the treasure caves of earth. Until mining became a systematic\r\nbusiness, prospectors were dissatisfied with the smaller deposits of\r\nprecious metal and dreamed of golden hills farther away. The unknown\r\nregions beyond the Rocky Mountains were filled by imagination with\r\nmagnificent possibilities, and it was the hope of the miner to penetrate\r\nthe wilderness, “strike it rich,” and “make his pile.”\r\n\r\nThus, the region indicated as “over the divide” meaning the continental\r\nwater-shed-or “over the range” came to signify not a delectable land\r\nalone, but a sum of delectable conditions, and, ultimately, the goal of\r\nposthumous delights. Hence the phrase in use to-day: “Poor Bill! He's\r\ngone over the divide.”\r\n\r\nThe Indian's name of heaven--“the happy hunting ground”--is of similar\r\nsignificance, and among many of the tribes it had a definite place in the\r\nfar Southwest, to which their souls were carried on cobweb floats. Just\r\nbefore reaching it they came to a dark river that had to be crossed on a\r\nlog. If they had been good in the world of the living they suffered no\r\nharm from the rocks and surges, but if their lives had been evil they\r\nnever reached the farther shore, for they were swept into a place of\r\nwhirlpools, where, for ever and ever, they were tossed on the torrent\r\namid thousands of clinging, stinging snakes and shoals of putrid fish.\r\nFrom the far North and East the Milky Way was the star-path across the\r\ndivide.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PHANTOM TRAIN OF MARSHALL PASS\r\n\r\nSoon after the rails were laid across Marshall Pass, Colorado, where they\r\ngo over a height of twelve thousand feet above the sea, an old engineer\r\nnamed Nelson Edwards was assigned to a train. He had travelled the road\r\nwith passengers behind him for a couple of months and met with no\r\naccident, but one night as he set off for the divide he fancied that the\r\nsilence was deeper, the canon darker, and the air frostier than usual. A\r\ndefective rail and an unsafe bridge had been reported that morning, and\r\nhe began the long ascent with some misgivings. As he left the first line\r\nof snow-sheds he heard a whistle echoing somewhere among the ice and\r\nrocks, and at the same time the gong in his cab sounded and he applied\r\nthe brakes.\r\n\r\nThe conductor ran up and asked, “What did you stop for?”\r\n\r\n“Why did you signal to stop?”\r\n\r\n“I gave no signal. Pull her open and light out, for we've got to pass No.\r\n19 at the switches, and there's a wild train climbing behind us.”\r\n\r\nEdwards drew the lever, sanded the track, and the heavy train got under\r\nway again; but the whistles behind grew nearer, sounding danger-signals,\r\nand in turning a curve he looked out and saw a train speeding after him\r\nat a rate that must bring it against the rear of his own train if\r\nsomething were not done. He broke into a sweat as he pulled the throttle\r\nwide open and lunged into a snow-bank. The cars lurched, but the snow was\r\nflung off and the train went roaring through another shed. Here was where\r\nthe defective rail had been reported. No matter. A greater danger was\r\npressing behind. The fireman piled on coal until his clothes were wet\r\nwith perspiration, and fire belched from the smoke-stack. The passengers,\r\ntoo, having been warned of their peril, had dressed themselves and were\r\nanxiously watching at the windows, for talk went among them that a mad\r\nengineer was driving the train behind.\r\n\r\nAs Edwards crossed the summit he shut off steam and surrendered his train\r\nto the force of gravity. Looking back, he could see by the faint light\r\nfrom new snow that the driving-wheels on the rear engine were bigger than\r\nhis own, and that a tall figure stood atop of the cars and gestured\r\nfranticly. At a sharp turn in the track he found the other train but two\r\nhundred yards behind, and as he swept around the curve the engineer who\r\nwas chasing him leaned from his window and laughed. His face was like\r\ndough. Snow was falling and had begun to drift in the hollows, but the\r\ntrains flew on; bridges shook as they thundered across them; wind\r\nscreamed in the ears of the passengers; the suspected bridge was reached;\r\nEdwards's heart was in his throat, but he seemed to clear the chasm by a\r\nbound. Now the switch was in sight, but No. 19 was not there, and as the\r\nbrakes were freed the train shot by like a flash. Suddenly a red light\r\nappeared ahead, swinging to and fro on the track. As well be run into\r\nbehind as to crash into an obstacle ahead. He heard the whistle of the\r\npursuing locomotive yelp behind him, yet he reversed the lever and put on\r\nbrakes, and for a few seconds lived in a hell of dread.\r\n\r\nHearing no sound, now, he glanced back and saw the wild train almost leap\r\nupon his own--yet just before it touched it the track seemed to spread,\r\nthe engine toppled from the bank, the whole train rolled into the canon\r\nand vanished. Edwards shuddered and listened. No cry of hurt men or hiss\r\nof steam came up--nothing but the groan of the wind as it rolled through\r\nthe black depth. The lantern ahead, too, had disappeared. Now another\r\ndanger impended, and there was no time to linger, for No. 19 might be on\r\nits way ahead if he did not reach the second switch before it moved out.\r\nThe mad run was resumed and the second switch was reached in time. As\r\nEdwards was finishing the run to Green River, which he reached in the\r\nmorning ahead of schedule, he found written in the frost of his\r\ncab-window these words: “A frate train was recked as yu saw. Now that yu\r\nsaw it yu will never make another run. The enjine was not ounder control\r\nand four sexshun men wor killed. If yu ever run on this road again yu\r\nwill be recked.” Edwards quit the road that morning, and returning to\r\nDenver found employment on the Union Pacific. No wreck was discovered\r\nnext day in the canon where he had seen it, nor has the phantom train\r\nbeen in chase of any engineer who has crossed the divide since that\r\nnight.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE RIVER OF LOST SOULS\r\n\r\nIn the days when Spain ruled the Western country an infantry regiment was\r\nordered out from Santa Fe to open communication with Florida and to carry\r\na chest of gold for the payment of the soldiers in St. Augustine. The men\r\nwintered on the site of Trinidad, comforted by the society of their wives\r\nand families, and in the spring the women and camp-followers were\r\ndirected to remain, while the troops set forward along the canon of the\r\nPurgatoire--neither to reach their destination nor to return. Did they\r\nattempt to descend the stream in boats and go to wreck among the rapids?\r\nWere they swept into eternity by a freshet? Did they lose their\r\nprovisions and starve in the desert? Did the Indians revenge themselves\r\nfor brutality and selfishness by slaying them at night or from an ambush?\r\nWere they killed by banditti? Did they sink in the quicksands that led\r\nthe river into subterranean canals? None will ever know, perhaps; but\r\nmany years afterward a savage told a priest in Santa Fe that the regiment\r\nhad been surrounded by Indians, as Custer's command was in Montana, and\r\nslain, to a man. Seeing that escape was hopeless, the colonel--so said\r\nthe narrator--had buried the gold that he was transporting. Thousands of\r\ndoubloons are believed to be hidden in the canon, and thousands of\r\ndollars have been spent in searching for them.\r\n\r\nAfter weeks had lapsed into months and months into years, and no word\r\ncame of the missing regiment, the priests named the river El Rio de las\r\nAnimas Perdidas--the River of Lost Souls. The echoing of the flood as it\r\ntumbled through the canon was said to be the lamentation of the troopers.\r\nFrench trappers softened the suggestion of the Spanish title when they\r\nrenamed it Purgatoire, and--“bullwhackers” teaming across the plains\r\ntwisted the French title into the unmeaning “Picketwire.” But\r\nAmerico-Spaniards keep alive the tradition, and the prayers of many have\r\nascended and do ascend for the succor of those who vanished so strangely\r\nin the valley of Las Animas.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nRIDERS OF THE DESERT\r\n\r\nAmong the sandstone columns of the Colorado foot-hills stood the lodge of\r\nTa-in-ga-ro (First Falling Thunder). Though swift in the chase and brave\r\nin battle, he seldom went abroad with neighboring tribes, for he was\r\nhappy in the society of his wife, Zecana (The Bird). To sell beaver and\r\nwild sheep-skins he often went with her to a post on the New Mexico\r\nfrontier, and it was while at this fort that a Spanish trader saw the\r\npretty Zecana, and, determining to win her, sent the Indian on a mission\r\ninto the heart of the mountains, with a promise that she should rest\r\nsecurely at the settlement until his return.\r\n\r\nOn his way Ta-in-ga-ro stopped at the spring in Manitou, and after\r\ndrinking he cast beads and wampum into the well in oblation to its deity.\r\nThe offering was flung out by the bubbling water, and as he stared,\r\ndistressed at this unwelcome omen, a picture formed on the surface--the\r\nanguished features of Zecana. He ran to his horse, galloped away, and\r\npaused neither for rest nor food till he had reached the post. The\r\nSpaniard was gone. Turning, then, to the foot-hills, he urged his jaded\r\nhorse toward his cabin, and arrived, one bright morning, flushed with joy\r\nto see his wife before his door and to hear her singing. When he spoke\r\nshe looked up carelessly and resumed her song. She did not know him.\r\nReason was gone.\r\n\r\nIt was his cry of rage and grief, when, from her babbling, Ta-in-ga-ro\r\nlearned of the Spaniard's treachery, that brought the wandering mind back\r\nfor an instant. Looking at her husband with a strange surprise and pain,\r\nshe plucked the knife from his belt. Before he could realize her purpose\r\nshe had thrust it into her heart and had fallen dead at his feet. For\r\nhours he stood there in stupefaction, but the stolid Indian nature soon\r\nresumed its sway. Setting his lodge in order and feeding his horse, he\r\nwrapped Zecana's body in a buffalo-skin, then slept through the night in\r\nsheer exhaustion. Two nights afterward the Indian stood in the shadow of\r\na room in the trading fort and watched the Spaniard as he lay asleep.\r\nNobody knew how he passed the guard.\r\n\r\nIn the small hours the traitor was roused by the strain of a belt across\r\nhis mouth, and leaping up to fling it off, he felt the tug of a lariat at\r\nhis throat. His struggles were useless. In a few moments he was bound\r\nhand and foot. Lifting some strips of bark from the low roof, Ta-in-ga-ro\r\npushed the Spaniard through the aperture and lowered him to the ground,\r\noutside the enclosure of which the house formed part. Then, at the embers\r\nof a fire he kindled an arrow wrapped in the down of cottonwood and shot\r\nit into a haystack in the court. In the smoke and confusion thus made,\r\nhis own escape was unseen, save by a guardsman drowsily pacing his beat\r\noutside the square of buildings. The sentinel would have given the alarm,\r\nhad not the Indian pounced on him like a panther and laid him dead with a\r\nknife-stroke.\r\n\r\nCatching up the Spaniard, the Indian tied him to the back of a horse and\r\nset off beside him. Thus they journeyed until they came to his lodge,\r\nwhere he released the trader from his horse and fed him, but kept his\r\nhands and legs hard bound, and paid no attention to his questions and his\r\nappeals for liberty. Tying a strong and half-trained horse at his door,\r\nTa-in-ga-ro placed a wooden saddle on him, cut off the Spaniard's\r\nclothes, and put him astride of the beast. After he had fastened him into\r\nhis seat with deer-skin thongs, he took Zecana's corpse from its wrapping\r\nand tied it to his prisoner, face to face.\r\n\r\nThen, loosing the horse, which was plunging and snorting to be rid of his\r\nburden, he saw him rush off on the limitless desert, and followed on his\r\nown strong steed. At first the Spaniard fainted; on recovering he\r\nstruggled to get free, but his struggles only brought him closer to the\r\nghastly thing before him. Noon-day heat covered him with sweat and blood\r\ndripped from the wales that the cords cut in his flesh. At night he froze\r\nuncovered in the chill air, and, if for an instant his eyes closed in\r\nsleep, a curse, yelled into his ear, awoke him. Ta-inga-ro gave him drink\r\nfrom time to time, but never food, and so they rode for days. At last\r\nhunger overbore his loathing, and sinking his teeth into the dead flesh\r\nbefore him he feasted like a ghoul.\r\n\r\nStill they rode, Ta-in-ga-ro never far from his victim, on whose\r\nsufferings he gloated, until a gibbering cry told him that the Spaniard\r\nhad gone mad. Then, and not till then, he drew rein and watched the horse\r\nwith its dead and maniac riders until they disappeared in the yellow\r\nvoid. He turned away, but nevermore sought his home. To and fro, through\r\nthe brush, the sand, the alkali of the plains, go the ghost riders,\r\nforever.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DIVISION OF TWO TRIBES\r\n\r\nWhen white men first penetrated the Western wilderness of America they\r\nfound the tribes of Shoshone and Comanche at odds, and it is a legend of\r\nthe springs of Manitou that their differences began there. This “Saratoga\r\nof the West,” nestling in a hollow of the foot-hills in the shadow of the\r\nnoble peak of Pike, was in old days common meeting-ground for several\r\nfamilies of red men. Councils were held in safety there, for no Indian\r\ndared provoke the wrath of the manitou whose breath sparkled in the\r\n“medicine waters.” None? Yes, one. For, centuries ago a Shoshone and a\r\nComanche stopped here on their return from a hunt to drink. The Shoshone\r\nhad been successful; the Comanche was empty handed and ill tempered,\r\njealous of the other's skill and fortune. Flinging down the fat deer that\r\nhe was bearing homeward on his shoulders, the Shoshone bent over the\r\nspring of sweet water, and, after pouring a handful of it on the ground,\r\nas a libation to the spirit of the place, he put his lips to the surface.\r\nIt needed but faint pretext for his companion to begin a quarrel, and he\r\ndid so in this fashion: “Why does a stranger drink at the spring-head\r\nwhen one of the owners of the fountain contents himself with its\r\noverflow? How does a Shoshone dare to drink above me?”\r\n\r\nThe other replied, “The Great Spirit places the water at the spring that\r\nhis children may drink it undefiled. I am Ausaqua, chief of Shoshones,\r\nand I drink at the head-water. Shoshone and Comanche are brothers. Let\r\nthem drink together.”\r\n\r\n“No. The Shoshone pays tribute to the Comanche, and Wacomish leads that\r\nnation to war. He is chief of the Shoshone as he is of his own people.”\r\n\r\n“Wacomish lies. His tongue is forked, like the snake's. His heart is\r\nblack. When the Great Spirit made his children he said not to one, 'Drink\r\nhere,' and to another, 'Drink there,' but gave water that all might\r\ndrink.”\r\n\r\nThe other made no answer, but as Ausaqua stooped toward the bubbling\r\nsurface Wacomish crept behind him, flung himself against the hunter,\r\nforced his head beneath the water, and held him there until he was\r\ndrowned. As he pulled the dead body from the spring the water became\r\nagitated, and from the bubbles arose a vapor that gradually assumed the\r\nform of a venerable Indian, with long white locks, in whom the murderer\r\nrecognized Waukauga, father of the Shoshone and Comanche nation, and a\r\nman whose heroism and goodness made his name revered in both these\r\ntribes. The face of the patriarch was dark with wrath, and he cried, in\r\nterrible tones, “Accursed of my race! This day thou hast severed the\r\nmightiest nation in the world. The blood of the brave Shoshone appeals\r\nfor vengeance. May the water of thy tribe be rank and bitter in their\r\nthroats.”\r\n\r\nThen, whirling up an elk-horn club, he brought it full on the head of the\r\nwretched man, who cringed before him. The murderer's head was burst open\r\nand he tumbled lifeless into the spring, that to this day is nauseous,\r\nwhile, to perpetuate the memory of Ausaqua, the manitou smote a\r\nneighboring rock, and from it gushed a fountain of delicious water. The\r\nbodies were found, and the partisans of both the hunters began on that\r\nday a long and destructive warfare, in which other tribes became involved\r\nuntil mountaineers were arrayed against plainsmen through all that\r\nregion.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBESIEGED BY STARVATION\r\n\r\nA hundred years before the white men set up their trading-posts on the\r\nArkansas and Platte, a band of mountain hunters made a descent on what\r\nthey took to be a small company of plainsmen, but who proved to be the\r\nenemy in force, and who, in turn, drove the Utes--for the aggressors were\r\nof that tribe--into the hills. Most of them took refuge on a castellated\r\nrock on the south side of Bowlder Canon, where they held their own for\r\nseveral days, rolling down huge rocks whenever an attempt was made to\r\nstorm the height; wherefore, seeing that the mountain was too secure a\r\nstronghold to be taken in that way, the besiegers camped about it, and,\r\nby cutting off the access of the beleaguered party to game and to water,\r\nstarved every one of them to death.\r\n\r\nThis, too, is the story of Starved Rock, on Illinois River, near Ottawa,\r\nIllinois. It is a sandstone bluff, one hundred and fifty feet high, with\r\na slope on one side only. Its summit is an acre in extent, and at the\r\norder of La Salle his Indian lieutenant, Tonti, fortified the place and\r\nmounted a small cannon on it. He died there afterward. After the killing\r\nof Pontiac at Cahokia, some of his people--the Ottawas--charged the crime\r\nagainst their enemies, the Illinois. The latter, being few in number,\r\nentrenched themselves on Starved Rock, where they kept their enemies at\r\nbay, but were unable to break their line to reach supplies. For a time\r\nthey secured water by letting down bark vessels into the river at the end\r\nof thongs, but the Ottawas came under the bluff in canoes and cut the\r\ncords. Unwilling to surrender, the Illinois remained there until all had\r\ndied of starvation. Bones and relics are found occasionally at the top.\r\n\r\nThere is yet another place of which a similar narrative is\r\nextant--namely, Crow Butte, Nebraska, which is two hundred feet high and\r\nvertical on all sides save one, but on that a horseman may ascend in\r\nsafety. A company of Crows, flying from the Sioux, gained this citadel\r\nand defended the path so vigorously that their pursuers gave over all\r\nattempts to follow them, but squatted calmly on the plain and proceeded\r\nto starve them out. On a dark night the besieged killed some of their\r\nponies and made lariats of their hides, by which they reached the ground\r\non the unguarded side of the rock. They slid down, one at a time, and\r\nmade off all but one aged Indian, who stayed to keep the camp-fire\r\nburning as a blind. He went down and surrendered on the next day, but the\r\nSioux, respecting his age and loyalty, gave him freedom.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA YELLOWSTONE TRAGEDY\r\n\r\nAlthough the Indians feared the geyser basins of the upper Yellowstone\r\ncountry, believing the hissing and thundering to be voices of evil\r\nspirits, they regarded the mountains at the head of the river as the\r\ncrest of the world, and whoso gained their summits could see the happy\r\nhunting-grounds below, brightened with the homes of the blessed. They\r\nloved this land in which their fathers had hunted, and when they were\r\ndriven back from the settlements the Crows took refuge in what is now\r\nYellowstone Park. Even here the soldiers pursued them, intent on avenging\r\nacts that the red men had committed while suffering under the sting of\r\ntyranny and wrong. A mere remnant of the fugitive band gathered at the\r\nhead of that mighty rift in the earth known as the Grand Canon of the\r\nYellowstone--a remnant that had succeeded in escaping the bullets of the\r\nsoldiery,--and with Spartan courage they resolved to die rather than be\r\ntaken and carried away to pine in a distant prison. They built a raft and\r\nplaced it on the river at the foot of the upper fall, and for a few days\r\nthey enjoyed the plenty and peace that were their privilege in former\r\ntimes. A short-lived peace, however, for one morning they are aroused by\r\nthe crack of rifles--the troops are upon them.\r\n\r\nBoarding their raft they thrust it toward the middle of the stream,\r\nperhaps with the idea of gaining the opposite shore, but, if such is\r\ntheir intent, it is thwarted by the rapidity of the current. A few among\r\nthem have guns, that they discharge with slight effect at the troops, who\r\nstand wondering on the shore. The soldiers forbear to fire, and watch,\r\nwith something like dread, the descent of the raft as it passes into the\r\ncurrent, and, with many a turn and pitch, whirls on faster and faster.\r\nThe death-song rises triumphant above the lash of the waves and that\r\ndistant but awful booming that is to be heard in the canon. Every red man\r\nhas his face turned toward the foe with a look of defiance, and the tones\r\nof the death-chant have in them something of mockery no less than hate\r\nand vaunting.\r\n\r\nThe raft is now between the jaws of rock that yawn so hungrily. Beyond\r\nand below are vast walls, shelving toward the floor of the gulf a\r\nthousand feet beneath--their brilliant colors shining in the sun of\r\nmorning that sheds as peaceful a light on wood and hill as if there were\r\nno such thing as brother hunting brother in this free land of ours. The\r\nraft is galloping through the foam like a racehorse, and, hardened as the\r\nsoldiers are, they cannot repress a shudder as they see the fate that the\r\nsavages have chosen for themselves. Now the brink is reached. The raft\r\ntips toward the gulf, and with a cry of triumph the red men are launched\r\nover the cataract, into the bellowing chasm, where the mists weep forever\r\non the rocks and mosses.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE BROAD HOUSE\r\n\r\nDown in the canon of Chaco, New Mexico, stands a building evidently\r\ncoeval with those of the cliff dwellers, that is still in good\r\npreservation and is called the Broad House. When Noqoilpi, the gambling\r\ngod, came on earth he strayed into this canon, and, finding the Moquis a\r\nprosperous people, he envied them and resolved to win their property. To\r\ndo that he laid off a race-track at the bottom of the ravine and\r\nchallenged them to meet him there in games of chance and strength and\r\nskill. They accepted his challenge, and, as he could turn luck to his own\r\nside, he soon won not their property alone, but their women and children,\r\nand, finally, some of the men themselves.\r\n\r\nIn his greed he had acquired more than he wanted, and as the captives\r\nwere a burden to him he offered to make a partial restoration if the\r\npeople would build this house for him. They did so and he gave up some of\r\nthe men and women. The other gods looked with disapproval on this\r\nperformance, however, and they agreed to give the wind god power to\r\ndefeat him, for, now that he had secured his house, he had gone to\r\ngambling again. The wind god, in disguise as a Moqui, issued a challenge,\r\nand the animals agreed to help him.\r\n\r\nWhen the contest in tree-pulling took place the wind god pulled up a\r\nlarge tree while Noqoilpi was unable to stir a smaller one. That was\r\nbecause the beavers had cut the roots of the larger. In the ball contest\r\nNoqoilpi drove the ball nearly to the bounds, but the wind god sent his\r\nfar beyond, for wrapped loosely in it was a bird that freed itself before\r\ntouching the ground and flew away. In brief, Noqoilpi was beaten at every\r\npoint and the remaining captives left him, with jeers, and returned to\r\ntheir people.\r\n\r\nThe gambler cursed and raged until the wind god seized him, fitted him to\r\na bow, like an arrow, and shot him into the sky. He flew far out of\r\nsight, and presently came to the long row of stone houses where the man\r\nlives who carries the moon. He pitied the gambler and made new animals\r\nand people for him and let him down to the earth in old Mexico, the moon\r\npeople becoming Mexicans. He returned to his old haunts and came\r\nnorthward, building towns along the Rio Grande until he had passed the\r\nsite of Santa Fe, when his people urged him to go back, and after his\r\nreturn they made him their god--Nakai Cigini.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEATH WALTZ\r\n\r\nYears ago, when all beyond the Missouri was a waste, the military post at\r\nFort Union, New Mexico, was the only spot for miles around where any of\r\nthe graces of social life could be discovered. Among the ladies at the\r\npost was a certain gay young woman, the sister-in-law of a captain, who\r\nenjoyed the variety and spice of adventure to be found there, and\r\nenjoyed, too, the homage that the young officers paid to her, for women\r\nwho could be loved or liked were not many in that wild country. A young\r\nlieutenant proved especially susceptible to her charms, and devoted\r\nhimself to her in the hope that he should ultimately win her hand. His\r\nexperience with the world was not large enough to enable him to\r\ndistinguish between the womanly woman and the coquette.\r\n\r\nOne day messengers came dashing into the fort with news of an Apache\r\noutbreak, and a detachment was ordered out to chase and punish the\r\nmarauding Indians. The lieutenant was put in command of the expedition,\r\nbut before starting he confided his love to the young woman, who not only\r\nacknowledged that she returned his affection, but promised that if the\r\nfortune of war deprived him of life she would never marry another. As he\r\nbade her good-by he was heard to say, “That is well. Nobody else shall\r\nhave you. I will come back and make my claim.”\r\n\r\nIn a few days the detachment came back, but the lieutenant was missing.\r\nIt was noticed that the bride-elect grieved but little for him, and\r\nnobody was surprised when she announced her intention of marrying a young\r\nman from the East. The wedding-day arrived. All was gayety at the post,\r\nand in the evening the mess-room was decorated for a ball. As the dance\r\nwas in full swing a door flew open with a bang, letting in a draught of\r\nair that made the candles burn dim, and a strange cry, unlike that of any\r\nhuman creature, sounded through the house. All eyes turned to the door.\r\nIn it stood the swollen body of a dead man dressed in the stained uniform\r\nof an officer. The temple was marked by a hatchet-gash, the scalp was\r\ngone, the eyes were wide open and, burned with a terrible light.\r\n\r\nWalking to the bride the body drew her from the arms of her husband, who,\r\nlike the rest of the company, stood as in a trance, without the power of\r\nmotion, and clasping her to its bosom began a waltz. The musicians, who\r\nafterward declared that they did not know what they were doing, struck up\r\na demoniac dance, and the couple spun around and around, the woman\r\ngrowing paler and paler, until at last the fallen jaw and staring eyes\r\nshowed that life was also extinct in her. The dead man allowed her to\r\nsink to the floor, stood over her for a moment, wrung his hands as he\r\nsounded his fearful cry again, then vanished through the door. A few days\r\nafter, a troop of soldiers who had been to the scene of the Apache\r\nencounter returned with the body of the lieutenant.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE FLOOD AT SANTA FE\r\n\r\nMany are the scenes of religious miracles in this country, although\r\nFrench Canada and old Mexico boast of more. So late as the prosaic year\r\nof 1889 the Virgin was seen to descend into the streets of Johnstown,\r\nPennsylvania, to save her image on the Catholic church in that place, when\r\nit was swept by a deluge in which hundreds of persons perished. It was\r\nthe wrath of the Madonna that caused just such a flood in New Mexico long\r\nyears ago. There is in the old Church of Our Lady of Guadalupe, in Santa\r\nFe, a picture that commemorates the appearance of the Virgin to Juan\r\nDiego, an Indian in Guadalupe, old Mexico, in the sixteenth century. She\r\ncommanded that a chapel should be built for her, but the bishop of the\r\ndiocese declared that the man had been dreaming and told him to go away.\r\nThe Virgin came to the Indian again, and still the bishop declared that\r\nhe had no evidence of the truth of what he said. A third time the\r\nsupernatural visitor appeared, and told Juan to climb a certain difficult\r\nmountain, pick the flowers he would find there, and take them to the\r\nbishop.\r\n\r\nAfter a long and dangerous climb they were found, to the Indian's\r\namazement, growing in the snow. He filled his blanket with them and\r\nreturned to the episcopal residence, but when he opened the folds before\r\nthe dignitary, he was more amazed to find not flowers, but a glowing\r\npicture painted on his blanket. It hangs now in Guadalupe, but is\r\nduplicated in Santa Fe, where a statue of the Virgin is also kept. These\r\ntreasures are greatly prized and are resorted to in time of illness and\r\nthreatened disaster, the statue being taken through the streets in\r\nprocession when the rainy season is due. Collections of money are then\r\nmade and prayers are put up for rain, to which appeals the Virgin makes\r\nprompt response, the priests pointing triumphantly to the results of\r\ntheir intercession. One year, however, the rain did not begin on time,\r\nthough services were almost constantly continued before the sacred\r\npicture and the sacred statue, and the angry people stripped the image of\r\nits silks and gold lace and kicked it over the ground for hours. That\r\nnight a violent rain set in and the town was nearly washed away, so the\r\npopulace hastened the work of reparation in order to save their lives.\r\nThey cleansed the statue, dressed it still more brilliantly, and\r\naddressed their prayers to the Virgin with more energy and earnestness\r\nthan ever before.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nGODDESS OF SALT\r\n\r\nBetween Zuni and Pescado is a steep mesa, or table-land, with fantastic\r\nrocks weathered into tower and roof-like prominences on its sides, while\r\nnear it is a high natural monument of stone. Say the Zunis: The goddess\r\nof salt was so troubled by the people who lived near her domain on the\r\nsea-shore, and who took away her snowy treasures without offering any\r\nsacrifice in return, that she forsook the ocean and went to live in the\r\nmountains far away. Whenever she stopped beside a pool to rest she made\r\nit salt, and she wandered so long about the great basins of the West that\r\nmuch of the water in them is bitter, and the yield of salt from the\r\nlarger lake near Zuni brings into the Zuni treasury large tolls from\r\nother tribes that draw from it.\r\n\r\nHere she met the turquoise god, who fell in love with her at sight, and\r\nwooed so warmly that she accepted and married him. For a time they lived\r\nhappily, but when the people learned that the goddess had concealed\r\nherself among the mountains of New Mexico they followed her to that land\r\nand troubled her again until she declared that she would leave their view\r\nforever. She entered this mesa, breaking her way through a high wall of\r\nsandstone as she did so. The arched portal through which she passed is\r\nplainly visible. As she went through, one of her plumes was broken off,\r\nand falling into the valley it tipped upon its stem and became the\r\nmonument that is seen there. The god of turquoise followed his wife, and\r\nhis footsteps may be traced in outcrops of pale-blue stone.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE COMING OF THE NAVAJOS\r\n\r\nMany fantastic accounts of the origin of man are found among the red\r\ntribes. The Onondagas say that the Indians are made from red earth and\r\nthe white men from sea-foam. Flesh-making clay is seen in the precipitous\r\nbank in the ravine west of Onondaga Valley, where at night the fairies\r\n“little fellows” sport and slide. Among others, the Noah legend finds a\r\nparallel. Several tribes claim to have emerged from the interior of the\r\nearth. The Oneidas point to a hill near the falls of Oswego River, New\r\nYork, as their birthplace; the Wichitas rose from the rocks about Red\r\nRiver; the Creeks from a knoll in the valley of Big Black River in the\r\nNatchez country, where dwelt the Master of Breath; the Aztecs were one of\r\nseven tribes that came out from the seven caverns of Aztlan, or Place of\r\nthe Heron; and the Navajos believe that they emerged at a place known to\r\nthem in the Navajo Mountains.\r\n\r\nIn the under world the Navajos were happy, for they had everything that\r\nthey could wish: there was no excess of heat or cold, trees and flowers\r\ngrew everywhere, and the day was marked by a bright cloud that arose in\r\nthe east, while a black cloud that came out of the west made the night.\r\nHere they lived for centuries, and might have been there to this day had\r\nnot one of the tribe found an opening in the earth that led to some place\r\nunknown. He told of it to the whole tribe. They set off up the passage to\r\nsee where it led, and after long and weary climbing the surface was\r\nreached. Pleased with the novelty of their surroundings, they settled\r\nhere, but on the fourth day after their arrival their queen disappeared.\r\n\r\nTheir search for her was unavailing until some of the men came to the\r\nmouth of the tunnel by which they had reached the upper land, when,\r\nlooking down, they saw their queen combing her long, black locks. She\r\ntold them that she was dead and that her people could go to her only\r\nafter death, but that they would be happy in their old home. With that\r\nthe earth shut together and the place has never since been open to the\r\neye of mortals. Soon came the cannibal giants who ravaged the desert\r\nlands and destroyed all of the tribe but four families, these having\r\nfound a refuge in a deep canon of the Navajo Mountains. From their\r\nretreat they could see a beam of light shining from one of the hills\r\nabove them, and on ascending to the place they found a beautiful girl\r\nbabe.\r\n\r\nThis child grew to womanhood under their care, and her charms attracted\r\nthe great manitou that rides on a white horse and carries the sun for a\r\nshield. He wooed and married her, and their children slew the giants that\r\nhad destroyed the Navajos. After a time the manitou carried his wife to\r\nhis floating palace in the western water, which has since been her home.\r\nTo her the prayers of the people are addressed, and twelve immortals bear\r\ntheir petitions to her throne.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE ARK ON SUPERSTITION MOUNTAINS\r\n\r\nThe Pima Indians of Arizona say that the father of all men and animals\r\nwas the butterfly, Cherwit Make (earth-maker), who fluttered down from\r\nthe clouds to the Blue Cliffs at the junction of the Verde and Salt\r\nRivers, and from his own sweat made men. As the people multiplied they\r\ngrew selfish and quarrelsome, so that Cherwit Make was disgusted with his\r\nhandiwork and resolved to drown them all. But first he told them, in the\r\nvoice of the north wind, to be honest and to live at peace. The prophet\r\nSuha, who interpreted this voice, was called a fool for listening to the\r\nwind, but next night came the east wind and repeated the command, with an\r\nadded threat that the ruler of heaven would destroy them all if they did\r\nnot reform.\r\n\r\nAgain they scoffed, and on the next night the west wind cautioned them.\r\nBut this third warning was equally futile. On the fourth night came the\r\nsouth wind. It breathed into Suha's ear that he alone had been good and\r\nshould be saved, and bade him make a hollow ball of spruce gum in which\r\nhe might float while the deluge lasted. Suha and his wife immediately set\r\nout to gather the gum, that they melted and shaped until they had made a\r\nlarge, rounded ark, which they ballasted with jars of nuts, acorn-meal\r\nand water, and meat of bear and venison.\r\n\r\nOn the day assigned Suha and his wife were looking regretfully down into\r\nthe green valleys from the ledge where the ark rested, listening to the\r\nsong of the harvesters, and sighing to think that so much beauty would\r\npresently be laid waste, when a hand of fire was thrust from a cloud and\r\nit smote the Blue Cliffs with a thunder-clang. It was the signal. Swift\r\ncame the clouds from all directions, and down poured the rain.\r\nWithdrawing into their waxen ball, Suha and his wife closed the portal.\r\nThen for some days they were rolled and tossed on an ever-deepening sea.\r\nTheir stores had almost given out when the ark stopped, and breaking a\r\nhole in its side its occupants stepped forth.\r\n\r\nThere was a tuna cactus growing at their feet, and they ate of its red\r\nfruit greedily, but all around them was naught but water. When night came\r\non they retired to the ark and slept--a night, a month, a year, perhaps a\r\ncentury, for when they awoke the water was gone, the vales were filled\r\nwith verdure, and bird-songs rang through the woods. The delighted couple\r\ndescended the Superstition Mountains, on which the ark had rested, and\r\nwent into its valleys, where they lived for a thousand years, and became\r\nthe parents of a great tribe.\r\n\r\nBut the evil was not all gone. There was one Hauk, a devil of the\r\nmountains, who stole their daughters and slew their sons. One day, while\r\nthe women were spinning flax and cactus fibre and the men were gathering\r\nmaize, Hauk descended into the settlement and stole another of Suha's\r\ndaughters. The patriarch, whose patience had been taxed to its limit,\r\nthen made a vow to slay the devil. He watched to see by what way he\r\nentered the valley. He silently followed him into the Superstition\r\nMountains; he drugged the cactus wine that his daughter was to serve to\r\nhim; then, when he had drunk it, Suha emerged from his place of hiding\r\nand beat out the brains of the stupefied fiend.\r\n\r\nSome of the devil's brains were scattered and became seed for other evil,\r\nbut there was less wickedness in the world after Hauk had been disposed\r\nof than there had been before. Suha taught his people to build adobe\r\nhouses, to dig with shovels, to irrigate their land, to weave cloth, and\r\navoid wars. But on his death-bed he foretold to them that they would grow\r\narrogant with wealth, covetous of the lands of others, and would wage\r\nwars for gain. When that time came there would be another flood and not\r\none should be saved--the bad should vanish and the good would leave the\r\nearth and live in the sun. So firmly do the Pimas rely on this prophecy\r\nthat they will not cross Superstition Mountains, for there sits Cherwit\r\nMake--awaiting the culmination of their wickedness to let loose on the\r\nearth a mighty sea that lies dammed behind the range.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PALE FACED LIGHTNING\r\n\r\nTwenty miles from the capital of Arizona stands Mount Superstition--the\r\nscene of many traditions, the object of many fears. Two centuries ago a\r\ntribe of Pueblo dwarfs arrived near it and tilled the soil and tended\r\ntheir flocks about the settlements that grew along their line of march.\r\nThey were little people, four feet high, but they were a thousand strong\r\nand clever. They were peaceful, like all intelligent people, and the\r\nmystery surrounding their incantations and sun-worship was more potent\r\nthan a show of arms to frighten away those natural assassins, the\r\nApaches.\r\n\r\nAfter they had lived near the mountain for five years the “little people”\r\n learned that the Zunis were advancing from the south and made\r\npreparations for defence. Their sheep were concealed in obscure valleys;\r\nprovisions, tools, and arms were carried up the mountain; piles of stone\r\nwere placed along the edges of cliffs commanding the passes. This work\r\nwas superintended by a woman with a white face, fair hair, and commanding\r\nform, who was held in reverence by the dwarfs; and she it was--the Helen\r\nof a New-World Troy--who was causing this trouble, for the Zunis claimed\r\nher on the ground that they had brought her from the waters of the rising\r\nsun, and that it was only to escape an honorable marriage with their\r\nchief that she had fled to the dwarfs.\r\n\r\nBe that as it might, the Zunis marched on, meeting with faint resistance\r\nuntil, on a bright afternoon, they massed on a slope of the mountain,\r\nseven hundred in number. The Apaches, expecting instant defeat of the\r\n“little men,” watched, from neighboring hills, the advance of the\r\ninvaders as they climbed nimbly toward the stone fort on the top of the\r\nslope, brandishing clubs and stone spears, and bragging, as the fashion\r\nof a red man is--and sometimes of a white one.\r\n\r\nAt a pool outside of the walls stood the pale woman, queenly and calm,\r\nand as her white robe and brown hair fluttered in the wind both her\r\npeople and the foe looked upon her with admiration. When but a hundred\r\nyards away the Zunis rushed toward her with outstretched arms, whereupon\r\nshe stooped, picked up an earthen jar, emptied its contents into the\r\npool, and ran back. In a moment sparks and balls of fire leaped from\r\ncrevices in the rocks, and as they touched the Indians many fell dead.\r\nOthers plunged blindly over the cliffs and were dashed to pieces.\r\n\r\nIn a few minutes the remainder of the force was in full retreat and not\r\nan arrow had been shot. The Apaches, though stricken with terror at these\r\npyrotechnics, overcame the memory of them sufficiently in a couple of\r\nyears to attempt the sack of the fort on their own account, but the queen\r\nrepelled them as she had forced back the Zunis, and with even greater\r\nslaughter. From that time the dwarfs were never harmed again, but they\r\nwent away, as suddenly as they had come, to a secret recess in the\r\nmountains, where the Pale Faced Lightning still rules them.\r\n\r\nSome of the Apaches maintain that her spirit haunts a cave on\r\nSuperstition Mountain, where her body vanished in a blaze of fire, and\r\nthis cave of the Spirit Mother is also pointed out on the south side of\r\nSalt River. A skeleton and cotton robes, ornamented and of silky texture,\r\nwere once found there. It is said that electrical phenomena are frequent\r\non the mountain, and that iron, copper, salt, and copperas lying near\r\ntogether may account for them.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WEIRD SENTINEL AT SQUAW PEAK\r\n\r\nThere is a cave under the highest butte of the Squaw Peak range, Arizona,\r\nwhere a party of Tonto Indians was found by white men in 1868. The white\r\nmen were on the war-path, and when the Tontos fell into their hands they\r\nshot them unhesitatingly, firing into the dark recesses of the cavern,\r\nthe fitful but fast-recurring flashes of their rifles illuminating the\r\ninterior and exposing to view the objects of their hatred.\r\n\r\nThe massacre over, the cries and groans were hushed, the hunters strode\r\naway, and over the mountains fell the calm that for thousands of years\r\nhad not been so rudely broken. That night, when the moon shone into this\r\npit of death, a corpse arose, walked to a rock just within the entrance,\r\nand took there its everlasting seat.\r\n\r\nLong afterward a man who did not know its story entered this place, when\r\nhe was confronted by a thing, as he called it, that glared so fearfully\r\nupon him that he fled in an ecstasy of terror. Two prospectors\r\nsubsequently attempted to explore the cave, but the entrance was barred\r\nby “the thing.” They gave one glance at the torn face, the bulging eyes\r\nturned sidewise at them, the yellow fangs, the long hair, the spreading\r\nclaws, the livid, mouldy flesh, and rushed away. A Western paper,\r\nrecounting their adventure, said that one of the men declared that there\r\nwas not money enough in Maricopa County to pay him to go there again,\r\nwhile the other had never stopped running--at least, he had not returned\r\nto his usual haunts since “the thing” looked at him. Still, it is haunted\r\ncountry all about here. The souls of the Mojaves roam upon Ghost\r\nMountain, and the “bad men's hunting-grounds” of the Yumas and Navajos\r\nare over in the volcanic country of Sonora. It is, therefore, no unusual\r\nthing to find signs and wonders in broad daylight.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSACRIFICE OF THE TOLTECS\r\n\r\nCenturies ago, when Toltec civilization had extended over Arizona, and\r\nperhaps over the whole West, the valleys were occupied by large\r\ntowns--the towns whose ruins are now known as the City of Ovens, City of\r\nStones, and City of the Dead. The people worked at trades and arts that\r\nhad been practised by their ancestors before the pyramids were built in\r\nEgypt. Montezuma had come to the throne of Mexico, and the Aztecs were a\r\nsubject people; Europe had discovered America and forgotten it, and in\r\nAmerica the arrival of Europeans was recalled only in traditions. But,\r\nlike other nations, the Toltecs became a prey to self-confidence, to\r\nluxury, to wastefulness, and to deadening superstitions. Already the\r\nfierce tribes of the North were lurking on the confines of their country\r\nin a faith of speedy conquest, and at times it seemed as if the elements\r\nwere against them.\r\n\r\nThe villagers were returning from the fields, one day, when the entire\r\nregion was smitten by an earthquake. Houses trembled, rumblings were\r\nheard, people fell in trying to reach the streets, and reservoirs burst,\r\nwasting their contents on the fevered soil. A sacrifice was offered. Then\r\ncame a second shock, and another mortal was offered in oblation. As the\r\nearth still heaved and the earthquake demon muttered underground, the\r\nking gave his daughter to the priests, that his people might be spared,\r\nthough he wrung his hands and beat his brow as he saw her led away and\r\nknew that in an hour her blood would stream from the altar.\r\n\r\nThe girl walked firmly to the cave where the altar was erected--a cave in\r\nSuperstition Mountains. She knelt and closed her eyes as the\r\nofficiating-priest uttered a prayer, and, gripping his knife of jade\r\nstone, plunged it into her heart. She fell without a struggle. And now,\r\nthe end.\r\n\r\nHardly had the innocent blood drained out and the fires been lighted to\r\nconsume the body, when a pall of cloud came sweeping across the heavens;\r\na hot wind surged over the ground, laden with dust and smoke; the\r\nstorm-struck earth writhed anew beneath pelting thunder-bolts; no tremor\r\nthis time, but an upheaval that rent the rocks and flung the cities down.\r\nIt was an hour of darkness and terror. Roars of thunder mingled with the\r\nmore awful bellowing beneath; crash on crash told that houses and temples\r\nwere falling in vast ruin; the mountainsides were loosened and the rush\r\nof avalanches added to the din; the air was thick, and through the clouds\r\nthe people groped their way toward the fields; rivers broke from their\r\nconfines and laid waste farms and gardens! The gods had indeed abandoned\r\nthem, and the spirit of the king's daughter took its flight in company\r\nwith thousands of souls in whose behalf she had suffered uselessly.\r\n\r\nThe king was crushed beneath his palace-roof and the sacerdotal\r\nexecutioner perished in a fall of rock. The survivors fled in panic and\r\nthe Ishmaelite tribes on their frontier entered their kingdom and\r\npillaged it of all abandoned wealth. The cities never were rebuilt and\r\nwere rediscovered but a few years ago, when the maiden's skeleton was\r\nalso found. Nor does any Indian cross Superstition Mountains without a\r\nsense of apprehension.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTA-VWOTS CONQUERS THE SUN\r\n\r\nThe Indian is a great story-teller. Every tribe has its traditions, and\r\nthe elderly men and women like to recount them, for they always find\r\nlisteners. And odd stories they tell, too. Just listen to this, for\r\nexample. It is a legend among the tribes of Arizona.\r\n\r\nWhile Ta-Vwots, the hare god, was asleep in the valley of Maopa, the Sun\r\nmischievously burned his back, causing him to leap up with a howl. “Aha!\r\nIt's you, is it, who played this trick on me?” he cried, looking at the\r\nSun. “I'll make it warm for you. See if I don't.”\r\n\r\nAnd without more ado he set off to fight the Sun. On the way he stopped\r\nto pick and roast some corn, and when the people who had planted it ran\r\nout and tried to punish him for the theft he scratched a hole in the\r\nground and ran in out of sight. His pursuers shot arrows into the hole,\r\nbut Ta-Vwots had his breath with him, and it was an awfully strong\r\nbreath, for with it he turned all the arrows aside. “The scamp is in\r\nhere,” said one of the party. “Let's get at him another way.” So, getting\r\ntheir flints and shovels, they began to dig.\r\n\r\n“That's your game, is it?” mumbled Ta-Vwots. “I know a way out of this\r\nthat you don't know.” With a few puffs of his breath and a few kicks of\r\nhis legs he reached a great fissure that led into the rock behind him,\r\nand along this passage he scrambled until he came to the edge of it in a\r\nniche, from which he could watch his enemies digging. When they had made\r\nthe hole quite large he shouted, “Be buried in the grave you have dug for\r\nyourselves!” And, hurling down a magic ball that he carried, he caved the\r\nearth in on their heads. Then he paced off, remarking, “To fight is as\r\ngood fun as to eat. Vengeance is my work. Every one I meet will be an\r\nenemy. No one shall escape my wrath.” And he sounded his war-whoop.\r\n\r\nNext day he saw two men heating rocks and chipping arrow-heads from them.\r\n“Let me help you, for hot rocks will not hurt me,” he said.\r\n\r\n“You would have us to believe you are a spirit, eh?” they questioned,\r\nwith a jeer.\r\n\r\n“No ghost,” he answered, “but a better man than you. Hold me on those\r\nrocks, and, if I do not burn, you must let me do the same to you.”\r\n\r\nThe men complied, and heating the stones to redness in the fire they\r\nplaced him against them, but failed to see that by his magic breath he\r\nkept a current of air flowing between him and the hot surface. Rising\r\nunhurt, he demanded that they also should submit to the torture, and,\r\nlike true Indians, they did so. When their flesh had been burned half\r\nthrough and they were dead, he sounded his warwhoop and went on.\r\n\r\nOn the day following he met two women picking berries, and told them to\r\nblow the leaves and thorns into his eyes. They did so, as they supposed,\r\nbut with his magic breath he kept the stuff away from his face.\r\n\r\n“You are a ghost!” the women exclaimed.\r\n\r\n“No ghost,” said he. “Just a common person. Leaves and thorns can do no\r\nharm. See, now.” And he puffed thorns into their faces and made them\r\nblind. “Aha! You are caught with your own chaff I am on my way to kill\r\nthe Sun. This is good practice.” And he slew them, sounded his war-whoop,\r\nand went on.\r\n\r\nThe morning after this affair some women appeared on Hurricane Cliff and\r\nthe wind brought their words to his ears. They were planning to kill him\r\nby rolling rocks upon him as he passed. As he drew near he pretended to\r\neat something with such enjoyment that they asked him what it was. He\r\ncalled out, “It is sweet. Come to the edge and I will throw it up to\r\nyou.” With that he tossed something so nearly within their reach that in\r\nbending forward to catch it they crowded too near the brink, lost their\r\nbalance, fell over, and were killed. “You are victims of your own greed.\r\nOne should never be so anxious as to kill one's self.” This was his only\r\ncomment, and, sounding the warwhoop, he went on.\r\n\r\nA day later he came upon two women making water jugs of willow baskets\r\nlined with pitch, and he heard one whisper to the other, “Here comes that\r\nbad Ta-Vwots. How shall we destroy him?”\r\n\r\n“What were you saying?” asked the hare god.\r\n\r\n“We just said, 'Here comes our grandson.'” (A common form of endearment.)\r\n\r\n“Is that all? Then let me get into one of these water jugs while you\r\nbraid the neck.”\r\n\r\nHe jumped in and lay quite still as they wove the neck, and they laughed\r\nto think that it was braided so small that he could never escape,\r\nwhen--puff! the jug was shattered and there was Ta-Vwots. They did not\r\nknow anything about his magic breath. They wondered how he got out.\r\n\r\n“Easily enough,” replied the hare god. “These things may hold water, but\r\nthey can't hold men and women. Try it, and see if they can.” With their\r\nconsent, Ta-Vwots began weaving the osiers about them, and in a little\r\nwhile he had them caged. “Now, come out,” he said. But, try as they\r\nmight, not a withe could they break. “Ha, ha! You are wise women, aren't\r\nyou? Bottled in your own jugs! I am on my way to kill the Sun. In time I\r\nshall learn how.” Then, sounding his war-whoop, he struck them dead with\r\nhis magic ball and went on.\r\n\r\nHe met the Bear next day, and found him digging a hole to hide in, for he\r\nhad heard of the hare god and was afraid. “Don't be frightened, friend\r\nBear,” said the rogue. “I'm not the sort of fellow to hide from. How\r\ncould a little chap like me hurt so many people?” And he helped the Bear\r\nto dig his den, but when it was finished he hid behind a rock, and as the\r\nBear thrust his head near him he launched his magic ball at his face and\r\nmade an end of him. “I was afraid of this warrior,” said Ta-Vwots, “but\r\nhe is dead, now, in his den.” And sounding his war-whoop he went on.\r\n\r\nIt was on the day following that he met the Tarantula, a clever rascal,\r\nwho had a club that would deal a fatal blow to others, but would not hurt\r\nhimself. He began to groan as Ta-Vwots drew near, and cried that he had a\r\npain caused by an evil spirit in his head. Wouldn't Ta-Vwots thump it\r\nout? Indeed, he would. He grasped the club and gave him the soundest kind\r\nof a thwacking, but when the Tarantula shouted “Harder,” he guessed that\r\nit was an enchanted weapon, and changing it for his magic ball he\r\nfinished the Tarantula at a blow. “That is a stroke of your own seeking,”\r\n he remarked. “I am on my way to kill the Sun. Now I know that I can do\r\nit.” And sounding his war-whoop he went on.\r\n\r\nNext day he came to the edge of the world and looked off into space,\r\nwhere thousands of careless people had fallen, and there he passed the\r\nnight under a tree. At dawn he stood on the brink of the earth and the\r\ninstant that the Sun appeared he flung the magic ball full in his face.\r\nThe surface of the Sun was broken into a thousand pieces that spattered\r\nover the earth and kindled a mighty conflagration. Ta-Vwots crept under\r\nthe tree that had sheltered him, but that was of no avail against the\r\nincreasing heat. He tried to run away, but the fire burned off his toes,\r\nthen his feet, then his legs, then his body, so that he ran on his hands,\r\nand when his hands were burned off he walked on the stumps of his arms.\r\nAt last his head alone remained, and that rolled over hill and valley\r\nuntil it struck a rock, when the eyes burst and the tears that gushed\r\nforth spread over the land, putting out the flames. The Sun was\r\nconquered, and at his trial before the other gods was reprimanded for his\r\nmischievous pranks and condemned thereafter to travel across the sky\r\nevery day by the same trail.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE COMANCHE RIDER\r\n\r\nThe ways of disposing of the Indian dead are many. In some places ground\r\nsepulture is common; in others, the corpses are placed in trees. South\r\nAmericans mummified their dead, and cremation was not unknown. Enemies\r\ngave no thought to those that they had slain, after plucking off their\r\nscalps as trophies, though they sometimes added the indignity of\r\nmutilation in killing.\r\n\r\nSachem's Head, near Guilford, Connecticut, is so named because Uncas cut\r\na Pequot's head off and placed it in the crotch of an oak that grew\r\nthere. It remained withering for years. It was to save the body of Polan\r\nfrom such a fate, after the fight on Sebago Lake in 1756, that his\r\nbrothers placed it under the root of a sturdy young beech that they had\r\npried out of the ground. He was laid in the hollow in his war-dress, with\r\nsilver cross on his breast and bow and arrows in his hand; then, the\r\nweight on the trunk being released, the sapling sprang back to its place\r\nand afterward rose to a commanding height, fitly marking the Indian's\r\ntomb. Chief Blackbird, of the Omahas, was buried, in accordance with his\r\nwish, on the summit of a bluff near the upper Missouri, on the back of\r\nhis favorite horse, fully equipped for travel, with the scalps that he\r\nhad taken hung to the bridle.\r\n\r\nWhen a Comanche dies he is buried on the western side of the camp, that\r\nhis soul may follow the setting sun into the spirit world the speedier.\r\nHis bow, arrows, and valuables are interred with him, and his best pony\r\nis killed at the grave that he may appear among his fellows in the happy\r\nhunting grounds mounted and equipped. An old Comanche who died near Fort\r\nSill was without relatives and poor, so his tribe thought that any kind\r\nof a horse would do for him to range upon the fields of paradise. They\r\nkilled a spavined old plug and left him. Two weeks from that time the\r\nlate unlamented galloped into a camp of the Wichitas on the back of a\r\nlop-eared, bob-tailed, sheep-necked, ring-boned horse, with ribs like a\r\ngrate, and said he wanted his dinner. Having secured a piece of meat,\r\nformally presented to him on the end of a lodge-pole, he offered himself\r\nto the view of his own people, alarming them by his glaring eyes and\r\nsunken cheeks, and told them that he had come back to haunt them for a\r\nstingy, inconsiderate lot, because the gate-keeper of heaven had refused\r\nto admit him on so ill-conditioned a mount. The camp broke up in dismay.\r\nWichitas and Comanches journeyed, en masse, to Fort Sill for protection,\r\nand since then they have sacrificed the best horses in their possession\r\nwhen an unfriended one journeyed to the spirit world.\r\n\r\nMyths and Legends\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHORNED TOAD AND GIANTS\r\n\r\nThe Moquis have a legend that, long ago, when the principal mesa that\r\nthey occupy was higher than it is now, and when they owned all the\r\ncountry from the mountains to the great river, giants came out of the\r\nwest and troubled them, going so far as to dine on Moquis. It was hard to\r\nget away, for the monsters could see all over the country from the tops\r\nof the mesas. The king of the tribe offered the handsomest woman in his\r\ncountry and a thousand horses to any man who would deliver his people\r\nfrom these giants. This king was eaten like the rest, and the citizens\r\ndeclined to elect another, because they were beginning to lose faith in\r\nkings. Still, there was one young brave whose single thought was how to\r\ndefeat the giants and save his people.\r\n\r\nAs he was walking down the mesa he saw a lizard, of the kind commonly\r\nknown as a horned toad, lying under a rock in pain. He rolled the stone\r\naway and was passing on, when a voice, that seemed to come out of the\r\nearth, but that really came from the toad, asked him if he wished to\r\ndestroy the giants. He desired nothing so much. “Then take my horned\r\ncrest for a helmet.”\r\n\r\nLolomi--that was the name of him--did as he was bid, and found that in a\r\nmoment the crest had swelled and covered his head so thickly that no club\r\ncould break through it.\r\n\r\n“Now take my breastplate,” continued the toad. And though it would not\r\nhave covered the Indian's thumb-nail, when he put it on it so increased\r\nin bulk that it corseleted his body and no arrow could pierce it.\r\n\r\n“Now take the scales from my eyes,” commanded the toad, and when he had\r\ndone so Lolomi felt as light as a feather.\r\n\r\n“Go up and wait. When you see a giant, go toward him, looking in his\r\neyes, and he will walk backward. Walk around him until he has his back to\r\na precipice, then advance. He will back away until he reaches the edge of\r\nthe mesa, when he will fall off and be killed.”\r\n\r\nLolomi obeyed these instructions, for presently a giant loomed in the\r\ndistance and came striding across the plains half a mile at a step. As he\r\ndrew near he flung a spear, but it glanced from the Indian's armor like\r\nhail from a rock. Then an arrow followed, and was turned. At this the\r\ngiant lost courage, for he fancied that Lolomi was a spirit. Fearing a\r\nblow if he turned, he kept his face toward Lolomi, who manoeuvred so\r\nskilfully that when he had the giant's back to the edge of a cliff he\r\nsprang at him, and the giant, with a yell of alarm, fell and broke his\r\nbones on the rocks below. So Lolomi killed many giants, because they all\r\nwalked back before him, and after they had fallen the people heaped rocks\r\non their bodies. To this day the place is known as “the giants' fall.”\r\n Then the tribe made Lolomi king and gave him the most beautiful damsel\r\nfor a wife. As he was the best king they ever had, they treasured his\r\nmemory after he was dead, and used his name as a term of greeting, so\r\nthat “Lolomi” is a word of welcome, and will be until the giants come\r\nagain.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SPIDER TOWER\r\n\r\nIn Dead Man's Canon--a deep gorge that is lateral to the once populated\r\nvalley of the Rio de Chelly, Arizona--stands a stark spire of weathered\r\nsandstone, its top rising eight hundred feet above its base in a sheer\r\nuplift. Centuries ago an inhabitant of one of the cave villages was\r\nsurprised by hostiles while hunting in this region, and was chased by\r\nthem into this canon. As he ran he looked vainly from side to side in the\r\nhope of securing a hiding-place, but succor came from a source that was\r\nleast expected, for on approaching this enormous obelisk, with strength\r\nwell-nigh exhausted, he saw a silken cord hanging from a notch at its\r\ntop. Hastily knotting the end about his waist, that it might not fall\r\nwithin reach of his pursuers, he climbed up, setting his feet into\r\nroughnesses of the stone, and advancing, hand over hand, until he had\r\nreached the summit, where he stayed, drinking dew and feeding on eagles'\r\neggs, until his enemies went away, for they could not reach him with\r\ntheir arrows, defended as he was by points of rock. The foemen having\r\ngone, he safely descended by the cord and reached his home. This help had\r\ncome from a friendly spider who saw his plight from her perch at the top\r\nof the spire, and, weaving a web of extra thickness, she made one end\r\nfast to a jag of rock while the other fell within his grasp--for she,\r\nlike all other of the brute tribe, liked the gentle cave-dwellers better\r\nthan the remorseless hunters. Hence the name of the Spider Tower.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE LOST TRAIL\r\n\r\nThe canon of Oak Creek is choked by a mass of rock, shaped like a\r\nkeystone, and wedged into the jaws of the defile. An elderly Ute tells\r\nthis story of it. Acantow, one of the chiefs of his tribe, usually placed\r\nhis lodge beside the spring that bubbled from a thicket of wild roses in\r\nthe place where Rosita, Colorado, stands to-day. He left his\r\nwife--Manetabee (Rosebud)--in the lodge while he went across the\r\nmountains to attend a council, and was gone four sleeps. On his return he\r\nfound neither wife nor lodge, but footprints and hoofprints in the ground\r\nshowed to his keen eye that it was the Arapahoes who had been there.\r\n\r\nGetting on their trail he rode over it furiously, and at night had\r\nreached Oak Canon, along which he travelled until he saw the gleam of a\r\nsmall fire ahead. A squall was coming up, and the noise of it might have\r\nenabled him to gallop fairly into the group that he saw huddled about the\r\nglow; but it is not in the nature of an Indian to do that, and, tying his\r\nhorse, he crawled forward.\r\n\r\nThere were fifteen of the Arapahoes, and they were gambling to decide the\r\nownership of Manetabee, who sat bound beneath a willow near them. So\r\nengrossed were the savages in the contest that the snake-like approach of\r\nAcantow was unnoticed until he had cut the thongs that bound Manetabee's\r\nwrists and ankles--she did not cry out, for she had expected rescue--and\r\nboth had imperceptibly slid away from them. Then, with a yell, one of the\r\ngamblers pointed to the receding forms, and straightway the fifteen made\r\nan onset.\r\n\r\nSwinging his wife lightly to his shoulders Acantow set off at a run and\r\nhe had almost reached his horse when his foot caught in a root and he\r\nfell headlong. The pursuers were almost upon him when the storm burst in\r\nfury. A flood of fire rushed from the clouds and struck the earth with an\r\nappalling roar. Trees were snapped, rocks were splintered, and a\r\nwhirlwind passed. Acantow was nearly insensible for a time--then he felt\r\nthe touch of the Rosebud's hand on his cheek, and together they arose and\r\nlooked about them. A huge block of riven granite lay in the canon,\r\ndripping blood. Their enemies were not to be seen.\r\n\r\n“The trail is gone,” said Acantow. “Manitou has broken it, that the\r\nArapahoes may never cross it more. He would not allow them to take you.\r\nLet us thank the Manitou.” So they went back to where the spring burst\r\namid the rose-bushes.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nA BATTLE IN THE AIR\r\n\r\nIn the country about Tishomingo, Indian Territory, troubles are foretold\r\nby a battle of unseen men in the air. Whenever the sound of conflict is\r\nheard it is an indication that many dead will lie in the fields, for it\r\nheralds battle, starvation, or pestilence. The powerful nation that lived\r\nhere once was completely annihilated by an opposing tribe, and in the\r\nvalley in the western part of the Territory there are mounds where\r\nhundreds of men lie buried. Spirits occupy the valley, and to the eyes of\r\nthe red men they are still seen, at times, continuing the fight.\r\n\r\nIn May, 1892, the last demonstration was made in the hearing of John\r\nWillis, a United States marshal, who was hunting horse-thieves. He was\r\nbelated one night and entered the vale of mounds, for he had no scruples\r\nagainst sleeping there. He had not, in fact, ever heard that the region\r\nwas haunted. The snorting of his horse in the middle of the night awoke\r\nhim and he sprang to his feet, thinking that savages, outlaws, or, at\r\nleast, coyotes had disturbed the animal. Although there was a good moon,\r\nhe could see nothing moving on the plain. Yet the sounds that filled the\r\nair were like the noise of an army, only a trifle subdued, as if they\r\nwere borne on the passing of a wind. The rush of hoofs and of feet, the\r\nstriking of blows, the fall of bodies could be heard, and for nearly an\r\nhour these fell rumors went across the earth. At last the horse became so\r\nfrantic that Willis saddled him and rode away, and as he reached the edge\r\nof the valley the sounds were heard going into the distance. Not until he\r\nreached a settlement did he learn of the spell that rested on the place.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nON THE PACIFIC COAST\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE VOYAGER OF WHULGE\r\n\r\nLike the ancient Greeks, the Siwash of the Northwest invest the unseen\r\nworld with spiritual intelligence. Every tree has a soul; the forests\r\nwere peopled with good and evil genii, the latter receiving oblation at\r\nthe devil-dances, for it was not worth while to appease those already\r\ngood; and the mountains are the home of tamanouses, or guardian spirits,\r\nthat sometimes fight together--as, when the spirits of Mount Tacoma\r\nengaged with those of Mount Hood, fire and melted stone burst from their\r\npeaks, their bellowing was heard afar, and some of the rocks flung by\r\nTacoma fell short, blocking the Columbia about the Dalles.\r\n\r\nAcross these fantastic reports of older time there come echoes of a later\r\ninstruction, adapted and blended into native legend so that the point of\r\ndivision cannot be indicated. Such is that of the mysterious voyager of\r\nthe Whulge--the Siwash name for the sound that takes the name of Puget\r\nfrom one of Vancouver's officers. Across this body of water the stranger\r\ncame in a copper canoe that borrowed the glories of the morning. When he\r\nhad landed and sent for all the red men, far and near, he addressed to\r\nthem a doctrine that provoked expressions of contempt--a doctrine of\r\nlove.\r\n\r\nTo fight and steal no more, to give of their goods to men in need, to\r\nforgive their enemies,--they could not understand such things. He\r\npromised--this radiant stranger--to those who lived right, eternal life\r\non seas and hills more fair than these of earth, but they did not heed\r\nhim. At last, wearying of his talk, they dragged him to a tree and nailed\r\nhim fast to it, with pegs through his hands and feet, and jeered and\r\ndanced about him, as they did about their victims in the devil-dance,\r\nuntil his head fell on his breast and his life went out.\r\n\r\nA great storm, with thunderings and earthquakes! They took the body down\r\nand would have buried it, but, to! it arose to its feet, as the sun burst\r\nforth, and resumed its preaching. Then they took the voyager's word for\r\ntruth and never harmed him more, while they grew less warlike as each\r\nyear went by until, of all Indians, they were most peaceable.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTAMANOUS OF TACOMA\r\n\r\nMount Tacoma has always been a place of superstitious regard among the\r\nSiwash (Sauvage) of the Northwest. In their myths it was the place of\r\nrefuge for the last man when the Whulge was so swollen after long rain\r\nthat its waters covered the earth. All other men were drowned. The waves\r\npursued the one man as he climbed, rising higher and higher until they\r\ncame to his knees, his waist, his breast. Hope was almost gone, and he\r\nfelt that the next wave would launch him into the black ocean that raged\r\nabout him, when one of the tamanouses of the peak, taking pity on him,\r\nturned his feet to stone. The storm ceased, and the waters fell away. The\r\nman still stood there, his feet a part of the peak, and he mourned that\r\nhe could not descend to where the air was balmy and the flowers were\r\nopening. The Spirit of all Things came and bade him sleep, and, after his\r\neyes were closed, tore out one of his ribs and changed it to a woman.\r\nWhen lifted out of the rock the man awoke, and, turning with delight to\r\nthe woman, he led her to the sea-shore, and there in a forest bower they\r\nmade their home. There the human race was recreated.\r\n\r\nOn the shore of the Whulge in after years lived an Indian miser--rare\r\npersonage--who dried salmon and jerked the meat that he did not use, and\r\nsold it to his fellow-men for hiaqua--the wampum of the Pacific tribes.\r\nThe more of this treasure he got, the more he wanted--even as if it were\r\ndollars. One day, while hunting on the slopes of Mount Tacoma, he looked\r\nalong its snow-fields, climbing to the sky, and, instead of doing homage\r\nto the tamanous, or divinity of the mountain, he only sighed, “If I could\r\nonly get more hiaqua!”\r\n\r\nSounded a voice in his ear: “Dare you go to my treasure caves?”\r\n\r\n“I dare!” cried the miser.\r\n\r\nThe rocks and snows and woods roared back the words so quick in echoes\r\nthat the noise was like that of a mountain laughing. The wind came up\r\nagain to whisper the secret in the man's ear, and with an elk-horn for\r\npick and spade he began the ascent of the peak. Next morning he had\r\nreached the crater's rim, and, hurrying down the declivity, he passed a\r\nrock shaped like a salmon, next, one in the form of a kamas-root, and\r\npresently a third in likeness of an elk's head. “'Tis a tamanous has\r\nspoken!” he exclaimed, as he looked at them.\r\n\r\nAt the foot of the elk's head he began to dig. Under the snow he came to\r\ncrusts of rock that gave a hollow sound, and presently he lifted a scale\r\nof stone that covered a cavity brimful of shells more beautiful, more\r\nprecious, more abundant than his wildest hopes had pictured. He plunged\r\nhis arms among them to the shoulder--he laughed and fondled them, winding\r\nthe strings of them about his arms and waist and neck and filling his\r\nhands. Then, heavily burdened, he started homeward.\r\n\r\nIn his eagerness to take away his treasure he made no offerings of hiaqua\r\nstrings to the stone tamanouses in the crater, and hardly had he begun\r\nthe descent of the mountain's western face before he began to be buffeted\r\nwith winds. The angry god wrapped himself in a whirling tower of cloud\r\nand fell upon him, drawing darkness after. Hands seemed to clutch at him\r\nout of the storm: they tore at his treasure, and, in despair, he cast\r\naway a cord of it in sacrifice. The storm paused for a moment, and when\r\nit returned upon him with scream and flash and roar he parted with\r\nanother. So, going down in the lulls, he reached timber just as the last\r\nhandful of his wealth was wrenched from his grasp and flung upon the\r\nwinds. Sick in heart and body, he fell upon a moss-heap, senseless. He\r\nawoke and arose stiffly, after a time, and resumed his journey.\r\n\r\nIn his sleep a change had come to the man. His hair was matted and\r\nreached to his knees; his joints creaked; his food supply was gone; but\r\nhe picked kamas bulbs and broke his fast, and the world seemed fresh and\r\ngood to him. He looked back at Tacoma and admired the splendor of its\r\nsnows and the beauty of its form, and had never a care for the riches in\r\nits crater. The wood was strange to him as he descended, but at sunset he\r\nreached his wigwam, where an aged woman was cooking salmon. Wife and\r\nhusband recognized each other, though he had been asleep and she\r\na-sorrowing for years. In his joy to be at home the miser dug up all his\r\ntreasure that he had secreted and gave of his wealth and wisdom to whoso\r\nneeded them. Life, love, and nature were enough, he found, and he never\r\nbraved the tamanous again.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEVIL AND THE DALLES\r\n\r\nIn days when volcanoes were playing in the Northwest and the sternly\r\nbeautiful valley of the Columbia was a hell of ash and lava, the fiend\r\nmen of the land met at intervals on the heated rocks to guzzle and riot\r\ntogether. It was at one of these meetings in the third summer after\r\nTacoma had stopped spouting that the devil urged a lesson from the\r\ngrowing peace and joy of nature, and prayed the fiend men to desist from\r\nkilling and eating each other and live in love.\r\n\r\nWith a howl of rage at such a proposal they set upon him, tossing their\r\ntails in such a threatening manner that he deemed it best to be off, and\r\nas his hoofs clattered over the country his brain was busy in devising an\r\nescape. Nearing the mountain bulwarks of an inland sea, whose breakers'\r\nrhythmic roar he heard above the yells of his pursuers, a hope came into\r\nhis head, and new vigor into his tail, though you might have thought the\r\nlatter accession was not needed, for his tail was of prodigious length\r\nand strength. He whirled this limb aloft and beat it on the earth. A\r\nchasm opened at the stroke, and the devil skipped across to the safe side\r\nof it.\r\n\r\nSafe? No; for the fiend men in advance took the leap and came beside him.\r\nThe tormented one could thrash any two of them at once, but he was not\r\nequal to a thousand. He brandished his weapon once more and it fell with\r\na crash. Earth shook, dust arose in clouds, and a deeper cleft than\r\nbefore yawned through the valley. Again the fiend men tried to reach him,\r\nand, though the gap was bigger and many fell into it, hundreds made the\r\njump and overtook him. He must make one more attempt. The tail revolved\r\nfor a third time, and with the energy of despair he flailed the ground\r\nwith it.\r\n\r\nA third ravine was split through the rock, and this time the earth's\r\ncrust cracked away to the eastward, giving outlet to the sea, which came\r\npouring through the canon, breaking rocks from mountains and grinding\r\nthem to powder in its terrific progress. Gasping with fatigue, the\r\nunhappy one toiled up a hill and surveyed his work with satisfaction, for\r\nthe flood engulfed the fiend men and they left no member of their race\r\nbehind them.\r\n\r\nWhen they had all been happily smashed or drowned, the devil skipped\r\nlightly over the channels he had cut and sought his family, though with a\r\nsubdued expression of countenance, for his tail--his strength and\r\npride--was bruised and broken beyond repair, and all the little imps that\r\nhe fathered to the world afterward had little dangling tails like\r\nmonkeys' instead of megatheriums', and in time these appendages\r\ndisappeared. But what was the use of them? The fiend men they had fought\r\nagainst were dead and the rising race they could circumvent by subtler\r\nmeans. The inland sea drained off. Its bed is now the prairie, and the\r\nthree strokes of the devil's tail are indelibly recorded in the bed of\r\nthe Columbia at the Dalles. And the devil never tried to be good again.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nCASCADES OF THE COLUMBIA\r\n\r\nWhen the Siwash, as the Northwestern Indians called themselves, were few,\r\nMount Hood was kept by the Spirit of Storms, who when he shook his robe\r\ncaused rain or snow to fall over the land, while the Fire Spirit flashed\r\nhis lightnings from Mount Adams. Across the vale between them stretched a\r\nmighty bridge of stone, joining peak to peak, and on this the Siwash laid\r\nhis offering of salmon and dressed skins. Here, too, the tribal festivals\r\nwere kept. The priestess of the arch-Mentonee, who fed the fire on the\r\ntribal altar “unimpassioned by a mortal throb”--had won the love of the\r\nwild tamanouses of the mountains, but she was careless alike of coaxing\r\nand threats, and her heart was as marble to them.\r\n\r\nJealous of each other, these two spirits fell to fighting, and, appalled\r\nby the whirl of fire and cloud, of splintering trees and crumbling rocks,\r\nthe Indians fled in terror toward the lowlands, but she, unhurt and\r\nundaunted, kept in her place, and still offered praise to the one god.\r\nYet she was not alone, for watchful in the shadow of a rock stood a\r\nwarrior who had loved her so long, without the hope of lovers, that he,\r\ntoo, had outgrown fear. Though she had given him but passing words and\r\nnever a smile, his own heart was the warmer and the heavier with its\r\nfreight, and it was his way to be ever watching her in some place where\r\nshe might not be troubled by the sight of him.\r\n\r\nThe war waxed fiercer, and at last the spirits met at the centre of the\r\narch, and in roar and quake and deluge the great bridge swayed and\r\ncracked. The young man sprang forward. He seized Mentonee in his arms.\r\nThere was time for one embrace that cheated death of sorrow. Then, with a\r\nthunder like a bursting world, the miles of masonry crashed down and\r\nburied the two forever. The Columbia leaps the ruins of the bridge in the\r\nrapids that they call the Cascades, and the waters still brawl on, while\r\nthe sulky tamanouses watch the whitened floods from their mountain-tops,\r\nknowing that never again will they see so fair a creature as Mentonee.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE DEATH OF UMATILLA\r\n\r\nUmatilla, chief of the Indians at the Cascades of the Columbia, was one\r\nof the few red men of his time who favored peace with the white settlers\r\nand lent no countenance to the fierce revels of the “potlatch.” In these\r\n“feasts of gifts” the savages, believing themselves to be “possessed by\r\nthe spirit,” lashed themselves into a frenzy that on several occasions\r\nwas only quieted by the shedding of blood. Black Eagle's Feather--or\r\nBenjamin, as he was called by the settlers--was the only one of the\r\nchildren of the old chief who survived a summer of plague, and on this\r\nboy Umatilla had put all his hopes and affections.\r\n\r\nThe lad had formed a great trust in his white teacher, a college-bred man\r\nfrom the East, who had built a little school-house beside the Columbia\r\nand was teaching the Indian idea how to shoot something beside white\r\npeople. This boy and his teacher had hunted together; they had journeyed\r\nin the same canoe; had tramped over the same trail to the great falls of\r\nthe Missouri; and at the Giant Spring had seen the Piegans cast in their\r\ngifts, in the belief that the manitou of the place would deliver them in\r\nthe hereafter to the sun-god, whom they worshipped. One day Benjamin fell\r\nill, and the schoolmaster saw that he, too, was to die of the plague. Old\r\nUmatilla received the news with Indian stoicism, but he went into the\r\nforest to be alone for a time.\r\n\r\nWhen he returned day was breaking and a flock of wild-geese trumpeted\r\noverhead. The boy heard them, and said, “Boston tilicum” (white man),\r\n“does the Great Father tell the geese where to go?”\r\n\r\n“Yes.”\r\n\r\n“Then he will tell me, too?”\r\n\r\n“Yes.”\r\n\r\n“We shall never go back to the Missouri together. My father--”\r\n\r\n“We will watch over him.”\r\n\r\n“That is well.” And, in a few hours, he had intrusted the guidance of his\r\nsoul through the world of shadows to the white man's unseen father.\r\n\r\nUmatilla sat beside the body through the night, and in the morning he\r\ncalled his people together. He told them that he was prepared to follow\r\nhis boy out of the world, but that first he wanted to have their promise\r\nthat they would no longer war on the whites, but look to them for\r\nfriendship and guidance. There was some murmuring at this, for the ruder\r\nfellows were already plotting a descent on the settlers, but Umatilla had\r\ngiven them great store of goods at the last potlatch, and they\r\nreluctantly consented. The venerable chief ordered them to make a grave\r\nfor Benjamin like the white man's, and, when it had been dug, four\r\nwarriors laid the body of his son within it. Then, standing at the brink,\r\nthe chief said, “My heart is growing cold, for it is in the grave there\r\nwith my son. When I take three steps to the side of him, I, too, shall\r\ndie. Be good to the white men, as you have said, and bury us both\r\ntogether. Great Spirit, I come.” And, sinking to the ground, the old\r\nman's life ebbed in a breath. They buried him and his son in a single\r\ngrave, and next day they went to the teacher and asked him to lead and\r\ninstruct them. And with that year ended all trouble between red and white\r\nmen along the Columbia.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nHUNGER VALLEY\r\n\r\nEast of San Francisco is a narrow valley opening to the bay of San Pablo.\r\nIn spite of its pleasant situation and fruitful possibilities, it had no\r\ninhabitants until 1820, when Miguel Zamacona and his wife Emilia strayed\r\ninto it, while on a journey, and, being delighted with its scenery,\r\ndetermined to make it their home. In playful mockery of its abundance\r\nthey gave to it the name El Hambre [Hunger] valley.\r\n\r\nAfter some weeks of such hardship as comes to a Mexican from work, Miguel\r\nhad built an adobe cabin and got a garden started, while he caught a fish\r\nor shot a deer now and then, and they got on pretty well. At last it\r\nbecame necessary that he should go to Yerba Buena, as San Francisco was\r\nthen called, for goods. His burros were fat and strong, and there should\r\nbe no danger. Emilia cried at being left behind, but the garden had to be\r\ntended, and he was to be back in exactly three weeks. She waited for\r\ntwenty-two days; then, her anxiety becoming unendurable, she packed an\r\noutfit on a burro and started on the trail. From time to time she called\r\nhis name, and “Miguel!” echoed sweetly from hills and groves, but there\r\nwas no other answer, save when an owl would hoot. Rolled in a blanket she\r\nslept on lupin boughs, but was off at peep of day again,\r\ncalling--calling--high and clear among the solitudes.\r\n\r\nDuring the second day her burro gave a rasping bray, and a hee-haw\r\nanswered from the bush. It was Miguel's burro. He had come at last!\r\nLeaping to her feet, in her impatience, she ran to meet him, and found\r\nhim lying on the earth, staring silently at the sky. All that day she sat\r\nbeside him, caressing his hand, talking, crying, bathing his face with\r\nwater from the marsh--the poison marsh--and it was not until sunset that\r\nshe could bring herself to admit that he was dead--had been dead for at\r\nleast two days.\r\n\r\nShe put the blanket over him, weighted it with stones, and heaped reeds\r\nupon it; then she started for home. A wandering trader heard her story,\r\nbut years elapsed before any other settler entered Hunger valley. They\r\nfound her skeleton then in the weedy garden. The adobe stands tenantless\r\nin the new village of Martinez, and the people have so often heard that\r\nthe ghosts of the Zamaconas haunt the place that they have begun to\r\ndisbelieve it.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE WRATH OF MANITOU\r\n\r\nThe county called Kern, in California, lies mostly in a circular valley,\r\nand long, long before the evil one had created the pale face it was the\r\nhome of a nation advanced in arts, who worshipped the Great Spirit in a\r\nbuilding with a lofty dome. But the bravery and wisdom of one of their\r\nown people made them forget the Manitou and idolize the man who seemed\r\nthe most like him. They brought him to the temple and prayed and sang to\r\nhim, and held their sacred dances there, so angering God that he rent the\r\nearth and swallowed them. Nothing was seen of this people for years\r\nafter, but their stone tools were left on neighboring hill-sides. Manitou\r\neven poured water into the valley, and great creatures sported in the\r\ninland sea.\r\n\r\nBut, ere long, he repented his anger, and, in a fit of impatience at what\r\nhe had done, he threw up quantities of earth that smoked with heat, and\r\nthus created the Sierra Nevada, while he broke away the hills at the foot\r\nof the lake, and the waters drained into the sea at the Golden Gate. This\r\nagain made dry land of the valley, and, opening the earth once more, he\r\nreleased the captive tribe. The imprisoned people had not forgotten their\r\narts nor their boldness; they made the place blossom again; they\r\nconquered other tribes, and Manitou declared them his chosen ones, from\r\nwhom alone he would accept sacrifice. But their chief became so ambitious\r\nthat he wanted to supplant the Manitou in the worship of the people, and\r\nfinally, in a lunacy of self-conceit, he challenged the god to single\r\ncombat.\r\n\r\nUnder pretence of accepting the challenge, the Great Spirit set the\r\noffenders to wander through the desert until they reached a valley in the\r\nSierras, opposite Tehachapi, where he caused them to be exterminated by a\r\nhorde of savages from the Mojave desert. Then, in a fit of disgust at\r\nrefractory humanity, he evoked a whirlwind and stripped away every living\r\nthing from the country of the savages, declaring that it should be empty\r\nof human beings from that time forward. And it was so.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE SPOOK OF MISERY HILL\r\n\r\nTom Bowers, who mined on Misery Hill, near Pike City, California, never\r\nhad a partner, and he never took kindly to the rough crowd about the\r\nplace. One day he was missing. They traced his steps through the snow\r\nfrom his cabin to the brink of a great slope where he had been\r\nprospecting, but there they vanished, for a landslide had blotted them\r\nout. His body was exhumed far below and decently buried, yet it was said\r\nthat it was so often seen walking about the mouth of his old shaft that\r\nother men avoided the spot.\r\n\r\nThriftless Jim Brandon, in a spasm of industry, began work on the\r\nabandoned mine, and for a while he made it pay, for he got money and\r\nsquared accounts with his creditors; but after a time it appeared that\r\nsomebody else was working on the claim, for every morning he found that\r\nthe sluice had been tampered with and the water turned on. He searched\r\nfor the trespasser in vain, and told “the boys” that if they called that\r\njoking it had grown tiresome.\r\n\r\nOne night he loaded his rifle, and, from a convenient nook, he watched\r\nfor the intruder. The tamaracks crooned in the wind, the Yuba mumbled in\r\nthe canon, the Sierras lay in a line of white against the stars. As he\r\ncrept along to a point of better vantage he came to a tree with something\r\ntacked on it--something that shone in the dark like a match. In its own\r\nlight he read, “Notice! I, Thomas Bowers, claim this ground for placer\r\nmining.” Raising his hand to tear off the paper, he was amazed to feel a\r\nthrill pass through it, and his arm fell palsied at his side. But the\r\nnotice was gone.\r\n\r\nNow came the sound of water flowing, and, as he angrily caught his gun\r\nand turned toward the sluice, the letters shone again in phosphorescence\r\non the tree. There was the sound of a pick in the gravel now, and,\r\ncrawling stealthily towards the sluice, he saw, at work there, Tom\r\nBowers--dead, lank, his head and face covered with white hair, his eyes\r\nglowing from black sockets. Half unconsciously Jim brought his rifle to\r\nhis shoulder and fired. A yell followed the report, then the dead man\r\ncame running at him like the wind, with pick and shovel in either hand.\r\n\r\nAway went Brandon, and the spectre followed, up hill, in and out of\r\nwoods, over ditches, through scrub, on toward Pike City. The miners were\r\ncelebrating a new find with liberal potations and a dance in the saloon\r\nwhen, high above the crash of boots, the shouted jokes, the laughter, and\r\nthe clink of glasses, came a sound of falling, a scream-then silence.\r\nThey hurried into the road. There lay Brandon's rifle, and a pick and\r\nshovel with “T. B.” cut in the handles. Jim returned no more, and the\r\nsluice is running every night on Misery Hill.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE QUEEN OF DEATH VALLEY\r\n\r\nIn the southern part of California, near the Arizona line, is the famous\r\nDeath Valley--a tract of arid, alkaline plain hemmed in by steep\r\nmountains and lying below the level of the sea. For years it was believed\r\nthat no human being could cross that desert and live, for horses sink to\r\ntheir knees in drifts of soda dust; there is no water, though the\r\ntraveller requires much drink; and the heat is terrific. Animals that die\r\nin the neighborhood mummify, but do not decay, and it is surmised that\r\nthe remains of many a thoughtless or ignorant prospector lie bleached in\r\nthe plain. On the east side of Dead Mountain are points of whitened rock\r\nthat at a distance look like sheeted figures, and these, the Indians say,\r\nare the ghosts of their brethren.\r\n\r\nIn the heart of this desert is said to be the ruin of a pueblo, or\r\nvillage, though the shape and size of it suggest that it was made for a\r\nfew persons rather than for a tribe or family. Long ago, the tale runs,\r\nthis place of horrors was a fair and fertile kingdom, ruled by a\r\nbeautiful but capricious queen. She ordered her subjects to build her a\r\nmansion that should surpass those of her neighbors, the Aztecs, and they\r\nworked for years to make one worthy of her, dragging the stones and\r\ntimbers for miles. Fearing lest age, accident, or illness should forbid\r\nher to see the ending of her dream, she ordered so many of her subjects\r\nto assist that her tribe was reduced to practical slavery.\r\n\r\nIn her haste and heartlessness she commanded her own daughter to join the\r\nbearers of burdens, and when the toilers flagged in step in the noonday\r\nheat she strode among them and lashed their naked backs. As royalty was\r\nsacred, they did not complain, but when she struck her daughter the girl\r\nturned, threw down her load of stone, and solemnly cursed her mother and\r\nher kingdom; then, overcome by heat and weariness, she sank to the earth\r\nand died. Vain the regrets and lamentations of the queen. The sun came\r\nout with blinding heat and light, vegetation withered, animals\r\ndisappeared, streams and wells dried up, and at last the wretched woman\r\ngave up her life on a bed of fever, with no hand to soothe her dying\r\nmoments, for her people, too, were dead. The palace, half-completed,\r\nstands in the midst of this desolation, and sometimes it seems to lift\r\ninto view of those at a distance in the shifting mirage that plays along\r\nthe horizon.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nBRIDAL VEIL FALL\r\n\r\nThe vast ravine of Yo Semite (Grizzly Bear), formed by tearing apart the\r\nsolid Sierras, is graced by many water-falls raining down the mile-high\r\ncliffs. The one called Bridal Veil has this tale attached to it.\r\nCenturies ago, in the shelter of this valley, lived Tutokanula and his\r\ntribe--a good hunter, he, a thoughtful saver of crops and game for\r\nwinter, a wise chief, trusted and loved by his people. While hunting, one\r\nday, the tutelary spirit of the valley--the lovely Tisayac--revealed\r\nherself to him, and from that moment he knew no peace, nor did he care\r\nfor the well-being of his people; for she was not as they were: her skin\r\nwas white, her hair was golden, and her eyes like heaven; her speech was\r\nas a thrush-song and led him to her, but when he opened his arms she rose\r\nlighter than any bird and vanished in the sky.\r\n\r\nLacking his direction Yo Semite became a desert, and when Tisayac\r\nreturned she wept to see the corn lands grown with bushes and bears\r\nrooting where the huts had been. On a mighty dome of rock she knelt and\r\nbegged the Great Spirit to restore its virtue to the land. He did so,\r\nfor, stooping from the sky, he spread new life of green on all the valley\r\nfloor, and smiting the mountains he broke a channel for the pent-up\r\nmeltings of the snows, and the water ran and leaped far down, pooling in\r\na lake below and flowing off to gladden other land. The birds returned,\r\nthe flowers sprang up, corn swayed in the breeze, and the people, coming\r\nback, gave the name of Tisayac to South Dome, where she had knelt.\r\n\r\nThen came the chief home again, and, hearing that the spirit had\r\nappeared, was smitten with love more strong than ever. Climbing to the\r\ncrest of a rock that spires three thousand feet above the valley, he\r\ncarved his likeness there with his hunting-knife, so that his memory\r\nmight live among his tribe. As he sat, tired with his work, at the foot\r\nof the Bridal Veil, he saw, with a rainbow arching around her, the form\r\nof Tisayac shining from the water. She smiled on him and beckoned. His\r\nquest was at an end. With a cry of joy he sprang into the fall and\r\ndisappeared with Tisayac. Two rainbows quivered on the falling water, and\r\nthe sun went down.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE GOVERNOR'S RIGHT EYE\r\n\r\nOld Governor Hermenegildo Salvatierra, of Presidio, California, sported\r\nonly one eye--the left--because the other had been shot out by an Indian\r\narrow. With his sound one he was gazing into the fire, on a windy\r\nafternoon in the rainy season, when a chunky man in a sou'wester\r\nwas-ushered into his presence, and after announcing that he was no other\r\nthan Captain Peleg Scudder, of the schooner General Court, from Salem, he\r\nwas made welcome in a manner quite out of proportion in its warmth to the\r\nimportance that such a disclosure would have for the every-day citizen.\r\n\r\nHe was hailed with wassail and even with wine. The joy of the commandant\r\nwas so great that at the third bowl he sang a love ballad, in a voice\r\nsomewhat cracked, and got on the table to teach the Yankee how to dance\r\nthe cachuca. The law forbade any extended stay of Americans in Spanish\r\nwaters, and the General Court took herself off that very night--for this,\r\nmind you, was in 1797, when the Spaniard ruled the farther coast.\r\n\r\nNext day Salvatierra appeared before his astonished people with a right\r\neye. The priests attached to the fort gave a special service of praise,\r\nand told the miracle to the red men of their neighborhood as an\r\nillustration of the effect of goodness, prayer, and faith. People came\r\nfrom far and near that they might go to church and see this marvel for\r\nthemselves. But, alas, for the governor's repute for piety! It soon began\r\nto be whispered around that the new eye was an evil one; that it read the\r\ndeepest thoughts of men with its inflexible, cold stare; that under its\r\ninfluence some of the fathers had been betrayed into confessing things\r\nthat the commandant had never supposed a clergyman to be guilty of. The\r\npeople feared that eye, and ascribed such rogueries to the old man as had\r\nbeen entirely foreign to his nature hitherto.\r\n\r\nThis common fear and suspicion reacted, inevitably, and Salvatierra\r\nbegan, unconsciously, to exhibit some of the traits that his subjects\r\nsaid he possessed. He changed slowly from the indulgent parent to the\r\nstern and exacting law-giver. He did not know, however, what the people\r\nhad been saying about him, and never suspected that his eye was likely to\r\nget him into trouble.\r\n\r\nIt was a warm night and he had gone to bed with his windows open--windows\r\nthat opened from his garden, and were level, at the bottom, with the\r\nfloor. A shadowy form stole along the gravel path and entered one of\r\nthese windows. It was that of a mission Indian. He had gathered from the\r\ntalk of the faithful that it would be a service to the deity as well as\r\nto men to destroy the power of that evil eye. He came beside the bed and\r\nlooked attentively at the governor, sleeping there in the light of a\r\ncandle. Then he howled with fright--howled so loudly that the old man\r\nsprang to his feet--for while the left eye had been fast asleep the evil\r\none was broad awake and looking at him with a ghostly glare.\r\n\r\nIn another second the commandant was at the window whirling his trusty\r\nToledo about his head, lopping ears and noses from the red renegades who\r\nhad followed in the track of the first. In the scrimmage he received\r\nanother jab in the right eye with a fist. When day dawned it was\r\ndiscovered, with joy, that the evil eye was darkened--and forever. The\r\npeople trusted him once more. Finding that he was no longer an object of\r\ndread, his voice became kinder, his manner more gentle. A heavy and\r\nunusual rain, that had been falling, passed off that very day, so that\r\nthe destruction from flood, which had been prophesied at the missions,\r\nwas stayed, and the clergy sang “Te Deum” in the church. The old\r\ncommandant never, to his dying day, had the heart to confess that the\r\nevil eye was only a glass one.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nTHE PRISONER IN AMERICAN SHAFT\r\n\r\nAn Indian seldom forgets an injury or omits to revenge it, be it a real\r\nor a fancied one. A young native of the New Almaden district, in\r\nCalifornia, fell in love with a girl of the same race, and supposed that\r\nhe was prospering in his suit, for he was ardent and the girl was,\r\nseemingly, not averse to him; but suddenly she became cold, avoided him,\r\nand answered his greetings, if they met, in single words. He affected to\r\ncare not greatly for this change, but he took no rest until he had\r\ndiscovered the cause of it. Her parents had conceived a dislike to him\r\nthat later events proved to be well founded, and had ordered or persuaded\r\nher to deny his suit.\r\n\r\nHis retaliation was prompt and Indian-like. He killed the father and\r\nmother at the first opportunity, seized the girl when she was at a\r\ndistance from the village, and carried her to the deserted quicksilver\r\nmine near Spanish Camp. In a tunnel that branched from American Shaft he\r\nhad fashioned a rude cell of stone and wood, and into that he forced and\r\nfastened her. He had stocked it with water and provisions, and for some\r\nweeks he held the wretched girl a captive in total darkness, visiting her\r\nwhenever he felt moved to do so until, his passion sated, he resolved to\r\nleave the country.\r\n\r\nAs an act of partial atonement for the wrong he had done, he hung a\r\nleather coat at the mouth of the tunnel, on which, in picture writing, he\r\nindicated the whereabouts of the girl. Search parties had been out from\r\nthe time of her disappearance, and one of them chanced on this clue and\r\nrescued her as she was on the point of death. The savage who had exacted\r\nso brutal and excessive a revenge fled afar, and his whereabouts were\r\nnever known.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nAS TO BURIED RICHES\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nKIDD'S TREASURE\r\n\r\nCaptain Kidd is the most ubiquitous gentleman in history. If his earnings\r\nin the gentle craft of piracy were frugally husbanded, he has possibly\r\nleft some pots of money in holes in the ground between Key West and\r\nHalifax. The belief that large deposits of gold were made at Gardiner's\r\nIsland, Dunderberg, Cro' Nest, New York City, Coney Island, Ipswich, the\r\nmarshes back of Boston, Cape Cod, Nantucket, Isles of Shoals, Money\r\nIsland, Ocean Beach, the Bahamas, the Florida Keys, and elsewhere has\r\ncaused reckless expenditure of actual wealth in recovering doubloons and\r\nguineas that disappointed backers of these enterprises are beginning to\r\nlook upon--no, not to look upon, but to think about--as visionary. A hope\r\nof getting something for nothing has been the impetus to these\r\nindustries, and interest in the subject is now and then revived by\r\nreports of the discovery--usually by a farmer ploughing near the\r\nshore--of an iron kettle with a handful of gold and silver coins in it,\r\nthe same having doubtless been buried for purposes of concealment during\r\nthe wars of 1776 and 1812.\r\n\r\nGardiner's Island, a famous rendezvous for pirates, is the only place\r\nknown to have been used as a bank of deposit, for in 1699 the Earl of\r\nBellomont recovered from it seven hundred and eighty-three ounces of\r\ngold, six hundred and thirty-three ounces of silver, cloth of gold,\r\nsilks, satins, and jewels. In the old Gardiner mansion, on this island,\r\nwas formerly preserved a costly shawl given to Mrs. Gardiner by Captain\r\nKidd himself. This illustrious Kidd--or Kydd--was born in New York, began\r\nhis naval career as a chaser of pirates, became a robber himself, was\r\ncaptured in Boston, where he was ruffling boldly about the streets, and\r\nwas hanged in London in 1701. In sea superstitions the apparition of his\r\nship is sometimes confused with that of the Flying Dutchman.\r\n\r\nAt Lion's Rock, near Lyme, Connecticut, a part of his treasure is under\r\nguard of a demon that springs upon intruders unless they recite Scripture\r\nwhile digging for the money.\r\n\r\nCharles Island, near Milford, Connecticut, was dug into, one night, by a\r\ncompany from that town that had learned of Kidd's visit to it--and what\r\ncould Kidd be doing ashore unless he was burying money? The lid of an\r\niron chest had been uncovered when the figure of a headless man came\r\nbounding out of the air, and the work was discontinued right then. The\r\nfigure leaped into the pit that had been dug, and blue flames poured out\r\nof it. When the diggers returned, their spades and picks were gone and\r\nthe ground was smooth.\r\n\r\nMonhegan Island, off the Maine coast, contains a cave, opening to the\r\nsea, where it was whispered that treasure had been stored in care of\r\nspirits. Searchers found within it a heavy chest, which they were about\r\nto lift when one of the party--contrary to orders--spoke. The spell was\r\nbroken, for the watchful spirits heard and snatched away the treasure.\r\nSome years ago the cave was enlarged by blasting, in a hope of finding\r\nthat chest, for an old saying has been handed down among the people of\r\nthe island--from whom it came they have forgotten--that was to this\r\neffect: “Dig six feet and you will find iron; dig six more and you will\r\nfind money.”\r\n\r\nOn Damariscotta Island, near Kennebec, Maine, is a lake of salt water,\r\nwhich, like dozens of shallow ones in this country, is locally reputed to\r\nbe bottomless. Yet Kidd was believed to have sunk some of his valuables\r\nthere, and to have guarded against the entrance of boats by means of a\r\nchain hung from rock to rock at the narrow entrance, bolts on either side\r\nshowing the points of attachment, while ring bolts were thought to have\r\nbeen driven for the purpose of tying buoys, thus marking the spots where\r\nthe chests went down. This island, too, has been held in fear as haunted\r\nground.\r\n\r\nAppledore, in the Isles of Shoals, was another such a hiding-place, and\r\nKidd put one of his crew to death that he might haunt the place and\r\nfrighten searchers from their quest. For years no fisherman could be\r\ninduced to land there after nightfall, for did not an islander once\r\nencounter “Old Bab” on his rounds, with a red ring around his neck, a\r\nfrock hanging about him, phosphorescence gleaming from his body, who\r\npeered at the intruder with a white and dreadful face, and nearly scared\r\nhim to death?\r\n\r\nA spot near the Piscataqua River was another hiding-place, and early in\r\nthis century the ground was dug over, two of the seekers plying pick and\r\nspade, while another stood within the circle they had drawn about the\r\nspot and loudly read the Bible. Presently their implements clicked on an\r\niron chest, but it slid sideway into the ground as they tried to uncover\r\nit, and at last an interruption occurred that caused them to stop work so\r\nlong that when they went to look for it again it had entirely\r\ndisappeared. This diversion was the appearance of a monster horse that\r\nflew toward them from a distance without a sound, but stopped short at\r\nthe circle where the process of banning fiends was still going on, and,\r\nafter grazing and walking around them for a time, it dissolved into air.\r\n\r\nKidd's plug is a part of the craggy steep known as Cro' Nest, on the\r\nHudson. It is a projecting knob, like a bung closing an orifice, which is\r\nbelieved to conceal a cavern where the redoubtable captain placed a few\r\nbarrels of his wealth. Though it is two hundred feet up the cliff,\r\ninaccessible either from above or below, and weighs many tons, still, as\r\npirates and devils have always been friendly, it may be that the corking\r\nof the cave was accomplished with supernatural help, and that if blasts\r\nor prayers ever shake the stone from its place a shower of doubloons and\r\ndiamonds may come rattling after it.\r\n\r\nThe shore for several hundred feet around Dighton Rock, Massachusetts,\r\nhas been examined, for it was once believed that the inscriptions on it\r\nwere cut by Kidd to mark the place of burial for part of his hoard.\r\n\r\nThe Rock Hill estate, Medford, Massachusetts, was plagued by a spectre\r\nthat some thought to be that of a New Hampshire farmer who was robbed and\r\nmurdered there, but others say it is the shade of Kidd, for iron treasure\r\nchests were found in the cellar that behaved like that on the Piscataqua\r\nRiver, sinking out of sight whenever they were touched by shovels.\r\n\r\nMisery Islands, near Salem, Massachusetts, were dug over, and under\r\nspiritual guidance, too, for other instalments of Mr. Kidd's\r\nacquisitions, but without avail.\r\n\r\nIt takes no less than half a dozen ghosts to guard what is hidden in\r\nMoney Hill, on Shark River, New Jersey, so there must be a good deal of\r\nit. Some of these guardians are in sailor togs, some in their mouldy\r\nbones, some peaceable, some noisy with threats and screams and groans--a\r\n“rum lot,” as an ancient mariner remarked, who lives near their graves\r\nand daytime hiding-places. Many heirlooms are owned by Jerseymen\r\nhereabout that were received from Kidd's sailors in exchange for\r\napple-jack and provisions, and two sailor-looking men are alleged to have\r\ntaken a strong-box out of Money Hill some years ago, from which they\r\nabstracted two bags of gold. After that event the hill was dug over with\r\ngreat earnestness, but without other result to the prospectors than the\r\ncultivation of their patience.\r\n\r\nSandy Hook, New Jersey, near “Kidd's tree,” and the clay banks of the\r\nAtlantic highlands back of that point, are suspected hiding-places; but\r\nthe cairn or knoll called Old Woman's Hill, at the highlands, is not\r\nhaunted by Kidd's men, as used to be said, but by the spirit of a\r\ndiscontented squaw. This spirit the Indians themselves drove away with\r\nstones.\r\n\r\nAt Oyster Point, Maryland, lived Paddy Dabney, who recognized Kidd from\r\nan old portrait on meeting him one evening in 1836. He was going home\r\nlate from the tavern when a light in a pine thicket caused him to turn\r\nfrom the road. In a clearing among the trees, pervaded by a pale shine\r\nwhich seemed to emanate from its occupants, a strange company was playing\r\nat bowls. A fierce-looking reprobate who was superintending the game\r\nglanced up, and, seeing Paddy's pale face, gave such a leap in his\r\ndirection that the Irishman fled with a howl of terror and never stopped\r\ntill he reached his door, when, on turning about, he found that the\r\nphantom of the pirate chief had vanished. The others, he conceived, were\r\ndevils, for many a sea rover had sold himself to Satan. Captain Teach, or\r\nBlackbeard, proved as much to his crew by shutting himself in the hold of\r\nhis ship, where he was burning sulphur to destroy rats, and withstanding\r\nsuffocation for several hours; while one day a dark man appeared on board\r\nwho was not one of the crew at the sailing, and who had gone as\r\nmysteriously as he came on the day before the ship was wrecked. It was\r\nknown that Kidd had buried his Bible in order to ingratiate the evil one.\r\n\r\nA flat rock on the north shore of Liberty Island, in New York harbor, was\r\nalso thought to mark the place of this pervasive wealth of the pirates.\r\nAs late as 1830, Sergeant Gibbs, one of the garrison at the island, tried\r\nto unearth it, with the aid of a fortune-teller and a recruit, but they\r\nhad no sooner reached a box about four feet in length than a being with\r\nwings, horns, tail, and a breath, the latter palpable in blue flames,\r\nburst from the coffer. Gibbs fell unconscious into the water and narrowly\r\nescaped drowning, while his companions ran away, and the treasure may\r\nstill be there for aught we know.\r\n\r\nBack in the days before the Revolution, a negro called Mud Sam, who lived\r\nin a cabin at the Battery, New York City, was benighted at about the\r\nplace where One Hundredth Street now touches East River while waiting\r\nthere for the tide to take him up the Sound. He beguiled the time by a\r\nnap, and, on waking, he started to leave his sleeping place under the\r\ntrees to regain his boat, when the gleam of a lantern and the sound of\r\nvoices coming up the bank caused him to shrink back into the shadow. At\r\nfirst he thought that he might be dreaming, for Hell Gate was a place of\r\nsuch repute that one might readily have bad dreams there, and the legends\r\nof the spot passed quickly through his mind: the skeletons that lived in\r\nthe wreck on Hen and Chickens and looked out at passing ships with blue\r\nlights in the eye-sockets of their skulls; the brown fellow, known as\r\n“the pirate's spuke,” that used to cruise up and down the wrathful\r\ntorrent, and was snuffed out of sight for some hours by old Peter\r\nStuyvesant with a silver bullet; a black-looking scoundrel with a split\r\nlip, who used to brattle about the tavern at Corlaer's Hook, and who\r\ntumbled into East River while trying to lug an iron chest aboard of a\r\nsuspicious craft that had stolen in to shore in a fog. This latter bogy\r\nwas often seen riding up Hell Gate a-straddle of that very chest,\r\nsnapping his fingers at the stars and roaring Bacchanalian odes, just as\r\nskipper Onderdonk's boatswain, who had been buried at sea without\r\nprayers, chased the ship for days, sitting on the waves, with his shroud\r\nfor a sail, and shoving hills of water after the vessel with the plash of\r\nhis hands.\r\n\r\nThese grewsome memories sent a quake through Mud Sam's heart, but when\r\nthe bushes cracked under the strangers' tread, he knew that they were of\r\nflesh and bone, and, following them for a quarter-mile into the wood, he\r\nsaw them dig a hole, plant a strong-box there, and cover it. A\r\nthreatening remark from one of the company forced an exclamation from the\r\nnegro that drew a pistol-shot upon him, and he took to his heels. Such a\r\nfright did he receive that he could not for several years be persuaded to\r\nreturn, but when that persuasion came in the form of a promise of wealth\r\nfrom Wolfert Webber, a cabbage-grower of the town, and promises of\r\nprotection from Dr. Knipperhausen, who was skilled in incantations, he\r\nwas not proof against it, and guided the seekers to the spot.\r\n\r\nAfter the doctor had performed the proper ceremonies they fell to work,\r\nbut no sooner had their spades touched the lid of an iron-bound chest\r\nthan a sturdy rogue with a red flannel cap leaped out of the bushes. They\r\nsaid afterward that he had the face of the brawler who was drowned at\r\nCorlaer's Hook, but, in truth, they hardly looked at him in their flight;\r\nnor, when the place was revisited, could any mark of digging be found,\r\nnor any trace of treasure, so that part of Kidd's wealth may be at this\r\nmoment snugly stowed in the cellar of a tenement. Webber had engaged in\r\nso many crazy enterprises of this nature that he had neglected cabbage\r\nculture, and had grown so poor that the last disappointment nearly broke\r\nhis heart. He retired to his chamber and made his will, but on learning\r\nthat a new street had been run across his farm and that it would\r\npresently be worth ten times as much for building-lots as it ever had\r\nbeen for cabbages, he leaped out of bed, dressed himself, and prospered\r\nfor many a day after.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nOTHER BURIED WEALTH\r\n\r\nThe wealth of the Astors hardly exceeds the treasure that is supposed to\r\nbe secreted here and there about the country, and thousands of dollars\r\nhave been expended in dredging rivers and shallow seas, and in blasting\r\ncaves and cellars. Certain promoters of these schemes have enjoyed\r\nsalaries as officers in the stock companies organized for their\r\nfurtherance, and they have seen the only tangible results from such\r\nenterprises.\r\n\r\nOne summer evening, in the middle of the seventeenth century, a bark\r\ndropped anchor at the mouth of Saugus River, Massachusetts, and four of\r\nthe crew rowed to the woods that skirt its banks and made a landing. The\r\nvessel had disappeared on the following morning, but in the forge at the\r\nsettlement was found a paper stating that if a certain number of shackles\r\nand handcuffs were made and secretly deposited at a specified place in\r\nthe forest, a sum of money equal to their value would be found in their\r\nstead on the next day. The order was filled and the silver was found, as\r\npromised, but, though a watch was set, nothing further was seen of men or\r\nship for several months.\r\n\r\nThe four men did return, however, and lived by themselves amid the woods\r\nof Saugus, the gossips reporting that a beautiful woman had been seen in\r\ntheir company--the mistress of the pirate chief, for, of course, the\r\nmysterious quartette had followed the trade of robbery on the high seas.\r\nThree of these men were captured, taken to England, and hanged, but the\r\nfourth-Thomas Veale--escaped to a cavern in the wood, where, it was\r\nreputed, great treasures were concealed, and there he lived until the\r\nearthquake of 1658, when a rock fell from the roof of the cave, closing\r\nthe entrance and burying the guilty man in a tomb where, it is presumed,\r\nhe perished of thirst and hunger. Dungeon Rock, of Lynn, is the name that\r\nthe place has borne ever since.\r\n\r\nIn 1852 Hiram Marble announced that he had been visited by spirits, who\r\nnot only told him that the pirates' spoils were still in their olden\r\nhiding-place, but pointed out the spot where the work of excavation\r\nshould begin. Aided by his son he tunnelled the solid granite for a\r\ndistance of one hundred and thirty-five feet, the passage being seven\r\nfeet high and seven wide. Whenever he was wearied the “mediums” that he\r\nconsulted would tell him to make cuttings to the right or left, and for\r\nevery fresh discouragement they found fresh work. For thirty years this\r\ntask was carried on, both father and son dying without gaining any\r\npractical result, other than the discovery of an ancient scabbard in a\r\nrift. The heiress of the house of Marble alone reaped benefit from their\r\nlabors, for-resuming on a petty scale the levies of the first dwellers in\r\nthe rock--she boldly placarded the entrance to the workings “Ye who enter\r\nhere leave twenty-five cents behind.”\r\n\r\nIn several cases the chasms that have been caused by wear of water or\r\nconvulsions of nature (their opposite sides being matched) were believed\r\nto have been hiding-places, but, in the old days in New England, it was\r\nbelieved that all such fractures were caused by the earthquake at the\r\ntime of the crucifixion--a testimony of the power of God to shake\r\nsinners.\r\n\r\nThe Heart of Greylock is the name given to the crater-like recess, a\r\nthousand feet deep, in the tallest of the Berkshire peaks, but it was\r\nformerly best known as Money Hole, and the stream that courses through it\r\nas Money Brook, for a gang of counterfeiters worked in that recess, and\r\nthere some spurious coinage may still be concealed. The stream is also\r\nknown as Spectre Brook, for late wandering hunters and scouting soldiers,\r\nseeing the forgers moving to and fro about their furnaces, took them for\r\nghosts.\r\n\r\nProvince Island, in Lake Memphremagog, Vermont, is believed to contain\r\nsome of the profits of an extensive smuggling enterprise that was carried\r\non near the lake for several years.\r\n\r\nA little company of Spanish adventurers passed along the base of the\r\nGreen Mountains early in the last century, expecting to return after\r\nhaving some dealings with the trading stations on the St. Lawrence; so\r\nthey deposited a part of their gold on Ludlow Mountain, Vermont, and\r\nanother pot of it on Camel's Hump. They agreed that none should return\r\nwithout his companions, but they were detained in the north and\r\nseparated, some of them going home to Spain. Late in life the sole\r\nsurvivor of the company went to Camel's Hump and tried to recall where\r\nthe treasure had been hidden, but in vain.\r\n\r\nWhile flying from the people whose declaration of independence had\r\nalready been written in the blood of the king's troops at Concord, the\r\nroyal governor--Wentworth--was embarrassed by a wife and a\r\ntreasure-chest. He had left his mansion, at Smith's Pond, New Hampshire,\r\nand was making toward Portsmouth, where he was to enjoy the protection of\r\nthe British fleet, but the country was up in arms, time was important,\r\nand as his wearied horses could not go on without a lightening of the\r\nburden, he was forced to leave behind either Lady Wentworth or his other\r\nriches. As the lady properly objected to any risk of her own safety, the\r\nchest was buried at an unknown spot in the forest, and for a century and\r\nmore the whereabouts of the Wentworth plate and money-bags have been a\r\nmatter of search and conjecture.\r\n\r\nWhen the Hessian troops marched from Saratoga to Boston, to take ship\r\nafter Burgoyne's surrender, they were in wretched condition-war-worn,\r\nragged, and ill fed,--and having much with them in the form of plate and\r\njewels that had been spared by their conquerors, together with some of\r\nthe money sent from England for their hire, they were in constant fear of\r\nattack from the farmers, who, though they had been beaten, continued to\r\nregard them with an unfavorable eye. On reaching Dalton, Massachusetts,\r\nthe Hessians agreed among themselves to put their valuables into a\r\nhowitzer, which they buried in the woods, intending that some of their\r\nnumber should come back at the close of the war and recover it. An Indian\r\nhad silently followed them for a long distance, to gather up any\r\nunconsidered trifles that might be left in their bivouacs, and he marked\r\nthe route by blazes on the trees; but if he saw the burial of this novel\r\ntreasury it meant nothing to him, and the knowledge of the hiding-place\r\nwas lost. For years the populace kept watch of all strangers that came to\r\ntown, and shadowed them if they went to the woods, but without result. In\r\nabout the year 1800 the supposed hiding-place was examined closely and\r\nexcavations were made, but, as before, nothing rewarded the search.\r\n\r\nA tree of unknown age--the Old Elm--stood on Boston Common until within a\r\nfew years. This veteran, torn and broken by many a gale and\r\nlightning-stroke, was a gallows in the last century, and Goody Glover had\r\nswung from it in witch-times. On tempestuous nights, when the boughs\r\ncreaked together, it was said that dark shapes might be seen writhing on\r\nthe branches and capering about the sward below in hellish glee. On a\r\ngusty autumn evening in 1776 a muffled form presented itself,\r\nunannounced, at the chamber of Mike Wild, and, after that notorious miser\r\nhad enough recovered from the fear created by the presence to understand\r\nwhat it said to him, he realized that it was telling him of something\r\nthat in life it had buried at the foot of the Old Elm. After much\r\nhesitancy Mike set forth with his ghostly guide, for he would have risked\r\nhis soul for money, but on arriving at his destination he was startled to\r\nfind himself alone. Nothing daunted, he set down his lantern and began to\r\ndig. Though he turned up many a rood of soil and sounded with his spade\r\nfor bags and chests of gold, he found nothing. Strange noises\r\noverhead--for the wind was high and the twigs seemed to snicker eerily as\r\nthey crossed each other-sent thrills along his back from time to time,\r\nand he was about to return, half in anger, half in fear, when his spirit\r\nvisitor emerged from behind the tree and stood before him. The mien was\r\nthreatening, the nose had reddened and extended, the hair was rumpled,\r\nand the brow was scowling. The frown of the gold monster grew more awful,\r\nthe stare of his eye in the starlight more unbearable, and he was\r\ncrouching and creeping as if for a spring. Mike could endure no more. He\r\nfainted, and awakened in the morning in his own chamber, where, to a\r\nneighbor who made an early call, he told--with embellishments--the story\r\nof the encounter; but before he had come to the end of the narrative the\r\nvisitor burst into a roar of laughter and confessed that he had\r\npersonated the supernatural visitant, having wagered a dozen bottles of\r\nwine with the landlord of the Boar's Head that he could get the better of\r\nMike Wild. For all this the old tree bore, for many years, an evil\r\nreputation.\r\n\r\nA Spanish galleon, the Saints Joseph and Helena, making from Havana to\r\nCadiz in 1753 was carried from her course by adverse winds and tossed\r\nagainst a reef, near New London, Connecticut, receiving injuries that\r\ncompelled her to run into that port for repairs. To reach her broken ribs\r\nmore easily her freight was put on shore in charge of the collector of\r\nthe port, but when it was desired to ship the cargo again, behold! the\r\nquarter part of it had disappeared, none could say how. New London got a\r\nbad name from this robbery, and the governor, though besought by the\r\nassembly to make good the shortage, failed to do so, and lost his place\r\nat the next election. It was reputed that some of the treasure was buried\r\non the shore by the robbers. In 1827 a woman who was understood to have\r\nthe power of seership published a vision to a couple of young blades, who\r\nhad paid for it, to the effect that hidden under one of the grass-grown\r\nwharves was a box of dollars. By the aid of a crystal pebble she received\r\nthis really valuable information, but the pebble was not clear enough to\r\nreveal the exact place of the box. She could see, however, that the\r\ndollars were packed edgewise. When New London was sound asleep the young\r\nmen stole out and by lantern-light began their work. They had dug to\r\nwater-level when they reached an iron chest, and they stooped to lift\r\nit-but, to their amazement, the iron was too hot to handle! Now they\r\nheard deep growls, and a giant dog peered at them from the pit-mouth; red\r\neyes flashed at them from the darkness; a wild-goose, with eyes of\r\nblazing green, hovered and screamed above them. Though the witch had\r\npromised them safety, nothing appeared to ward off the fantastic shapes\r\nthat began to crowd about them. Too terrified to work longer they sprang\r\nout and made away, and when-taking courage from the sunshine--they\r\nrenewed the search, next day, the iron chest had vanished.\r\n\r\nOn Crown Point, Lake Champlain, is the ruin of a fort erected by Lord\r\nAmherst above the site of a French work that had been thrown up in 1731\r\nto guard a now vanished capital of fifteen hundred people. It was\r\ndeclared that when the French evacuated the region they buried money and\r\nbullion in a well, in the northwest corner of the bastion, ninety feet\r\ndeep, in the full expectancy of regaining it, and half a century ago this\r\nbelief had grown to such proportions that fifty men undertook to clear\r\nthe well, pushing their investigations into various parts of the\r\nenclosure and over surrounding fields. They found quantities of lead and\r\niron and no gold.\r\n\r\nFollingsby's Pond, in the Adirondacks, was named for a recluse, who, in\r\nthe early part of this century, occupied a lonely but strongly guarded\r\ncabin there. It was believed afterward that he was an English army\r\nofficer, of noble birth, who had left his own country in disgust at\r\nhaving discovered an attachment between his wife and one of his\r\nfellow-officers. He died in a fever, and while raving in a delirium spoke\r\nof a concealed chest. A trapper, who was his only attendant in his last\r\nmoments, dug over the ground floor of the hut and found a box containing\r\na jewelled sword, costly trinkets, and letters that bore out the\r\npresumption of Follingsby's aristocratic origin. What became of these\r\nvaluables after their exhumation is not known, and the existence of more\r\nhas been suspected.\r\n\r\nConey Island is declared to have been used by a band of pirates as the\r\nfirst national sand bank, and, as these rascals were caught and swung off\r\nwith short shrift, they do say that the plunder is still to be had--by\r\nthe man who finds it. But the hotel-keepers and three-card-monte men are\r\nnot waiting for that discovery to grow rich.\r\n\r\nIn Shandaken Valley, in the Catskills, it was affirmed that a party of\r\nBritish officers buried money somewhere, when they were beset by the\r\nfarmers and hunters of that region, and never got it out of the earth\r\nagain.\r\n\r\nOn Tea Island, Lake George, the buried treasures of Lord Abercrombie have\r\nremained successfully hidden until this day.\r\n\r\nThe oldest house at Fort Neck, Long Island, was known for years as the\r\nhaunted house, and the grave of its owner--Captain Jones--was called the\r\npirate's grave, for, in the last century, Jones was accused of piracy and\r\nsmuggling, and there have been those who suspected worse. A hope of\r\nfinding gold and silver about the premises has been yearly growing\r\nfainter. Just before the death of Jones, which occurred here in an\r\norderly manner, a crow, so big that everybody believed it to be a demon,\r\nflew in at the window and hovered over the bed of the dying man until he\r\nhad drawn his last breath, when, with a triumphant cry, it flew through\r\nthe west end of the house. The hole that it broke through the masonry\r\ncould never be stopped, for, no matter how often it was repaired, the\r\nstone and cement fell out again, and the wind came through with such a\r\nchill and such shriekings that the house had to be abandoned.\r\n\r\nThe owner of an estate on Lloyd's Neck, Long Island, had more wealth than\r\nhe thought it was safe or easy to transport when he found the colonies\r\nrising against Britain in 1775, and flight was imperative, for he was\r\nknown by his neighbors to be a Tory. Massing his plate, coin, and other\r\nmovables into three barrels, he caused his three slaves to bury them in\r\npits that they had dug beneath his house. Then, as they were shovelling\r\nback the earth, he shot them dead, all three, and buried them, one on\r\neach barrel. His motive for the crime may have been a fear that the\r\nslaves would aid the Americans in the approaching struggle, or that they\r\nmight return and dig up the wealth or reveal the hiding-place to the\r\nenemies of the king. Then he made his escape to Nova Scotia, though he\r\nmight as well have stayed at home, for the British possessed themselves\r\nof Long Island, and his house became a place of resort for red-coats and\r\nloyalists. It was after the turn of the century when a boat put in, one\r\nevening, at Cold Spring Bay, and next morning the inhabitants found\r\nfootprints leading to and from a spot where some children had discovered\r\na knotted rope projecting from the soil. Something had been removed, for\r\nthe mould of a large box was visible at the bottom of a pit. Acres of the\r\nneighborhood were then dug over by treasure hunters, who found a box of\r\ncob dollars and a number of casks. The contents of the latter, though\r\nrich and old, were not solid, and when diffused through the systems of\r\nseveral Long Islanders imparted to them a spirituous and patriotic\r\nglow--for in thus destroying the secreted stores of a royalist were they\r\nnot asserting the triumph of democratic principles?\r\n\r\nThe clay bluffs at Pottery Beach, Brooklyn, were pierced with artificial\r\ncaves where lawless men found shelter in the unsettled first years of the\r\nrepublic. A wreck lay rotting here for many years, and it was said to be\r\nthe skeleton of a ship that these fellows had beached by false beacons.\r\nShe had costly freight aboard, and on the morning after she went ashore\r\ncrew and freight had vanished. It was believed that much of the plunder\r\nwas buried in the clay near the water's edge. In the early colonial days,\r\nGrand Island, in Niagara River, was the home of a Frenchman, Clairieux,\r\nan exile or refugee who was attended by a negro servant. During one\r\nsummer a sloop visited the island frequently, laden on each trip with\r\nchests that never were taken away in the sight of men, and that are now\r\nsupposed to be buried near the site of the Frenchman's cabin. Report had\r\nit that these boxes were filled with money, but if well or ill procured\r\nnone could say, unless it were the Frenchman, and he had no remarks to\r\noffer on the subject. In the fall, after these visits of the sloop,\r\nClairieux disappeared, and when some hunters landed on the island they\r\nfound that his cabin had been burned and that a large skeleton, evidently\r\nthat of the negro, was chained to the earth in the centre of the place\r\nwhere the house had stood. The slave had been killed, it was surmised,\r\nthat his spirit might watch the hoard and drive away intruders; but the\r\nFrenchman met his fate elsewhere, and his secret, like that of many\r\nanother miser, perished with him. In 1888, when a northeast gale had\r\nblown back the water of the river, a farmer living on the island\r\ndiscovered, just under the surface, a stone foundation built in circular\r\nform, as if it had once supported a tower. In the mud within this circle\r\nhe found a number of French gold and silver coins, one of them minted in\r\n1537. Close by, other coins of later date were found, and a systematic\r\nexamination of the whole channel has been proposed, as it was also said\r\nthat two French frigates, scuttled to keep them out of the hands of the\r\nEnglish, lie bedded in sand below the island, one of them with a naval\r\npaymaster's chest on board.\r\n\r\nOn the shore of Oneida Lake is an Indian's grave, where a ball of light\r\nis wont to swing and dance. A farmer named Belknap dreamed several times\r\nof a buried treasure at this point, and he was told, in his vision, that\r\nif he would dig there at midnight he could make it his own. He made the\r\nattempt, and his pick struck a crock that gave a chink, as of gold. He\r\nshould, at that moment, have turned around three times, as his dream\r\ndirected, but he was so excited that he forgot to. A flash of lightning\r\nrent the air and stretched him senseless on the grass. When he recovered\r\nthe crock was gone, the hole filled in, and ever since then the light has\r\nhovered about the place. Some say that this is but the will-o'-the-wisp:\r\nthe soul of a bad fellow who is doomed to wander in desolate regions\r\nbecause, after dying, Peter would not allow him to enter heaven, and the\r\ndevil would not let him go into the other place, lest he should make the\r\nlittle devils unmanageable; but he is allowed to carry a light in his\r\nwanderings.\r\n\r\nIn Indian Gap, near Wernersville, Pennsylvania, the Doane band of Tories\r\nand terrorists hid a chest of gold, the proceeds of many robberies. It is\r\nguarded by witches, and, although it has been seen, no one has been able\r\nto lay hands on it. The seekers are always blinded by blue flame, and\r\nfrightened away by roaring noises. The Dutch farmers of the vicinity are\r\ngoing to dig for it, all the same, for it is said that the watch of evil\r\nspirits will be given over at midnight, but they do not know of what\r\ndate. They will be on hand at the spot revealed to them through the\r\nvision of a “hex layer” (a vision that cost them fifty cents), until the\r\nnight arrives when there are no blue flames.\r\n\r\nIn the southern part of Chester County, Pennsylvania, is money, too, but\r\njust where nobody knows. A lonely, crabbed man, who died there in a poor\r\nhut after the Revolution, owned that he had served the British as a spy,\r\nbut said that he had spent none of the gold that he had taken from them.\r\nHe was either too sorry for his deeds, or too mean to do so. He had put\r\nit in a crock and buried it, and, on his death-bed, where he made his\r\nstatement, he asked that it might be exhumed and spent for some good\r\npurpose. He was about to tell where it was when the death-rattle choked\r\nhis words.\r\n\r\nThe Isle of the Yellow Sands, in Lake Superior, was supposed by Indians\r\nto be made of the dust of gold, but it was protected by vultures that\r\nbeat back those who approached, or tore them to pieces if they insisted\r\non landing. An Indian girl who stole away from her camp to procure a\r\nquantity of this treasure was pursued by her lover, who, frightened at\r\nthe risk she was about to run from the vultures, stopped her flight by\r\nstaving in the side of her canoe, so that she was compelled to take\r\nrefuge in his, and he rowed home with her before the birds had come to\r\nthe attack.\r\n\r\nOld Francois Fontenoy, an Indian trader, buried a brass kettle full of\r\ngold at Presque Isle, near Detroit, that is still in the earth.\r\n\r\nOn the banks of the Cumberland, in Tennessee, is a height where a\r\nsearcher for gold was seized by invisible defenders and hurled to the\r\nbottom of the cliff, receiving a mortal hurt.\r\n\r\nThe Spaniards were said to have entombed three hundred thousand dollars\r\nin gold near Natchez. A man to whom the secret had descended offered to\r\nreveal it, but, as he was a prisoner, his offer was laughed at. Afterward\r\nan empty vault was found where he said it would be. Somebody had\r\naccidentally opened it and had removed the treasure.\r\n\r\nCaverns have frequently been used as hiding-places for things of more or\r\nless value--generally less. Saltpetre Cave, in Georgia, for instance, was\r\na factory and magazine for saltpetre, gunpowder, and other military\r\nstores during the Civil War. The Northern soldiers wrecked the potash\r\nworks and broke away tons of rock, so as to make it dangerous to return.\r\nHuman bones have been found here, too, but they are thought to be those\r\nof soldiers that entered the cave in pursuit of an Indian chief who had\r\ndefied the State in the '40's. He escaped through a hole in the roof,\r\ndoubled on his pursuers, fired a pile of dead leaves and wood at the\r\nmouth, and suffocated the white men with the smoke.\r\n\r\nSpaniards worked the mines in the Ozark Hills of Missouri two hundred\r\nyears ago. One of the mines containing lead and silver, eighteen miles\r\nsouthwest of Galena, was worked by seven men, who could not agree as to a\r\ndivision of the yield. One by one they were killed in quarrels until but\r\na single man was left, and he, in turn, was set upon by the resurrected\r\nvictims and choked to death by their cold fingers. In 1873 a Vermonter\r\nnamed Johnson went there and said he would find what it was the Spaniards\r\nhad been hiding, in spite of the devil and his imps. He did work there\r\nfor one day, and was then found dead at the mouth of the old shaft with\r\nmarks of bony fingers on his throat.\r\n\r\nThe seven cities of Cibola, that Coronado and other Spanish adventurers\r\nsought in the vast deserts of the Southwest, were pueblos. A treacherous\r\nguide who had hoped to take Coronado into the waterless plain and lose\r\nhim, but who first lost his own head, had told him a tale of the Quivira,\r\na tribe that had much gold. So far from having gold these Indians did not\r\nknow the stuff, but the myth that they had hoarded quantities of it has\r\nsurvived to this day and has caused waste of lives and money. Towns in\r\nNew Mexico that have lain in ruins since 1670, when the Apaches butchered\r\ntheir people--towns that were well built and were lorded by solid old\r\nchurches and monasteries erected by the Spanish missionaries--these towns\r\nhave often been dug over, and the ruinous state of Abo, Curari, and\r\nTabira is due, in part, to their foolish tunnelling and blasting.\r\n\r\nA Spanish bark, one day in 1841, put in for water off the spot where\r\nColumbia City, Oregon, now stands. She had a rough crew on board, and it\r\nhad been necessary for her officers to watch the men closely from the\r\ntime the latter discovered that she was carrying a costly cargo. Hardly\r\nhad the anchorchains run out before the sailors fell upon the captain,\r\nkilled him, seized all of value that they could gather, and took it to\r\nthe shore. What happened after is not clear, but it is probable that in a\r\nquarrel, arising over the demands of each man to have most of the\r\nplunder, several of the claimants were slain. Indians were troublesome,\r\nlikewise, so that it was thought best to put most of the goods into the\r\nground, and this was done on the tract known as Hez Copier's farm. Hardly\r\nwas the task completed before the Indians appeared in large numbers and\r\nset up their tepees, showing that they meant to remain. The mutineers\r\nrowed back to the ship, and, after vainly waiting for several days for a\r\nchance to go on shore again, they sailed away. Two years of wandering,\r\nfighting, and carousal ensued before the remnant of the crew returned to\r\nOregon. The Indians were gone, and an earnest search was made for the\r\nmoney--but in vain. It was as if the ground had never been disturbed. The\r\nman who had supervised its burial was present until the mutineers went\r\nback to their boats, when it was discovered that he was mysteriously\r\nmissing.\r\n\r\nMore than forty years after these events a meeting of Spiritualists was\r\nheld in Columbia City, and a “medium” announced that she had received a\r\nrevelation of the exact spot where the goods had been concealed. A\r\ncompany went to the place, and, after a search of several days, found,\r\nunder a foot of soil, a quantity of broken stone. While throwing out\r\nthese fragments one of the party fell dead. The spirit of the defrauded\r\nand murdered captain had claimed him, the medium explained. So great was\r\nthe fright caused by this accident that the search was again abandoned\r\nuntil March, 1890, when another party resumed the digging, and after\r\ntaking out the remainder of the stone they came on a number of human\r\nskeletons. During the examination of these relics--possibly the bones of\r\nmutineers who had been killed in the fight on shore--a man fell into a\r\nfit of raving madness, and again the search was abandoned, for it is now\r\nsaid that an immutable curse rests on the treasure.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSTORIED WATERS, CLIFFS AND MOUNTAINS\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nMONSTERS AND SEA-SERPENTS\r\n\r\nIt is hardly to be wondered at that two prominent scientists should have\r\ndeclared on behalf of the sea-serpent, for that remarkable creature has\r\nbeen reported at so many points, and by so many witnesses not addicted to\r\nfish tales nor liquor, that there ought to be some reason for him. He has\r\nbeen especially numerous off the New England coast. He was sighted off\r\nCape Ann in 1817, and several times off Nahant. Though alarming in\r\nappearance--for he has a hundred feet of body, a shaggy head, and goggle\r\neyes--he is of lamb-like disposition, and has never justified the\r\nattempts that have been made to kill or capture him. Rewards were at one\r\ntime offered to the seafaring men who might catch him, and revenue\r\ncutters cruising about Massachusetts Bay were ordered to keep a lookout\r\nfor him and have a gun double shotted for action. One fisherman emptied\r\nthe contents of a ducking gun into the serpent's head, as he supposed,\r\nbut the creature playfully wriggled a few fathoms of its tail and made\r\noff. John Josselyn, gentleman, reports that when he stirred about this\r\nneighborhood in 1638 an enormous reptile was seen “quoiled up on a rock\r\nat Cape Ann.” He would have fired at him but for the earnest dissuasion\r\nof his Indian guide, who declared that ill luck would come of the\r\nattempt. The sea-serpent sometimes shows amphibious tendencies and\r\noccasionally leaves the sea for fresh water. Two of him were seen in\r\nDevil's Lake, Wisconsin, in 1892, by four men. They confess, however,\r\nthat they were fishing at the time. The snakes had fins and were a matter\r\nof fifty feet long.\r\n\r\nWhen one of these reptiles found the other in his vicinage he raised his\r\nhead six feet above water and fell upon him tooth and nail--if he had\r\nnails. In their struggles these unpleasant neighbors made such waves that\r\nthe fishermen's boat was nearly upset.\r\n\r\nEven the humble Wabash has its terror, for at Huntington, Indiana, three\r\ntruthful damsels of the town saw its waters churned by a tail that\r\nsplashed from side to side, while far ahead was the prow of the animal--a\r\nleonine skull, with whiskers, and as large as the head of a boy of a\r\ndozen years. As if realizing what kind of a report was going to be made\r\nabout him, the monster was overcome with bashfulness at the sight of the\r\nmaidens and sank from view.\r\n\r\nIn April, 1890, a water-snake was reported in one of the Twin Lakes, in\r\nthe Berkshire Hills, but the eye-witnesses of his sports let him off with\r\na length of twenty-five feet.\r\n\r\nSysladobosis Lake, in Maine, has a snake with a head like a dog's, but it\r\nis hardly worth mentioning because it is only eight feet long-hardly\r\nlonger than the name of the lake. More enterprise is shown across the\r\nborder, for Skiff Lake, New Brunswick, has a similar snake thirty feet\r\nlong.\r\n\r\nIn Cotton Mather's time a double-headed snake was found at Newbury,\r\nMassachusetts,--it had a head at each end,--and before it was killed it\r\nshowed its evil disposition by chasing and striking at the lad who first\r\nmet it.\r\n\r\nA snake haunts Wolf Pond, Pennsylvania, that is an alleged relic of the\r\nSilurian age. It was last seen in September, 1887, when it unrolled\r\nthirty feet of itself before the eyes of an alarmed spectator--again a\r\nfisherman. The beholder struck him with a pole, and in revenge the\r\nserpent capsized his boat; but he forbore to eat his enemy, and, diving\r\nto the bottom, disappeared. The creature had a black body, about six\r\ninches thick, ringed with dingy-yellow bands, and a mottled-green head,\r\nlong and pointed, like a pike's.\r\n\r\nSilver Lake, near Gainesville, New York, was in 1855 reported to be the\r\nlair of a great serpent, and old settlers declare that he still comes to\r\nthe surface now and then.\r\n\r\nA tradition among the poor whites of the South Jruns to the effect that\r\nthe sea-monster that swallowed Jonah--not a whale, because the throat of\r\nthat animal is hardly large enough to admit a herring--crossed the\r\nAtlantic and brought up at the Carolinas. His passenger was supplied with\r\ntobacco and beguiled the tedium of the voyage by smoking a pipe. The\r\nmonster, being unused to that sort of thing, suffered as all beginners in\r\nnicotine poisoning do, and expelled the unhappy man with emphasis. On\r\nbeing safely landed, Jonah attached himself to one of the tribes that\r\npeopled the barrens, and left a white progeny which antedated Columbus's\r\narrival by several centuries. God pitied the helplessness of these\r\nignorant and uncourageous whites and led them to Looking-Glass Mountain,\r\nNorth Carolina, where He caused corn and game to be created, and while\r\nthis race endured it lived in plenty.\r\n\r\nSanta Barbara Island, off the California coast, was, for a long time, the\r\nsupposed head-quarters of swimming and flying monsters and sirens, and no\r\nMexican would pass in hearing of the yells and screams and strange songs\r\nwithout crossing himself and begging the captain to give the rock a wide\r\nberth. But the noise is all the noise of cats. A shipwrecked tabby\r\npeopled the place many years ago, and her numerous progeny live there on\r\ndead fish and on the eggs and chicks of sea-fowl.\r\n\r\nSpirit Canon, a rocky gorge that extends for three miles along Big Sioux\r\nRiver, Iowa, was hewn through the stone by a spirit that took the form of\r\na dragon. Such were its size and ferocity that the Indians avoided the\r\nplace, lest they should fall victims to its ire.\r\n\r\nThe Hurons believed in a monster serpent--Okniont--who wore a horn on his\r\nhead that could pierce trees, rocks, and hills. A piece of this horn was\r\nan amulet of great value, for it insured good luck.\r\n\r\nThe Zunis tell of a plumed serpent that lives in the water of sacred\r\nsprings, and they dare not destroy the venomous creatures that infest the\r\nplains of Arizona because, to them, the killing of a snake means a\r\nreduction in their slender water-supply. The gods were not so kind to the\r\nsnakes as men were, for the agatized trees of Chalcedony Park, in\r\nArizona, are held to be arrows shot by the angry deities at the monsters\r\nwho vexed this region.\r\n\r\nIndians living on the shore of Canandaigua Lake, New York, tamed a pretty\r\nspotted snake, and fed and petted it until it took a deer at a meal. It\r\ngrew so large that it eventually encircled the camp and began to prey on\r\nits keepers. Vainly they tried to kill the creature, until a small boy\r\ntook an arrow of red willow, anointed it with the blood of a young woman,\r\nand shot it from a basswood bow at the creature's heart. It did not enter\r\nat once; it merely stuck to the scales. But presently it began to bore\r\nand twist its way into the serpent's body. The serpent rolled into the\r\nlake and made it foam in its agony. It swallowed water and vomited it up\r\nagain, with men dead and alive, before it died.\r\n\r\nThe monster Amhuluk, whose home is a lake near Forked Mountain, Oregon,\r\nhad but one passion-to catch and drown all things; and when you look into\r\nthe lake you see that he has even drowned the sky in it, and has made the\r\ntrees stand upside down in the water. Wherever he set his feet the ground\r\nwould soften. As three children were digging roots at the edge of the\r\nwater he fell on them and impaled two of them on his horns, the eldest\r\nonly contriving to escape. When this boy reached home his body was full\r\nof blotches, and the father suspected how it was, yet he went to the lake\r\nat once. The bodies of the children came out of the mud at his feet to\r\nmeet him, but went down again and emerged later across the water. They\r\nled him on in this way until he came to the place where they were\r\ndrowned. A fog now began to steam up from the water, but through it he\r\ncould see the little ones lifted on the monster's horns, and hear them\r\ncry, “We have changed our bodies.” Five times they came up and spoke to\r\nhim, and five times he raised a dismal cry and begged them to return, but\r\nthey could not. Next morning he saw them rise through the fog again, and,\r\nbuilding a camp, he stayed there and mourned for several days. For five\r\ndays they showed themselves, but after that they went down and he saw and\r\nheard no more of them. Ambuluk had taken the children and they would live\r\nwith him for ever after.\r\n\r\nCrater Lake, Oregon, was a haunt of water-devils who dragged into it and\r\ndrowned all who ventured near. Only within a few years could Indians be\r\npersuaded to go to it as guides. Its discoverers saw in it the work of\r\nthe Great Spirit, but could not guess its meaning. All but one of these\r\nKlamaths stole away after they had looked into its circular basin and\r\nsheer walls. He fancied that if it was a home of gods they might have\r\nsome message for men, so camping on the brink of the lofty cliffs he\r\nwaited. In his sleep a vision came to him, and he heard voices, but could\r\nneither make out appearances nor distinguish a word. Every night this\r\ndream was repeated. He finally went down to the lake and bathed, and\r\ninstantly found his strength increased and saw that the people of his\r\ndreams were the genii of the waters--whether good or bad he could not\r\nguess. One day he caught a fish for food. A thousand water-devils came to\r\nthe surface, on the instant, and seized him. They carried him to a rock\r\non the north side of the lake, that stands two thousand feet above the\r\nwater, and from that they dashed him down, gathering the remains of his\r\nshattered body below and devouring them. Since that taste they have been\r\neager for men's blood. The rock on the south side of the lake, called the\r\nPhantom Ship, is believed by the Indians to be a destructive monster,\r\ninnocent as it looks in the daytime.\r\n\r\nSo with Rock Lake, in Washington. A hideous reptile sports about its\r\nwaters and gulps down everything that it finds in or on them. Only in\r\n1853 a band of Indians, who had fled hither for security against the\r\nsoldiers, were overtaken by this creature, lashed to death, and eaten.\r\n\r\nThe Indians of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Texas believed that the King\r\nSnake, or God Snake, lived in the Gulf of Mexico. It slept in a cavern of\r\npure crystal at the bottom, and its head, being shaped from a solid\r\nemerald, lighted the ocean for leagues when it arose near the surface.\r\n\r\nSimilar to this is the belief of the Cherokees in the kings of\r\nrattlesnakes, “bright old inhabitants” of the mountains that grew to a\r\nmighty size, and drew to themselves every creature that they looked upon.\r\nEach wore a crown of carbuncle of dazzling brightness.\r\n\r\nThe Indians avoided Klamath Lake because it was haunted by a monster that\r\nwas half dragon, half hippopotamus.\r\n\r\nHutton Lake, Wyoming, is the home of a serpent queen, whose breathing may\r\nbe seen in the bubbles that well up in the centre. She is constantly\r\nwatching for her lover, but takes all men who come in her way to her\r\ngrotto beneath the water, when she finds that they are not the one she\r\nhas expected, and there they become her slaves. To lure victims into the\r\nlake she sets there a decoy of a beautiful red swan, and should the\r\nhunter kill this bird he will become possessed of divine power. Should he\r\nsee “the woman,” as the serpent queen is called, he will never live to\r\ntell of it, unless he has seen her from a hiding-place near the\r\nshore--for so surely as he is noticed by this Diana of the depths, so\r\nsurely will her spies, the land snakes, sting him to death. In appearance\r\nshe is a lovely girl in all but her face, and that is shaped like the\r\nhead of a monster snake. Her name is never spoken by the Indians, for\r\nfear that it will cost them their lives.\r\n\r\nMichael Pauw, brave fisherman of Paterson, New Jersey, hero of the fight\r\nwith the biggest snapping-turtle in Dover Slank, wearer of a scar on his\r\nseat of honor as memento of the conflict, member of the Kersey Reds--he\r\nwhose presence of mind was shown in holding out a chip of St. Nicholas's\r\nstaff when he met the nine witches of the rocks capering in the mists of\r\nPassaic Falls--gave battle from a boat to a monster that had ascended to\r\nthe cataract. One of the Kersey Reds, leaning out too far, fell astride\r\nof the horny beast, and was carried at express speed, roaring with\r\nfright, until unhorsed by a projecting rock, up which he scrambled to\r\nsafety. Falling to work with bayonets and staves, the company despatched\r\nthe creature and dragged it to shore. One Dutchman--who was quite a\r\ntraveller, having been as far from home as Albany--said that the thing\r\nwas what the Van Rensselaers cut up for beef, and that he believed they\r\ncalled it a sturgeon.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSTONE-THROWING DEVILS\r\n\r\nThere is an odd recurrence among American legends of tales relating to\r\nassaults of people or their houses by imps of darkness. The shadowy\r\nleaguers of Gloucester, Massachusetts, kept the garrison of that place in\r\na state of fright until they were expelled from the neighborhood by a\r\nsilver bullet and a chaplain's prayers. Witchcraft was sometimes\r\nmanifested in Salem by the hurling of missiles from unseen hands. The\r\n“stone-throwing devil” of Portsmouth is the subject of a tradition more\r\nthan two centuries of age, but, as the stone-thrower appears rather as an\r\navenger than as a gratuitously malignant spirit, he is ill treated in\r\nhaving the name of devil applied to him. In this New Hampshire port lived\r\na widow who had a cabin and a bit of land of her own. George Walton, a\r\nneighbor, wanted her land, for its situation pleased him, and as the old\r\nwoman had neither money nor influential friends he charged her with\r\nwitchcraft, and, whether by legal chicanery or mere force is not\r\nrecorded, he got his hands upon her property.\r\n\r\nThe charge of witchcraft was not pressed, because the man had obtained\r\nwhat he wanted, but the poor, houseless creature laid a ban on the place\r\nand told the thief that he would never have pleasure nor profit out of\r\nit. Walton laughed at her, bade her go her way, and moved his family into\r\nthe widow's house. It was Sunday night, and the family had gone to bed,\r\nwhen at ten o'clock there came a fierce shock of stones against the roof\r\nand doors. All were awake in a moment. A first thought was that Indians\r\nwere making an assault, but when the occupants peered cautiously into the\r\nmoonlight the fields were seen to be deserted. Yet, even as they looked,\r\na gate was lifted from its hinges and thrown through the air.\r\n\r\nWalton ventured out, but a volley of stones, seemingly from a hundred\r\nhands, was delivered at his head, and he ran back to shelter. Doors and\r\nwindows were barred and shuttered, but it made no difference. Stones, too\r\nhot to hold a hand upon, were hurled through glass and down the chimney,\r\nobjects in the rooms themselves were picked up and flung at Walton,\r\ncandles were blown out, a hand without a body tapped at the window, locks\r\nand bars and keys were bent as if by hammer-blows, a cheese-press was\r\nsmashed against the wall and the cheese spoiled, hay-stacks in the field\r\nwere broken up and the hay tossed into branches of trees. For a long time\r\nWalton could not go out at night without being assailed with stones.\r\nBell, book, candle, and witch-broth availed nothing, and it was many a\r\nday before peace came to the Walton household.\r\n\r\nIn 1802 an epidemic of assault went through the Berkshire Hills. The\r\nperformance began in a tailor's shop in Salisbury, Connecticut, at eleven\r\nof the clock on the night of November 2, when a stick and lumps of stone,\r\ncharcoal, and mortar were flung through a window. The moon was up, but\r\nnothing could be seen, and the bombardment was continued until after\r\ndaylight. After doing some damage here the assailants went to the house\r\nof Ezekiel Landon and rapped away there for a week. Persons were struck\r\nby the missiles, and quantities of glass were destroyed. Nothing could be\r\nseen coming toward the windows until the glass broke, and it was seldom\r\nthat anything passed far into a room. No matter how hard it was thrown,\r\nit dropped softly and surely on the sill, inside, as if a hand had put it\r\nthere. Windows were broken on both sides of buildings at the same time,\r\nand many sticks and stones came through the same holes in the panes, as\r\nif aimed carefully by a gunner.\r\n\r\nA hamlet that stood in Sage's ravine, on the east side of the Dome of the\r\nTaconics, was assailed in the same way after nightfall. One house was\r\nconsiderably injured. No causes for the performance were ever discovered,\r\nand nobody in the place was known to have an enemy--at least, a malicious\r\none.\r\n\r\nAt Whitmire Hill, Georgia, the spot where two murders were committed\r\nbefore the war, is a headless phantom that comes thundering down on the\r\nwayfarer on the back of a giant horse and vanishes at the moment when the\r\nheart of his prospective victim is bumping against his palate. At times,\r\nhowever, this spook prefers to remain invisible, and then it is a little\r\nworse, for it showers stones and sods on the pedestrian until his legs\r\nhave carried him well beyond the phantom's jurisdiction.\r\n\r\nThe legends of buried treasure, instanced in another place, frequently\r\ninclude assaults by the ghosts of pirates and misers on the daring ones\r\nwho try to resurrect their wealth.\r\n\r\nForty-seven years ago, in the township of St. Mary's, Illinois, two lads\r\nnamed Groves and a companion named Kirk were pelted with snowballs while\r\non their way home from a barn where they had been to care for the stock\r\nfor the night. The evening had shut in dark, and the accuracy of the\r\nthrower's aim was the more remarkable because it was hardly possible to\r\nsee more than a rod away. The snowballs were packed so tightly that they\r\ndid not break on striking, though they were thrown with force, and Kirk\r\nwas considerably bruised by them. Mr. Groves went out with a lantern, but\r\nits rays lit up a field of untrodden snow, and there was no sound except\r\nthat made by the wind as it whistled past the barn and fences. Toward\r\ndawn another inspection was made, and in the dim light the snowballs were\r\nseen rising from the middle of a field that had not a footprint on it,\r\nand flying toward the spectators like bullets. They ran into the field\r\nand laid about them with pitchforks, but nothing came of that, and not\r\nuntil the sun arose was the pelting stopped. Young Kirk, who was badly\r\nhurt, died within a year.\r\n\r\nThe men of Sharon, Connecticut, having wheedled their town-site from the\r\nIndians in 1754, were plagued thereafter by whoops and whistlings and the\r\nthrowing of stones. Men were seen in the starlight and were fired upon,\r\nbut without effect, and the disturbances were not ended until the Indians\r\nhad received a sum of money.\r\n\r\nWithout presuming to doubt the veracity of tradition in these matters, an\r\nincident from the writer's boyhood in New England may be instanced. The\r\nhouse of an unpopular gentleman was assailed--not in the ostentatious\r\nmanner just described, yet in a way that gave him a good deal of trouble.\r\nDead cats appeared mysteriously in his neighborhood; weird noises arose\r\nunder his windows; he tried to pick up letters from his doorstep that\r\nbecame mere chalk-marks at his touch, so that he took up only splinters\r\nunder his nails. One night, as a seance was about beginning in his yard,\r\nhe emerged from a clump of bushes, flew in the direction of the\r\ndisturbance, laid violent hands on the writer's collar, and bumped his\r\nnose on a paving-stone. Then the manifestations were discontinued, for\r\nseveral nights, for repairs.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nSTORIED SPRINGS\r\n\r\nLike the Greeks, the red men endowed the woods and waters with tutelary\r\nsprites, and many of the springs that are now resorted to as fountains of\r\nhealing were known long before the settlement of Europeans here, the\r\ngains from drinking of them being ascribed to the beneficence of spirit\r\nguardians. The earliest comers to these shores--or, rather, the earliest\r\nof those who entertained such beliefs--fancied that the fabled fountain\r\nof eternal youth would be found among the other blessings of the land. To\r\nthe Spaniards Florida was a land of promise and mystery. Somewhere in its\r\ninterior was fabled to stand a golden city ruled by a king whose robes\r\nsparkled with precious dust, and this city was named for the\r\nadventurer--El Dorado, or the Place of the Gilded One. Here, they said,\r\nwould be found the elixir of life. The beautiful Silver Spring, near the\r\nhead of the Ocklawaha, with its sandy bottom plainly visible at the depth\r\nof eighty feet, was thought to be the source of the life-giving waters,\r\nbut, though Ponce de Leon heard of this, he never succeeded in fighting\r\nhis way to it through the jungle.\r\n\r\nIn Georgia, in the reputed land of Chicora, were a sacred stream that\r\nmade all young again who bathed there, and a spring so delectable that a\r\nband of red men, chancing on it in a journey, could not leave it, and are\r\nthere forever.\r\n\r\nIn the island of “Bimini,” one of the Lucayos (Bahamas), was another such\r\na fountain.\r\n\r\nBetween the Flint and Ocmulgee Rivers the Creeks declared was a spring of\r\nlife, on an island in a marsh, defended from approach by almost\r\nimpenetrable labyrinths,--a heaven where the women were fairer than any\r\nother on earth.\r\n\r\nThe romantic and superstitious Spaniards believed these legends, and\r\nspent years and treasure in searching for these springs. And, surely, if\r\nthe new and striking scenes of this Western world caused Columbus to\r\n“boast that he had found the seat of paradise, it will not appear strange\r\nthat Ponce de Leon should dream of discovering the fountain of youth.”\r\n\r\nThe Yuma Apaches had been warned by one of their oracles never to enter a\r\ncertain canon in Castle Dome range, Arizona, but a company of them forgot\r\nthis caution while in chase of deer, and found themselves between walls\r\nof pink and white fluorite with a spring bubbling at the head of the\r\nravine. Tired and heated, they fell on their faces to drink, when they\r\nfound that the crumbling quartz that formed the basin of the spring was\r\nfilled with golden nuggets. Eagerly gathering up this precious substance,\r\nfor they knew what treasure of beads, knives, arrows, and blankets the\r\nMexicans would exchange for it, they attempted to make their way out of\r\nthe canon; but a cloudburst came, and on the swiftly rising tide all were\r\nswept away but one, who survived to tell the story. White men have\r\nfrequently but vainly tried to find that spring.\r\n\r\nIn Southwestern Kansas, on a hill a quarter-mile from Solomon River, is\r\nthe Sacred Water, pooled in a basin thirty feet across. When many stand\r\nabout the brink it slowly rises. Here two Panis stopped on their return\r\nfrom a buffalo hunt, and one of them unwittingly stepped on a turtle a\r\nyard long. Instantly he felt his feet glued to the monster's back, for,\r\ntry as he might, he could not disengage himself, and the creature\r\nlumbered away to the pool, where it sank with him. There the turtle god\r\nremains, and beads, arrows, ear-rings, and pipes that are dropped in, it\r\nswallows greedily. The Indians use the water to mix their paint with, but\r\nnever for drinking.\r\n\r\nThe mail rider, crossing the hot desert of Arizona, through the cacti and\r\nover holes where scorpions hide, makes for Devil's Well, under El\r\nDiablo--a dark pool surrounded with gaunt rocks. Here, coming when the\r\nnight is on, he lies down, and the wind swishing in the sage--brush puts\r\nhim to sleep. At dawn he wakens with the frightened whinny of his horse\r\nin his ears and, all awake, looks about him. A stranger, wrapped in a\r\ntattered blanket, is huddled in a recess of the stones, arrived there,\r\nlike himself, at night, perhaps. Poising his rifle on his knee, the rider\r\nchallenges him, but never a sign the other makes. Then, striding over to\r\nhim, he pulls away the blanket and sees a shrivelled corpse with a face\r\nthat he knows--his brother. Hardly is this meeting made when a hail of\r\narrows falls around. His horse is gone. The Apaches, who know no\r\ngentleness and have no mercy, have manned every gap and sheltering rock.\r\nWith his rifle he picks them off, as they rise in sight with arrows at\r\nthe string, and sends them tumbling into the dust; but, when his last\r\nbullet has sped into a red man's heart, they rise in a body and with\r\nknives and hatchets hew him to death. And that is why the Devil's Well\r\nstill tastes of blood.\r\n\r\nAmong the Balsam Mountains of Western North Carolina is a large spring\r\nthat promises refreshment, but, directly that the wayfarer bends over the\r\nwater, a grinning face appears at the bottom and as he stoops it rises to\r\nmeet his. So hideous is this demon that few of the mountaineers have\r\ncourage to drink here, and they refuse to believe that the apparition is\r\ncaused by the shape of the basin, or aberrated reflection of their own\r\nfaces. They say it is the visage of a “haunt,” for a Cherokee girl, who\r\nhad uncommon beauty, once lived hard by, and took delight in luring\r\nlovers from less favored maidens. The braves were jealous of each other,\r\nand the women were jealous of her, while she--the flirt!--rejoiced in the\r\ntrouble that she made. A day fell for a wedding--that of a hunter with a\r\ndamsel of his tribe, but at the hour appointed the man was missing.\r\nMortified and hurt, the bride stole away from the village and began a\r\nsearch of the wood, and she carried bow and arrows in her hand. Presently\r\nshe came on the hunter, lying at the feet of the coquette, who was\r\nlistening to his words with encouraging smiles. Without warning the\r\ndeserted girl drew an arrow to the head and shot her lover through the\r\nheart--then, beside his lifeless body, she begged Manitou to make her\r\nrival's face so hideous that all would be frightened who looked at it. At\r\nthe words the beautiful creature felt her face convulse and shrivel, and,\r\nrushing to the mirror of the spring, she looked in, only to start back in\r\nloathing. When she realized that the frightful visage that glared up at\r\nher was her own, she uttered a cry of despair and flung herself into the\r\nwater, where she drowned.\r\n\r\nIt is her face--so altered as to disclose the evil once hid behind\r\nit--that peers up at the hardy one who passes there and knows it as the\r\nHaunted Spring.\r\n\r\nThe medicinal properties of the mineral springs at Ballston and Saratoga\r\nwere familiar to the Indians, and High Rock Spring, to which Sir William\r\nJohnson was carried by the Mohawks in 1767 to be cured of a wound, was\r\ncalled “the medicine spring of the Great Spirit,” for it was believed\r\nthat the leaping and bubbling of the water came from its agitation by\r\nhands not human, and red men regarded it with reverence.\r\n\r\nThe springs at Manitou, Colorado (see “Division of Two Tribes”), were\r\nalways approached with gifts for the manitou that lived in them.\r\n\r\nThe lithia springs of Londonderry, New Hampshire, used to be visited by\r\nIndians from the Merrimack region, who performed incantations and dances\r\nto ingratiate themselves with the healing spirit that lived in the water.\r\nTheir stone implements and arrow-heads are often found in adjacent\r\nfields.\r\n\r\nThe curative properties of Milford Springs, New Hampshire, were revealed\r\nin the dream of a dying boy.\r\n\r\nA miracle spring flowed in the old days near the statue of the Virgin at\r\nWhite Marsh, Maryland.\r\n\r\nBiddeford Pool, Maine, was a miracle pond once a year, for whoso bathed\r\nthere on the 26th of June would be restored to health if he were ill,\r\nbecause that day was the joint festival of Saints Anthelm and Maxentius.\r\n\r\nThere was a wise and peaceable chief of the Ute tribe who always\r\ncounselled his people to refrain from war, but when he grew old the fiery\r\nspirits deposed him and went down to the plains to give battle to the\r\nArapahoe. News came that they had been defeated in consequence of their\r\nrashness. Then the old man's sorrow was so keen that his heart broke. But\r\neven in death he was beneficent, for his spirit entered the earth and\r\nforthwith came a gush of water that has never ceased to flow--the Hot\r\nSulphur Springs of Colorado. The Utes often used to go to those springs\r\nto bathe--and be cured of rheumatism--before they were driven away.\r\n\r\nSpring River, Arkansas, is nearly as large at its source as at its mouth,\r\nfor Mammoth Spring, in the Ozark Mountains, where it has its rise, has a\r\nyield of ninety thousand gallons a minute, so that it is, perhaps, the\r\nlargest in the world. Here, three hundred years ago, the Indians\r\nhad gathered for a month's feast, for chief Wampahseesah's\r\ndaughter--Nitilita--was to wed a brave of many ponies, a hundred of which\r\nhe had given in earnest of his love. For weeks no rain had fallen, and,\r\nwhile the revel was at its height, news came that all the rivers had gone\r\ndry. Several young men set off with jars, to fill them at the\r\nMississippi, and, confident that relief would come, the song and dance\r\nwent on until the men and women faltered from exhaustion. At last,\r\nNitilita died, and, in the wildness of his grief, the husband smote his\r\nhead upon a rock and perished too. Next day the hunters came with water,\r\nbut, incensed by their delay, the chief ordered them to be slain in\r\nsacrifice to the manes of the dead. A large grave was dug and the last\r\nsolemnities were begun when there was a roaring and a shaking in the\r\nearth--it parted, and the corpses disappeared in the abyss. Then from the\r\npit arose a flood of water that went foaming down the valley. Crazed with\r\ngrief, remorse, and fear, Wampahseesah flung himself into the torrent and\r\nwas borne to his death. The red men built a dam there later, and often\r\nused to sit before it in the twilight, watching, as they declared, the\r\nfaces of the dead peering at them through the foam.\r\n\r\nDuring the rush for the California gold-fields in the '50's a party took\r\nthe route by Gila River, and set across the desert. The noon temperature\r\nwas 120, the way was strewn with skeletons of wagons, horses, and men,\r\nand on the second night after crossing the Colorado the water had given\r\nout. The party had gathered on the sands below Yuma, the men discussing\r\nthe advisability of returning, the women full of apprehension, the young\r\nones crying, the horses panting; but presently the talk fell low, for in\r\none of the wagons a child's voice was heard in prayer: “Oh, good heavenly\r\nFather, I know I have been a naughty girl, but I am so thirsty, and mamma\r\nand papa and baby all want a drink so much! Do, good God, give us water,\r\nand I never will be naughty again.” One of the men said, earnestly, “May\r\nGod grant it!” In a few moments the child cried, “Mother, get me water.\r\nGet some for baby and me. I can hear it running.” The horses and mules\r\nnearly broke from the traces, for almost at their feet a spring had burst\r\nfrom the sand-warm, but pure. Their sufferings were over. The water\r\ncontinued to flow, running north for twenty miles, and at one point\r\nspreading into a lake two miles wide and twenty feet deep. When\r\nemigration was diverted, two years later, to the northern route and to\r\nthe isthmus, New River Spring dried up. Its mission was over.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nLOVERS' LEAPS\r\n\r\nSo few States in this country--and so few countries, if it comes to\r\nthat--are without a lover's leap that the very name has come to be a\r\nby-word. In most of these places the disappointed ones seem to have gone\r\nto elaborate and unusual pains to commit suicide, neglecting many easy\r\nand equally appropriate methods. But while in some cases the legend has\r\nbeen made to fit the place, there is no doubt that in many instances the\r\nstory antedated the arrival of the white men. The best known lovers'\r\nleaps are those on the upper Mississippi, on the French Broad, Jump\r\nMountain, in Virginia, Jenny Jump Mountain, New Jersey, Mackinac,\r\nMichigan, Monument Mountain, Massachusetts, on the Wissahickon, near\r\nPhiladelphia, Muscatine, Iowa, and Lefferts Height. There are many other\r\ndeclivities,--also, that are scenes of leaps and adventures, such as the\r\nFawn's Leap, in Kaaterskill Clove; Rogers's Rock, on Lake George; the\r\nrocks in Long Narrows, on the Juniata, where the ghost of Captain Jack,\r\n“the wild hunter” of colonial days, still ranges; Campbell's Ledge,\r\nPittston, Pennsylvania, where its name-giver jumped off to escape\r\nIndians; and Peabody's leap, of thirty feet, on Lake Champlain, where Tim\r\nPeabody, a scout, escaped after killing a number of savages.\r\n\r\nAt Jump Mountain, near Lexington, Virginia, an Indian couple sprang off\r\nbecause there were insuperable bars to their marriage.\r\n\r\nAt the rock on the Wissahickon a girl sought death because her lover was\r\nuntrue to her.\r\n\r\nAt Muscatine the cause of a maid's demise and that of her lover was the\r\nseverity of her father, who forbade the match because there was no war in\r\nwhich the young man could prove his courage.\r\n\r\nAt Lefferts Height a girl stopped her recreant lover as he was on his way\r\nto see her rival, and urging his horse to the edge of the bluff she\r\nleaped with him into the air.\r\n\r\nMonument Mountain, a picturesque height in the Berkshires, is faced on\r\nits western side by a tall precipice, from which a girl flung herself\r\nbecause the laws of her tribe forbade her marriage with a cousin to whom\r\nshe had plighted troth. She was buried where her body was found, and each\r\nIndian as he passed the spot laid a stone on her grave--thus, in time,\r\nforming a monument.\r\n\r\n“Purgatory,” the chasm at Newport, Rhode Island, through which the sea\r\nbooms loudly after a storm, was a scene of self-sacrifice to a hopeless\r\nlove on the part of an Indian pair in a later century, though there is an\r\nolder tradition of the seizure of a guilty squaw, by no less a person\r\nthan the devil himself, who flung her from the cliff and dragged her soul\r\naway as it left her body. His hoof-marks were formerly visible on the\r\nrocks.\r\n\r\nAt Hot Springs, North Carolina, two conspicuous cliffs are pointed out on\r\nthe right bank of the French Broad River: Paint Rock--where the\r\naborigines used to get ochre to smear their faces, and which they\r\ndecorated with hieroglyphics--and Lover's Leap. It is claimed that the\r\nlatter is the first in this country known to bear this sentimental and\r\ntragically suggestive title. There are two traditions concerning it, one\r\nbeing that an Indian girl was discovered at its top by hostiles who drove\r\nher into the gulf below, the other relating to the wish of an Indian to\r\nmarry a girl of a tribe with which his own had been immemorially at war.\r\nThe match was opposed on both sides, so, instead of doing as most Indians\r\nand some white men would do nowadays--marry the girl and let\r\nreconciliation come in time,--he scaled the rock in her company and\r\nleaped with her into the stream. They awoke as man and wife in the happy\r\nhunting-ground.\r\n\r\nIn 1700 there lived in the village of Keoxa, below Frontenac, Minnesota,\r\non the Mississippi River, a Dakota girl named Winona (the First Born),\r\nwho was loved by a hunter in her tribe, and loved him in return. Her\r\nfriends commended to her affections a young chief who had valiantly\r\ndefended the village against an attack of hostiles, but Juliet would none\r\nof this dusky Count de Paris, adhering faithfully to her Romeo. Unable to\r\nmove her by argument, her family at length drove her lover away, and used\r\nother harsh measures to force her into a repugnant union, but she\r\nreplied, “You are driving me to despair. I do not love this chief, and\r\ncannot live with him. You are my father, my brothers, my relatives, yet\r\nyou drive from me the only man with whom I wish to be united. Alone he\r\nranges through the forest, with no one to build his lodge, none to spread\r\nhis blanket, none to wait on him. Soon you will have neither daughter,\r\nsister, nor relative to torment with false professions.” Blazing with\r\nanger at this unsubmissive speech, her father declared that she should\r\nmarry the chief on that very day, but while the festival was in\r\npreparation she stole to the top of the crag that has since been known as\r\nMaiden's Rock, and there, four hundred feet above the heads of the\r\npeople, upbraided those who had formerly professed regard for her. Then\r\nshe began her death-song. Some of the men tried to scale the cliff and\r\navert the tragedy that it was evident would shortly be enacted, and her\r\nfather, his displeasure forgotten in an agony of apprehension, called to\r\nher that he would no longer oppose her choice. She gave no heed to their\r\nappeals, but, when the song was finished, walked to the edge of the rock,\r\nleaped out, and rolled lifeless at the feet of her people.\r\n\r\nWhen we say that the real name of Lover's Leap in Mackinac is\r\nMechenemockenungoqua, we trust that it will not be repeated. It has its\r\nlegend, however, as well as its name, for an Ojibway girl stood on this\r\nspire of rock, watching for her lover after a battle had been fought and\r\nher people were returning. Eagerly she scanned the faces of the braves as\r\ntheir war-canoes swept by, but the face she looked for was not among\r\nthem. Her lover was at that moment tied to a tree, with an arrow in his\r\nheart. As she looked at the boats a vision of his fate revealed itself,\r\nand the dead man, floating toward her, beckoned. Her death-song sounded\r\nin the ears of the men, but before they could reach her she had gone\r\nswiftly to the verge, her hands extended, her eyes on vacancy, and her\r\nspirit had met her lover's.\r\n\r\nFrom this very rock, in olden time, leaped the red Eve when the red Adam\r\nhad been driven away by a devil who had fallen in love with her. Adam,\r\nwho was paddling by the shore, saw she was about to fall, rushed forward,\r\ncaught her, and saved her life. The law of gravitation in those days did\r\nnot act with such distressing promptitude as now. Manitou, hearing of\r\nthese doings, restored them to the island and banished the devil, who\r\nfell to a world of evil spirits underground, where he became the father\r\nof the white race, and has ever since persecuted the Indians by proxy.\r\n\r\nOn the same island of Mackinac the English had a fort, the garrison of\r\nwhich was massacred in 1763. A sole survivor--a young officer named\r\nRobinson--owed his life to a pretty half-breed who gave him hiding in a\r\nsecluded wigwam. As the spot assured him of safety, and the girl was his\r\nonly companion, they lived together as man and wife, rather happily, for\r\nseveral years. When the fort had been built again, Robinson re-entered\r\nthe service, and appeared at head-quarters with a wife of his own color.\r\nHis Indian consort showed no jealousy. On the contrary, she consented to\r\nlive apart in a little house belonging to the station, on the cliff,\r\ncalled Robinson's Folly. She did ask her lover to go there and sit with\r\nher for an hour before they separated forever, and he granted this\r\nrequest. While they stood at the edge of the rock she embraced him; then,\r\nstepping back, with her arms still around his neck, she fell from the\r\ncliff, dragging him with her, and both were killed. The edge of the rock\r\nfell shortly after, carrying the house with it.\r\n\r\nMatiwana, daughter of the chief of the Omahas, whose village was near the\r\nmouth of Omaha Creek, married a faithless trader from St. Louis, who had\r\none wife already, and who returned to her, after an absence among his own\r\npeople, with a third, a woman of his own color. He coldly repelled the\r\nIndian woman, though he promised to send her boy--and his--to the\r\nsettlements to be educated. She turned away with only a look, and a few\r\ndays later was found dead at the foot of a bluff near her home.\r\n\r\nWhite Rocks, one hundred and fifty feet above Cheat River, in Fayette\r\nCounty, Pennsylvania, were the favorite tryst of a handsome girl, the\r\ndaughter of a well-to-do farmer of that region, and a dashing fellow who\r\nhad gone into that country to hunt. They had many happy days there on the\r\nhill together, but after making arrangements for the wedding they\r\nquarrelled, nobody knew for what. One evening they met by accident on the\r\nrocks, and appeared to be in formal talk when night came on and they\r\ncould no longer be seen. The girl did not return, and her father set off\r\nwith a search party to look for her. They found her, dead and mangled, at\r\nthe foot of the rocks. Her lover, in a fit of impatience, had pushed her\r\nand she had staggered and fallen over. He fled at once, and, under a\r\nchanged name and changed appearance, eluded pursuit. When the War of the\r\nRebellion broke out, he entered the army and fought recklessly, for by\r\nthat time he had tired of life and hoped to die. But it was of no use. He\r\nwas only made captain for a bravery that he was not conscious of showing,\r\nand the old remorse still preyed on him. It was after the war that\r\nsomething took him back to Fayette County, and on a pleasant day he\r\nclimbed the rocks to take a last look at the scenes that had been\r\nbrightened by love and saddened by regret. He had not been long on its\r\nsummit when an irresistible impulse came upon him to leap down where the\r\ngirl had fallen, and atone with his own blood for the shedding of hers.\r\nHe gave way to this prompting, and the fall was fatal.\r\n\r\nSome years before the outbreak of the Civil War a man with his wife and\r\ndaughter took up their residence in a log cabin at the foot of Sunrise\r\nRock, near Chattanooga, Tennessee. It seemed probable that they had known\r\nbetter days, for the head of the household was notoriously useless in the\r\neyes of his neighbors, and was believed to get his living through\r\n“writin' or book-larnin',” but he was so quiet and gentle that they never\r\nupbraided him, and would sometimes, after making a call, wander into his\r\ngarden and casually weed it for him for an hour or so. The girl, Stella,\r\nwas a well-schooled, quick-witted, rosy-cheeked lass, whom all the\r\nshaggy, big-jointed farmer lads of the neighborhood regarded with\r\nhopeless admiration. A year or two after the settlement of the family it\r\nbegan to be noticed that she was losing color and had an anxious look,\r\nand when a friendly old farmer saw her talking in the lane with a lawyer\r\nfrom Chattanooga, who wore broadcloth and had a gold watch, he was\r\npuzzled that the “city chap” did not go home with her, but kissed his\r\nhand to her as he turned away. Afterward the farmer met the pair again,\r\nand while the girl smiled and said, “Howdy, Uncle Joe?” the lawyer turned\r\naway and looked down the river. It was the last time that a smile was\r\nseen on Stella's face. A few evenings later she was seen standing on\r\nSunrise Rock, with her look bent on Chattanooga. The shadow of night\r\ncrept up the cliff until only her figure stood in sunlight, with her hair\r\nlike a golden halo about her face. At that moment came on the wind the\r\nsound of bells-wedding-bells. Pressing her hands to her ears, the girl\r\nwalked to the edge of the rock, and a few seconds later her lifeless form\r\nrolled through the bushes at its foot into the road. At her funeral the\r\npeople came from far and near to offer sympathy to the mother, garbed in\r\nblack, and the father, with his hair turned white, but the lawyer from\r\nChattanooga was not there.\r\n\r\nThe name of Indian Maiden's Cliff--applied to a precipice that hangs\r\nabove the wild ravine of Stony Clove, in the Catskills--commemorates the\r\nsequel to an elopement from her tribe of an Indian girl and her lover.\r\nThe parents and relatives had opposed the match with that fatal fatuity\r\nthat appears to be characteristic of story-book Indians, and as soon as\r\nword of her flight came to the village they set off in chase. While\r\nhurrying through the tangled wood the young couple were separated and the\r\ngirl found herself on the edge of the cliff. Farther advance was\r\nimpossible. Her pursuers were close behind. She must yield or die. She\r\nchose not to yield, and, with a despairing cry, flung herself into the\r\nshadows.\r\n\r\nSimilar to this is the tale of Lover's Leap in the dells of the Sioux,\r\namong the Black Hills of South Dakota.\r\n\r\nAt New Milford, Connecticut, they show you Falls Mountain, with the cairn\r\nerected by his tribe in 1735 to chief Waramaug, who wished to be buried\r\nthere, so that, when he was cold and lonely in the other life, he could\r\nreturn to his body and muse on the lovely landscape that he so enjoyed.\r\nThe will-o'-the-wisp flickered on the mountain's edge at night, and\r\nflecks of dew-vapor that floated from the wood by day were sometimes\r\nthought to be the spirit of the chief. He had a daughter, Lillinonah,\r\nwhose story is related to Lover's Leap, on the riverward side of the\r\nmountain. She had led to the camp a white man, who had been wandering\r\nbeside the Housatonic, ill and weak, vainly seeking a way out of the\r\nwilderness, and, in spite of the dark looks that were cast at him and\r\nher, she succeeded in making him, for that summer, a member of the tribe.\r\nAs the man grew strong with her care he grew happy and he fell in love.\r\nIn the autumn he said to her, “I wish to see my people, and when I have\r\ndone so I will come back to you and we shall be man and wife.” They\r\nparted regretfully and the winter passed for the girl on leaden feet.\r\nWith spring came hope. The trails were open, and daily she watched for\r\nher white lover. The summer came and went, and the autumn was there\r\nagain. She had grown pale and sad, and old Waramaug said to young Eagle\r\nFeather, who had looked softly on her for many years, “The girl sickens\r\nin loneliness. You shall wed her.” This is repeated to her, and that\r\nevening she slips away to the river, enters a canoe, casts away the\r\npaddle, and drifts down the stream. Slowly, at first, but faster and\r\nfaster, as the rapids begin to draw it, skims the boat, but above the\r\nhoarse brawling of the waters she hears a song in a voice that she\r\nknows--the merry troll of a light heart. The branches part at Lover's\r\nLeap and her lover looks down upon her. The joyous glance of recognition\r\nchanges to a look of horror, for the boat is caught. The girl rises and\r\nholds her arms toward him in agonized appeal. Life, at any cost! He, with\r\na cry, leaps into the flood as the canoe is passing. It lurches against a\r\nrock and Lillinonah is thrown out. He reaches her. The falls bellow in\r\ntheir ears. They take a last embrace, and two lives go out in the growing\r\ndarkness.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\nGOD ON THE MOUNTAINS\r\n\r\nFrom the oldest time men have associated the mountains with visitations\r\nof God. Their height, their vastness, their majesty made them seem worthy\r\nto be stairs by which the Deity might descend to earth, and they stand in\r\nreligious and poetic literature to this day as symbols of the largest\r\nmental conceptions. Scriptural history is intimately associated with\r\nthem, and the giving of the law on Sinai, amid thunder and darkness, is\r\none of the most tremendous pictures that imagination can paint. Ararat,\r\nHermon, Horeb, Pisgah, Calvary, Adam's Peak, Parnassus, Olympus! How full\r\nof suggestion are these names! And poetic figures in sacred writings are\r\nfull of allusion to the beauty, nobility, and endurance of the hills.\r\n\r\nIt is little known that many of our own mountains are associated with\r\naboriginal legends of the Great Spirit. According to the Indians of\r\nCalifornia, Mount Shasta was the first part of the earth to be made. The\r\nGreat Spirit broke a hole through the floor of heaven with a rock, and on\r\nthe spot where this rock had stopped he flung down more rocks, with earth\r\nand snow and ice, until the mass had gained such a height that he could\r\nstep from the sky to its summit. Running his hands over its sides he\r\ncaused forests to spring up. The leaves that he plucked he breathed upon,\r\ntossed into the air, and, lo! they were birds. Out of his own staff he\r\nmade beasts and fishes, to live on the hills and in the streams, that\r\nbegan to appear as the work of worldbuilding went on. The earth became so\r\njoyous and so fair that he resolved at last to live on it, and he\r\nhollowed Shasta into a wigwam, where he dwelt for centuries, the smoke of\r\nhis lodge-fire (Shasta is a volcano) being often seen pouring from the\r\ncone before the white man came.\r\n\r\nAccording to the Oregon Indians the first man was created at the base of\r\nthe Cascade Range, near Wood River, by Kmukamtchiksh, “the old man of the\r\nancients,” who had already made the world. The Klamaths believe\r\nKmukamtchiksh a treacherous spirit, “a typical beast god,” yet that he\r\npunishes the wicked by turning them into rocks on the mountain-sides or\r\nby putting them into volcanic fires.\r\n\r\nSinsinawa Mound, Wisconsin, was the home of strange beings who occupied\r\ncaverns that few dared to enter. Enchanted rivers flowed through these\r\ncaves to heaven. The Catskills and Adirondacks were abodes of powerful\r\nbeings, and the Highlands of the Hudson were a wall within which Manitou\r\nconfined a host of rebellious spirits. When the river burst through this\r\nbulwark and poured into the sea, fifty miles below, these spirits took\r\nflight, and many succeeded in escaping. But others still haunt the\r\nravines and bristling woods, and when Manitou careers through the Hudson\r\ncanon on his car of cloud, crying with thunder voice, and hurling his\r\nlightnings to right and left as he passes, the demons scream and howl in\r\nrage and fear lest they be recaptured and shut up forever beneath the\r\nearth.\r\n\r\nThe White Mountains were held in awe by Indians, to whom they were homes\r\nof great and blessed spirits. Mount Washington was their Olympus and\r\nArarat in one, for there dwelt God, and there, when the earth was covered\r\nwith a flood, lived the chief and his wife, whom God had saved, sending\r\nforth a hare, after the waters had subsided, to learn if it were safe to\r\ndescend. From them the whole country was peopled with red men. Yet woe\r\nbetide the intruder on this high and holy ground, for an angered deity\r\ncondemned him to wander for ages over the desolate peaks and through the\r\nshadowy chasms rifted down their sides. The despairing cries of these\r\ncondemned ones, in winter storms, even frightened the early white\r\nsettlers in this region, and in 1784 the women of Conway petitioned three\r\nclergymen “to lay the spirits.”\r\n\r\nOther ark and deluge legends relate to the Superstition Mountains, in\r\nArizona, Caddoes village, on Red River, Cerro Naztarny, on the Rio\r\nGrande, the peak of Old Zuni, in Mexico, Colhuacan, on the Pacific coast,\r\nMount Apaola, in upper Mixteca, and Mount Neba, in Guaymi. The\r\nNorthwestern Indians tell of a flood in which all perished save one man,\r\nwho fled to Mount Tacoma. To prevent him from being swept away a spirit\r\nturned him into stone. When the flood had fallen the deity took one of\r\nhis ribs and made a woman of it. Then he touched the stone man back to\r\nlife.\r\n\r\nThere were descendants of Manitou on the mountains, too, of North\r\nCarolina, but the Cherokees believe that those heights are bare because\r\nthe devil strode over them on his way to the Devil's Court House\r\n(Transylvania County, North Carolina), where he sat in judgment and\r\nclaimed his own. Monsters were found in the White Mountains. Devil's Den,\r\non the face of Mount Willard, was the lair of one of them--a strange,\r\nwinged creature that strewed the floor of its cave with brute and human\r\nskeletons, after preying on their flesh.\r\n\r\nThe ideas of supernatural occurrences in these New Hampshire hills\r\nobtained until a recent date, and Sunday Mountain is a monument to the\r\ndire effects of Sabbath-breaking that was pointed out to several\r\ngenerations of New Hampshire youth for their moral betterment. The story\r\ngoes that a man of the adjacent town of Oxford took a walk one Sunday,\r\nwhen he should have taken himself to church; and, straying into the woods\r\nhere, he was delivered into the claws and maws of an assemblage of bears\r\nthat made an immediate and exemplary conclusion of him.\r\n\r\nThe grand portrait in rock in Profile Notch was regarded with reverence\r\nby the few red men who ventured into that lonely defile. When white men\r\nsaw it they said it resembled Washington, and a Yankee orator is quoted\r\nas saying, “Men put out signs representing their different trades.\r\nJewellers hang out a monster watch, shoemakers a huge boot, and, up in\r\nFranconia, God Almighty has hung out a sign that in New England He makes\r\nmen.”\r\n\r\nTo Echo Lake, close by, the deity was wont to repair that he might\r\ncontemplate the beauties of nature, and the clear, repeated echoes were\r\nhis voice, speaking in gentleness or anger. Moosilauke--meaning a bald\r\nplace, and wrongly called Moose Hillock--was declared by Waternomee,\r\nchief of the Pemigewassets, to be the home of the Great Spirit, and the\r\nfirst time that red men tried to gain the summit they returned in fear,\r\ncrying that Gitche Manitou was riding home in anger on a storm--which\r\npresently, indeed, burst over the whole country. Few Indians dared to\r\nclimb the mountain after that, and the first fruits of the harvest and\r\nfirst victims of the chase were offered in propitiation to the deity. At\r\nSeven Cascades, on its eastern slope, one of Rogers's Rangers, retreating\r\nafter the Canadian foray, fell to the ground, too tired for further\r\nmotion, when a distant music of harps mingled with the cascade's plash,\r\nand directly the waters were peopled with forms glowing with silver-white,\r\nlike the moonstone, that rose and circled, hand in hand, singing gayly as\r\nthey did so. The air then seemed to be flooded with rosy light and\r\nthousands of sylvan genii ascended altars of rock, by steps of rainbow,\r\nto offer incense and greet the sun with song. A dark cloud passed,\r\ndaylight faded, and a vision arose of the massacre at St. Francis, a\r\nretreat through untried wilderness, a feast on human heads, torture, and\r\ndeath; then his senses left the worn and starving man. But a trapper who\r\nhad seen his trail soon reached him and led him to a friendly settlement,\r\nwhere he was told that only to those who were about to take their leave\r\nof earth was it given to know those spirits of fountain and forest that\r\noffered their voices, on behalf of nature, in praise of the Great Spirit.\r\nTo those of grosser sense, on whom the weight of worldliness still\r\nrested, this halcyon was never revealed.\r\n\r\nIt was to Mount Washington that the Great Spirit summoned Passaconaway,\r\nwhen his work was done, and there was his apotheosis.\r\n\r\nThe Indians account in this manner for the birth of the White Mountains:\r\nA red hunter who had wandered for days through the forest without finding\r\ngame dropped exhausted on the snow, one night, and awaited death. But he\r\nfell asleep and dreamed. In his vision he saw a beautiful mountain\r\ncountry where birds and beasts and fruits were plenty, and, awaking from\r\nhis sleep, he found that day had come. Looking about the frozen\r\nwilderness in despair, he cried, “Great Master of Life, where is this\r\ncountry that I have seen?” And even as he spoke the Master appeared and\r\ngave to him a spear and a coal. The hunter dropped the coal on the\r\nground, when a fire spread from it, the rocks burning with dense smoke,\r\nout of which came the Master's voice, in thunder tones, bidding the\r\nmountains rise. The earth heaved and through the reek the terrified man\r\nsaw hills and crags lifting--lifting--until their tops reached above the\r\nclouds, and from the far summits sounded the promise, “Here shall the\r\nGreat Spirit live and watch over his children.” Water now burst from the\r\nrocks and came laughing down the hollows in a thousand brooks and rills,\r\nthe valleys unfolded in leaf and bloom, birds sang in the branches,\r\nbutterflies-like winged flowers flitted to and fro, the faint and\r\ncheerful noise of insect life came from the herbage, the smoke rolled\r\naway, a genial sun blazed out, and, as the hunter looked in rapture on\r\nthe mighty peaks of the Agiochooks, God stood upon their crest.\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MYTHS AND LEGENDS OF OUR OWN LAND — COMPLETE ***\r\n\r\n\r\n    \r\n\r\nUpdated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will\r\nbe renamed.\r\n\r\nCreating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright\r\nlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,\r\nso the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United\r\nStates without permission and without paying copyright\r\nroyalties. 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