EDWARD S. ELLIS.
WRITER OF POPULAR BOOKS FOR BOYS.
DWARD S. ELLIS is one of the most successful of the large group of men and women who have made it their principal business to provide delightful books for our young people.
Mr. Ellis is a native of northern Ohio, born in 1840, but has lived most of his life in New Jersey. At the age of seventeen, he began his successful career as a teacher and was attached for some years to the State Normal School of New Jersey, and was Trustee and Superintendent of the schools in the city of Trenton. He received the degree of A. M. from Princeton University on account of the high character of his historical text-books; but he is most widely known as a writer of books for boys. Of these, he has written about thirty and continues to issue two new ones each year, all of which are republished in London. His contributions to children’s papers are so highly esteemed that the “Little Folks’ Magazine,” of London, pays him double the rates given to any other contributor. Mr. Ellis’s School Histories have been widely used as text-books and he has also written two books on Arithmetic. He is now preparing “The Standard History of the United States.”
Besides those already mentioned, the titles of which would make too long a list to be inserted here, he has written a great many miscellaneous books.
Mr. Ellis abounds in good nature and is a delightful companion, and finds in his home at Englewood, New Jersey, all that is necessary to the enjoyment of life.
THE SIGNAL FIRE.[¹]
(FROM “STORM MOUNTAIN.”)
[¹] Copyright, Porter & Coates.
ALBOT FROST paused on the crest of Storm Mountain and looked across the lonely Oakland Valley spread out before him.
He had traveled a clean hundred miles through the forest, swimming rapid streams, dodging Indians and Tories, and ever on the alert for his enemies, who were equally vigilant in their search for him.
He eluded them all, however, for Frost, grim and grizzled, was a veteran backwoodsman who had been a border scout for a score of years or more, and he knew all the tricks of the cunning Iroquois, whose ambition was to destroy every white person that could be reached with rifle, knife, or tomahawk.
Frost had been engaged on many duties for the leading American officers, but he was sure that to-day was the most important of all; for be it known that he carried, hidden in the heel of his shoe, a message in cipher from General George Washington himself.
Frost had been promised one hundred dollars in gold by the immortal leader of the American armies, if he would place the piece of cipher writing in the hands of Colonel Nick Hawley, before the evening of the tenth day of August, 1777.
To-day was the tenth, the afternoon was only half gone, and Fort Defiance, with its small garrison under the command of Hawley, was only a mile distant in Oakland Valley. The vale spread away for many leagues to the right and left, and was a couple of miles wide at the point where the small border settlement was planted, with its stockade fort and its dozen families clustered near.
“Thar’s a good three hours of sunlight left,” muttered the veteran, squinting one eye toward the sultry August sky, “and I orter tramp to the fort and back agin in half that time. I’ll be thar purty quick, if none of the varmints trip me up, but afore leavin’ this crest, I’d like to cotch the signal fire of young Roslyn from over yender.”
General Washington considered the message to Colonel Hawley so important that he had sent it in duplicate; that is to say, two messengers concealed the cipher about their persons and set out by widely different routes to Fort Defiance, in Oakland Valley.
Since the distance was about the same, and it was not expected that there would be much variation in speed, it was believed that, barring accidents, the two would arrive in sight of their destination within a short time of each other.
The other messenger was Elmer Roslyn, a youth of seventeen, a native of Oakland, absent with his father in the Continental Army, those two being the only members of their family who escaped an Indian massacre that had burst upon the lovely settlement some months before.
It was agreed that whoever first reached the mountain crest should signal to the other by means of a small fire—large enough merely to send up a slight vapor that would show against the blue sky beyond.
The keen eyes of Talbot Frost roved along the rugged mountain-ridge a couple of miles distant, in search of the tell-tale signal. They followed the craggy crest a long distance to the north and south of the point where Roslyn had promised to appear, but the clear summer air was unsustained by the least semblance of smoke or vapor. The day itself was of unusual brilliancy, not the least speck of a cloud being visible in the tinted sky.
“That Elmer Roslyn is a powerful pert young chap,” said the border scout to himself. “I don’t think I ever seed his ekal, and he can fight in battles jes’ like his father, Captain Mart, that I’ve heerd Gineral Washington say was one of the best officers he’s got; but thar’s no sense in his puttin’ himself agin an old campaignor like me. I don’t s’pose he’s within twenty mile of Oakland yit, and he won’t have a chance to kindle that ere signal fire afore to-morrer. So I’ll start mine, and in case he should accidentally reach the mountain-top over yender afore sundown, why he’ll see what a foolish younker he was to butt agin me.”
Talbot Frost knew that despite the perils through which he had forced his way to this spot, the greatest danger, in all probability, lay in the brief space separating him from Fort Defiance in the middle of the valley.
It was necessary, therefore, to use great care lest the signal fire should attract the attention of unfriendly eyes.
“I’ll start a small one,” he said, beginning to gather some dry twigs, “just enough for Elmer to obsarve by sarchin’—by the great Gineral Washington!”
To explain this exclamation of the old scout, I must tell you that before applying the flint and tinder to the crumpled leaves, Talbot Frost glanced across the opposite mountain-crest, two miles away.
As he did so he detected a fine, wavy column of smoke climbing from the rocks and trees. It was so faint that it was not likely to attract notice, unless a suspicious eye happened to look toward that part of the sky.
“By gracious! It’s him!” he exclaimed, closing his mouth and resuming command of himself. “That ere young Roslyn is pearter than I thought; if he keeps on at this rate by the time he reaches my years he’ll be the ekal of me—almost. Wall, I’ll have to answer him; when we meet I’ll explanify that I give him up, and didn’t think it was wuth while to start a blaze.”
