INQUISITIVE BILLY AND HIS COUSIN GIBB.
BY RICHARD BARRY.
The only way to prove whether this story is true or not is to find the Professor (who could tell you all about it) and the Quartermaster (who claims to have been an eyewitness), and ask them; or to believe the tale that Billy Schreiber, Jun., and his cousin, Gibson Peters, II., tell, without any proof at all. But the two young gentlemen say they really and truly had this adventure, and that it honestly happened on the Fourth of July.
The Professor had rented the old Hope farm because it was the loneliest place on Long Island; and although he had lots of business on hand, for some reason he did not wish to be caught working at it. Perhaps he was bashful, and did not wish anybody to see him in his shirt sleeves. At all events, he took great precautions.
Now the way that Billy Schreiber and Gibb Peters found out that the Hope farm (it had been deserted for years) was rented was this: They went over there one day, and saw from Trotters Hill that the Hope barn had been reshingled, that the house was evidently occupied, and some men were at work building a road through the apple orchard. It was quite half a mile away, but they could make all this out very plainly.
"What's going on?" said Gibb to Bill.
"Something on the Q. T.," was the answer, "or father would have known about it, you can be sure of that!"
Mr. Schreiber senior was the station agent at the only railroad that came to that part of the country, and he knew the why and wherefore of every parcel that came into the village of Centreport. The boys looked off to the right, and saw piles of new lumber and boxes stored near the barn-yard, and crawling along the lower road a heavy-laden team that kicked up no small amount of dust.
"Those things never came by rail," said Gibb.
"Perhaps they brought them in from the south shore by boat," answered Billy, wisely. "'Tain't more 'an fifteen miles."
"Well, the easiest way to settle it," said Billy, "is to go in and ask them what they're doing."
"Don't think they'd object, do you?" suggested Gibb.
"Of course not," Billy answered. "Let's walk right up the main road."
But they were forced by circumstances to abandon this straightforward, fair, and aboveboard way of doing things. They had hardly turned the bend in the road at the bottom of the hill when there, in front of them, stretched a heavy barbed-wire fence, with the strands so close together that no one could possibly get through it or under it. Even climbing looked risky, and on the top of a post was the following legend, in very black letters:
"Trespassing Forbidden. Beware! No one Allowed on this Property on any Pretence Whatever. No Admittance."
"That kind of stops us," observed Billy to Gibb. "Say! what do you suppose is going on in there, anyhow?"
"Counterfeiters!" exclaimed Gibb; "that's what they are. I've read about them hiring lonely houses."
"It may be," returned his cousin. "But I've got an idea."
Now Billy Schreiber was the smartest boy in the Northport, Eastport, Westport, and Centreport schools. He read all the newspapers that he could lay his hands on, and, moreover, had the good fortune, of course, to be the son of his father—who had asked so many questions in his life that he could not help having imbibed a vast store of knowledge—and Billy had inherited some of his father's traits.
"Yes, I've got an idea," he repeated. "They're fitting out a Cuban expedition."
Why they should be fitting out a Cuban expedition twenty miles from the coast it might be hard to tell, but it sounded nice and adventurous. It was full of possibilities, and the idea struck Gibb at once as being almost worthy of "Old Sleuth, the Guessing Detective," of whose wondrous discernment he had read in a dime novel.
"Let's make believe we are spies," said Gibb, "and find out. Don't let's tell them in the village anything about it."
"All right," answered Billy. "Then get down on your hands and knees and crawl through the bushes."
No sooner said than done, and the boys crept into the thicket of scrub-oak. But the heavy fencing ran completely around the old Hope farm, and they could get no nearer to the house than when they had first sighted it, the distance of fully a quarter of a mile and more. They could see, however, that there were five or six men employed about the buildings, that three or four large wagons were drawn off to one side, and that an object that looked like a steam threshing-machine, and yet a little like a fire-engine, was under a sheltering tent made of canvas.
"I'll wager father could tell what that is," said Billy, pointing.
"But don't you tell him anything," said Gibb, "or you'll have half the village up here pokin' round. My father says your father is a knowin' feller, but he talks too much. I tell you what let's do, let's keep this thing secret."
Now Billy and Gibb had had secrets very often during the course of their acquaintance, but they had never succeeded in keeping them any length of time. But on this occasion they determined to make a compact, sacred and awful, and not to be betrayed, no matter what happened. So that night, after every one else had gone to bed, they drew up a fearful paper in red ink, with skulls and cross-bones, and added the pictures of an eagle, a locomotive, and an American flag as extra decorations.
As it rained all of the next day, they staid in the house, drawing up the plans of campaign, and were near to betraying themselves upon more than one occasion. Gibb proposed to let his uncle into the secret, under a bond of strict adherency to silence, but Billy, maybe because it is a wise child that knows its own father, refused to second the motion, and the conspirators remained two in number.
Everything was arranged for an early start on Saturday morning, in order to make it a day of reconnoitring. But, alas! Billy, who had been ailing, broke out with the measles. This was distressing enough; but as the elder cousin generally led in most things, Gibb felt it incumbent upon himself to follow suit, and three days later he wanted to wager that he was "rasher than Billy, anyhow."
This unforeseen postponement rather reduced the intensity of their curiosity; but when they were convalescing, after three weeks' close confinement, it was decided they must hasten, as rumors of the goings on at Hope farm had already reached the village, and Mr. Schreiber had expressed his intention of harnessing up and driving out that way some time in the near future.
"Our scheme's a goner if he gets there before we do," said William, upon hearing this—and at last a day came when they got away.
They were a little weak in the knees, and the six-mile tramp down the dusty road wore upon them. But at last they arrived at the barbed-wire fence that blocked the old driveway to the farm. Apparently there was nothing unusual going on, although a huge door had been cut in the front of the hay-barn, and through the roof of one of the smaller buildings a tall iron pipe extended, from which white feathery steam was spurting regularly, showing that machinery was at work within.
Through the orchard ran a long board walk, or so it appeared to the boys, at least. They skirted through the underbrush, seeking a place where a brook entered the Hope property, knowing that there they could find out something by closer observation. As they crossed a little path, a man stepped from behind a tree directly in front of them. So intent had been the boys on the idea that they were Spanish spies, that they had been communicating with one another in most unintelligible gibberish, and their first idea was that they must have betrayed themselves. But the man, who was dressed in a very citified fashion, appeared to be rather glad to see them.
"Halloa, boys!" he said. "Do you live here?"
They shook their heads.
"Well, do you know Professor Woerts?"
"Naw," said Gibb. "Who is he?"
The young man did not reply. "What's going on in there?" he asked. "Eh? Go on, tell us."
But Billy had learned something by this time in the question-asking line. "Who are you?" he put in.
"I'm a reporter for the Evening Detector, and have come here to find out what Professor Woerts is doing. Of course I know something about it, but he won't let any reporters on the premises."
It was evident that the Professor had adopted no half-way measures to keep curious persons away, for a man on horseback, with a shot-gun across his saddle, rode around a corner of the woods inside the fence just at this moment. The boys were for running at once, but the young man in the stiff Derby hat hallooed out: "Heigh there, mister! I want to talk to you."
The man on horseback rode closer.
"What's the matter with you fellows, anyhow?" began the reporter. "Woerts ought to know that I'm going to write a story about this, whether I get in or not. Say! I'll give you five dollars to change clothes with me and let me ride up to that stable—I won't steal the horse or the house, either."
"It's agin' orders to let anybody inside here," answered the sentry, with a drawl—"until the day," he added.
"Well, look here," went on the reporter, "tell me something. Has she had a run yet?"
"I won't tell you nothing," the man replied, "and there's nobody ye can see. Me and the Professor's the only folks on the premises. So go on away."
"You're a polite gentleman; I like you," said the reporter, kissing his hand. "Say! I'm going back and write up a story about you all being crazy. The whole thing's a fake; that's my opinion."
At this the man on the horse woke up. "Fake, eh?" he said. "All you fellows will be let in at the right time. No, sir, it's a success. You should have seen last night—"
"Should've seen what?" asked the reporter, putting his hand in his pocket for his note-book.
"Nothing," the man answered. "Keep the other side of the fence!" He touched his horse with the whip and rode away.
Evidently the reporter was chagrined at his lack of success, for he inquired the direction of the nearest port and the time of the trains.
Schreiber, who was a walking time-table, gave him the necessary information, and he strode off. The boys, however, continued their way until they came to the brook. Sure enough, they could get under the wire fence easily if they wished to try it.
But as they were feeling hungry, they determined to postpone further investigations until later. Well, a week went by, and at last the night they had settled upon arrived. It was bright moonlight, and the day had been a very busy and a noisy one. For, as it happened long ago, the signers of a certain important paper connected with our national history had settled on this day to "proclaim liberty throughout the land." It was "the Glorious Fourth!" Billy and Gibb had fired fire-crackers until there weren't any left; had gone in swimming four times, which were three too many; and had told their families that they were going over to Westport in the evening to see the "celebrashun," which was not exactly the truth. But the Hope farm was in Westport, if in any place, and perhaps the result of their visit might be termed a celebration.
It was nearly midnight when they reached the brook, and splashed down it until they came to the wire fence. They ducked under the lower strand, and, soaking wet, they scrambled up the bank on the other side.
"Say! ain't this excitin'?" whispered Gibb, as they peered around the corner of the barn, and saw that the house was still and deserted. The moonlight made everything quite bright, and the boys saw that a track like a railroad switch, only with double rails on each side, ran up to the door of the barn, and extended through the orchard into the meadow a distance of almost half a mile. It was strongly and carefully made, but what it was used for the boys had no idea.
"If we could only get into the barn," sighed Gibb.
"Hush!" answered Billy. "Let's see if the door's open."
They sneaked out of the shadows, and found a long rope with a cross-piece hanging within easy reach. Billy gave it a pull. There was a creak, and the great doors opened out slowly, exposing the whole front of the huge barn. There before them, they saw a strange object—a flat-boat on wheels it appeared to be at first glance, with a superstructure of tall tubes, strung and guyed with tense wires no heavier than fiddle-strings. But that was not all. A succession of wide flat surfaces stretched one above another. They looked like sails spread the wrong way.
When the doors had swung open so noisily the boys looked toward the house to see if they had been discovered, but not a sound or a stir did they hear or see.
"Come in. Let's look at the thing," Gibb said, entering cautiously, "What under the sun is it?"
Billy followed him, and the boys now perceived that on the deck of the flat-boat which rested on the wheels was something that looked like the engine of a steam-launch, but there was no boiler in sight—three round cylinders of a shining white metal placed one above the other, and overhead a series of complicated belts and cogs. Now four strange-looking objects resolved themselves into four huge twisted fans like propellers.
"Golly! I wish we had more light," muttered Gibb, as he stumbled over something on the floor.
He half fell against the flat-boat, and it rolled a few feet along the track.
"Goodness! doesn't it move easy?" said Billy, giving it a shove.
Despite the apparent size and the various complications, the great thing ran as smoothly as a bicycle. In fact, it needed but a little extra pushing to wheel it out on the track into the air.
The sky had clouded a little, but there was enough light to see by. The boys clambered up on the deck, as it were. As they did so Gibb put out his hand to steady himself, and it touched something that moved. Now a strange thing happened. There was a click, a buzzing sound, and a soft whirring began close overhead. Slowly and surely the car began to move. The whirring grew louder, and then with a jump the whole fabric started off at a tremendous pace. The boys clutched two of the uprights in mad terror. Before they knew it they were tearing through the orchard at fifty miles an hour. In fact, it all happened so quickly that the sensations of these first few seconds left but a vague impression.
There was a lifting trembling quiver that caused both the unwilling passengers to hold on tighter, if possible, than before, and all at once there was a crash that almost took out their arms. They had reached the end of the track, but they did not stop. Oh no! As a stone skips off the surface of a mill-pond they left the earth, with a sickening upward swoop that almost stopped their hearts. On and on, higher and higher, with a roaring whirring sound in their ears, and then apparently they reached a height where for a few moments, as Billy afterwards put it, they "kept an even keel." But it was not for long. There was a dip forward, and down they swooped at even greater speed than they had ascended. Gibb began to scream now, and, fell flat, with his arms about the upright and his legs, spread out, clawing with his toes to keep himself from slipping. Billy lost his balance too, and reaching up his hand, caught one of the stays. Instantly there was a great rush of air, a checking of the downward motion, and, as Gibb put it, they "scooped" up again. Maybe the two boys had become more used to this nightmare sort of motion by this time, for they were lying with their faces looking over the side. Far below them they could see the dark shadow that they knew was ground, and little twinkling lights that they knew were houses. Some brilliant-colored fireworks burst in the air beneath them. For some five or ten minutes they kept on a level, and for the first time found a chance to indulge in conversation.
"Where are we going to, anyway?" shrieked Gibb, in mortal fear.
"I dun'no'," chattered Billy, with his hair on end. "Hold tight; the old thing's goin' down again."
Sure enough, the flying-machine had taken a sort of twist off to the eastward, and was descending every second but at such an angle that it would be some minutes before it struck. The fans were working slower, and the great kitelike tail behind sagged slightly. But the stretches of silk were taut, and trembling like tight-trimmed fore-sails. They were skimming now scarcely two hundred feet above the tops of the trees. Half a mile away they saw the waters of the bay. The flight was becoming less swift, and they were sinking downwards with a sliding motion, softly and surely, but still with enough force to crush themselves to pieces should they strike the earth. Beneath them they saw a house. Gibb was whimpering again, and Billy also had begun to blubber.
Oh, what would they not give to awake and find that this was all a dream! But no; here they were holding tight for their lives, and there, below, stretched the pier where the light-house-tender always landed. There was the steamer. Two minutes more and they would—
But here is where Quartermaster Tim Muldoon comes into the story. It was his watch on the deck of the U.S.S. Fern, light-house-tender, and Tim had returned from liberty ashore early in the evening. He was drowsy and tired. Suddenly he was aroused by hearing a sound as if made by giant rushing wings. He raised his head, and then fell backwards flat upon the deck; not forty feet above him a huge thing was shooting along through the air.
Tim closed his eyes, and called in a whisper upon the saints. He would have screamed, but his voice apparently had left him. The first shock over, however, he rose to his feet and rubbed his eyes. No, it was not imagination. There was the huge thing dashing along over the surface of the bay. Then, as Mr. Muldoon watched it, it remained stationary for a minute, and slowly sank. Tim put his hand in his pocket and pulled something out. There was a splash, and a big black bottle sank alongside the pier-head. Then, with a frightened look on his face, Tim went below and called the other watch.
Half an hour later two dripping boys appeared at the Schreiber house. They were weak and pale, and when Mrs. Schreiber saw them they stood there holding on to the banisters.
"Don't let's tell them a thing," whispered Billy.
"All right," said Gibb. "Let 'em think what they want to."
"You've been out on the water and upset," said Mrs. Schreiber, emphatically. "William, I'll tell your father to-morrow morning. You'll catch it!"
"All right, ma'am," said Billy, meekly. "I guess me and Gibb will go to bed."
As the boys went up stairs Mrs. Schreiber heard her nephew say,
"Billy, I guess we swum half a mile."
Now on board the Fern they attribute Quartermaster Muldoon's conversion to the cause of total abstinence to the fact that one night he saw a fish-hawk as big as a full-rigged ship come down out of the sky and sink into the waters of Horseshoe Point, where the charts show no bottom.
Two days after the Fourth of July Mr. Schreiber drove over to the Hope farm. He found the wire across the road had been taken down, and apparently everything hauled away but a few odds and ends of strange-looking timbers and a section of a wooden track.
One of the Sunday papers published, a week or so afterwards, a long article with the following headings: "Professor Woerts's Air-Ship Runs Away! The Professor claims that His Wonderful Invention took Flight and disappeared of Its own Accord. Lost—A Flying-Machine. He says he will make another!"
The other papers commented upon the story, and said, "It is a pretty good yarn." But they all advised the Professor to "chain the shebang down."
Now what I have written here is what I got from the boys, and whether it is a good yarn or not I do not know; but, as I said before, just find the Professor and the Quartermaster; they may help you to decide.
[HOW TO ENTER THE NAVY.]
BY ADMIRAL BANCROFT GHERARDI, U. S. N.
ome of our young readers would be glad to know how to enter the United States navy. There are two ways—one is through the Naval Academy at Annapolis, in which the young man becomes in time a commissioned officer; the other is through the Training-School at Newport, in which case the young man becomes a sailor, and in time may become an officer known officially as a warrant-officer. A commissioned officer holds an appointment from the President, and is confirmed by the United States Senate. A warrant-officer holds an acting appointment from the Navy Department, and after having served six months on a sea-going vessel, and his commanding officer having made a favorable report as to his fitness to remain an officer in the navy, he is then given a warrant signed by the President, and dated back to the time he received his acting appointment. Warrant-officers are designated gunners, boat-swains, and carpenters, and are officers as much as any other officers in the navy, except that they may not hold commissions.
The history of the United States navy has been particularly glorious. It has traditions of heroism and bravery that are a constant source of pride to those in the service, and that appeal especially to young men who are fond of their country and of achievements in warfare. To become an officer in the service is a most honorable ambition, and one to which thousands of young men aspire. It is for that reason that appointments to Annapolis are always sought eagerly. Each Congressional district is entitled to one cadet at Annapolis at one time, and in addition the President has ten appointments at large. There can be, however, only ten appointees of the President, serving apprenticeship at the same time. The District of Columbia likewise sends one cadet to the Academy. The President usually appoints the sons of naval or army officers.
The Congressmen or delegates to Congress from the Territories recommend the appointment of the other cadets. To avoid favoritism the Congressmen occasionally recommend young men who have passed the best examination in a competition, of which there has been public notice given. Congressmen's appointees must reside in the district from which they are appointed, and all appointees must be between the ages of fifteen and twenty.
When a young man receives his appointment to Annapolis he is required to sign articles binding himself to eight years' service. He must pass an examination in the ordinary English branches, special attention being paid to the history of the United States. He must be sound physically, or his "alternate," the young man who usually passes the next best preliminary examination, takes his place as the cadet, provided the latter is sound physically, and can also pass the entrance examination to the Academy. When a young man becomes a cadet he gets $500 salary each year. The course of study lasts six years. Four of these are passed at the Academy, and two at sea. One of these is the "line" division, and the other is the "staff" division. The line-men are the officers who do the fighting, navigating, and executive work of a ship, and the others become officers who have charge of the machinery of a ship, and are known as engineers. The line division is the favorite, because young men rise to the highest grade, such as rear-admiral, in this branch of the service. The other men become engineers, and cannot reach any grade higher than that of commodore.
After two years' service at sea, during which the young man perfects himself in the problems of seamanship, the cadets receive appointments as commissioned officers, if there are vacancies. If there are not sufficient vacancies to go around, the best men are taken, and the others are discharged, with a certificate of graduation and one year's pay—$1000. We are building and manning ships so fast in these days of the new navy that there are always enough vacancies, and it is rare that any cadets are discharged because there is no room for them in the service. After having become a commissioned officer in the staff or line, the young officer is promoted gradually from grade to grade, usually according to relative rank, except in time of war, when, for especial reasons, the brighter men are pushed forward because of their exceptional fitness for command or other important work. The officers remain in the service until they are sixty-two years old, unless they resign before that time, and then are retired under three-quarter pay until they die.
The scarcity of men who go into the engineering department of the navy is such that there is a bill now pending in Congress to admit graduates of colleges where marine and mechanical engineering is taught to enter the navy without passing through the Annapolis Academy. They must pass an examination to show that they are fit for the engineering work, and must spend two years at sea, like the graduates of Annapolis. If this bill should become a law, it will be possible for young men to become officers in the engineer corps in the navy without going through the Annapolis Academy.
ENLISTING ON BOARD A RECEIVING-SHIP.
When a boy wishes to become a sailor in the navy he applies to one of the three "receiving" ships. They are the Vermont at the New York Navy-Yard, the Wabash at the Boston Yard, and the Richmond at the League Island Navy-Yard in Philadelphia. The boys must be between fourteen and sixteen years of age, sound in health, and be able to read and write to some extent. No distinction is made in race, and it is a singular fact that the colored boys who apply are almost invariably able to read and write better than the white boys. On board the Vermont the only reading test applied is contained on a card, which is as follows:
"'Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States in Congress assembled, that fraudulent enlistment and the receipt of any pay or allowance thereunder is hereby declared an offence against naval discipline, and made punishable by general court martial.'
"What I have just read to you is a law of the United States, and it means that if you do not tell the truth about your age, parents, or guardian, or if you are a deserter from the naval or military service, you may be tried by a court martial, be put in prison, or punished in some way."
GUNNERY AND AIMING DRILL AT THE NEWPORT NAVAL TRAINING-SCHOOL.
The last paragraph of this is what boys are usually required to read. The officers are not very strict about the hard words, and so almost any boy can pass the test. After being admitted, Uncle Sam gives each boy an outfit. His parents or guardian must sign a paper giving him to the government until he is twenty-one years of age. He becomes known at once as a third-grade apprentice, and in a few days he is sent to a training-school at Newport, where he is taught rudimentary things about a sailor's life and work. After remaining at Newport for six months he is transferred to one of two training-ships. These are the Essex and the Alliance. He remains on one of these for six months, and takes a cruise. On the voyage he learns how to handle the sails, how to sew and splice, and how to handle guns. Innumerable other things about a sailor's life he also picks up, and when he returns he is transferred to a modern man-o'-war, where he becomes an apprentice of the second class. Here he takes his place with the regular crew, and has his allotted share of the daily routine to perform. He is examined every three months, and usually he becomes an apprentice of the first class in six months, when he has a rank which corresponds to the rank of seaman with sailors.
When a boy becomes twenty-one he may leave the service, or enlist again, and be independent of parents or guardian. There are three grades of enlisted men in the navy—landsmen, ordinary seamen, and seamen. Besides these the following are enlisted: machinists, masters-at-arms, and coal-heavers, and from these classes there are other special classes. The boy who enlists after he has served his apprenticeship usually goes into the highest grade—that of seaman. After a while he may be promoted to be a warrant-officer, and so reach the highest grade.
When a man enters the navy he enters one of the three grades—landsman, ordinary seaman, or seaman. If he has had no experience whatever on shipboard he becomes a landsman, and practically is taught all he knows on shipboard. If he has had some experience on ships, but is not expert in all branches of his work, he becomes an ordinary seaman. If he has served five years at sea and is intelligent, he usually goes to the grade of seaman. Such men are competent to "reef, hand, and steer," as the expression goes; that is, they are competent to do all the work required of a sailor without further instruction. As fast as their terms expire men and boys may re-enlist, and at each re-enlistment they receive a slight increase of pay.
As third-class apprentices the boys get $9 per month; when they become second-class apprentices they get $15 a month, and when they become first-class apprentices they get $21 a month. If they re-enlist after they are twenty-one they get three months' extra pay at the rating they had when they became of age, and, in addition, get one dollar a month more pay than they received as apprentices.
There are other ways for men to get into the navy than those I have mentioned, but these are what might be called special enlistments. For example, a man may enlist as a fireman. There are two grades of these, according to skill and experience. Then there are machinists, who must pass an examination, and stewards, carpenters, musicians, and the like. These special grades require skilled labor to some extent, and of course higher pay goes with their work.
It is imperative when a boy enters the service that his parents or guardian shall sign papers giving him to the government until he is twenty-one. When a boy applies who has no parents or duly qualified guardian the officials supply him with a guardian. They do this through the generosity of a lawyer in New York, named Herbert Van Dyke. He becomes their guardian, and all such boys are known as "Van Dyke" boys—a discrimination which from the name should of itself be quite aristocratic. Mr. Van Dyke has become the guardian of probably 1500 boys since he has been in this kind of work. He does it entirely from motives of philanthropy, and there is no doubt that he is a public benefactor. Many a boy has been started in an honorable career in the navy through his kindness and generosity. He performs a most welcome service not only to the boys, but to his country as well. He does this so quietly that almost nothing is heard of him, and it is simply a matter of justice that credit should be given to him.
It is a mistake to think that there is room in the navy for "bad boys," that is, boys who are unmanageable at home or have done some crime. There is a popular idea that when a boy becomes utterly bad, and fit only for the reform school, his parents may get rid of him, and hope at the same time to make a man of him, by getting him into the navy. No such boys are taken if the officials know of it. The uniform of the United States is honorable, and only honorable persons are expected to wear it. No others are wanted. When the officials find out that a boy has a bad record morally, he is rejected forthwith. Even with the applicants who are fit morally to wear the uniform, only about one-quarter are taken, but no one is rejected so quickly as a boy who ought to go to a reform school rather than into the navy, even though he may be able to pass the mental and physical examination with ease. There is no law to prevent the enlistment of aliens in the United States navy, but it is a singular fact that so popular has this branch of the public service become in recent times that for the last two years practically none but Americans have entered it.
The truth of the old saying "that it is sweet to die for one's country" shows itself in the spirit which animates most of those who compose the navy of the United States to-day, whether they are officers or sailors. A notable instance of this was seen during the recent civil war in Brazil. The rebels at Rio Janeiro blockaded the port, and would not allow our merchant ships to go into the harbor. Admiral Benham, in command of our squadron, notified the ships of the rebels that he intended to take our merchant-men into the harbor, and that if they were interfered with he should fire on the rebel fleet. Our war-ships were cleared for action, and every man waited a single word before he plunged into a fight that must have meant death to many of them. One of the spectators of that scene has declared that he never saw a more inspiriting sight than the way our sailors, probably not a dozen of whom had ever had experience in war, responded to the call of duty. To a man they were ready to die for one's country if necessary. Surely, if it is sweet to die for one's country, it is honorable at all times to wear the uniform of that country, and that doubtless explains why our naval service is so popular nowadays, and is composed chiefly of native-born Americans.
In order to induce good men to return to the service, there is a law of Congress which gives to every man on re-enlisting three months' pay of the grade that he held at the time of his discharge, providing he enlists within three months from the date of his discharge. Then the regulations of the department, as another inducement for men, give a continuous-service certificate to all men receiving honorable discharges, which certificate entitles a man at every re-enlistment to one dollar's additional pay.
[OLD TOOLS AND NEW ONES.]
BY BARNET PHILLIPS.
I bought a gimlet with a metal handle for five cents, and it turned out to be a good tool. Five cents seemed cheap for a gimlet. Then I read that when manufacturers turned out gimlets in large quantities they could afford to sell them for less than a cent apiece. I happened to remember how a friend of mine showed me, some years ago, a handsome otter-skin pouch neatly ornamented, and told me that when he was in Alaska he had given an Indian a gimlet for it.
"That was a hard trade for the Indian," I said, "for that skin is worth twenty-five dollars."
"I did not take any advantage of the Indian," was my friend's answer. "The man was perfectly satisfied with the barter. A week afterwards I would have given the skin back, and more besides, to have had a gimlet. Skins were plenty in Alaska, gimlets scarce. The real cost of a thing often depends on how much you need it—and that is called the demand; and to something else—the distance from the place where the thing is made. You see, the subject of transportation comes in there, which has to do with supply."
When I thought it over I came to the conclusion that my friend had not got the better of the Indian, and that it was a fair swop.
I have the credit with my own children of being a very poor tinkerer, with a reputation for breaking tools; and I wanted a gimlet, and did not have one, when, strangely enough, the United States National Museum at Washington sent me one, not to use, but to look at, and here is an exact outline of it:
It is a splinter of flint made by primitive man, and he used it to bore holes in wood or as an awl for piercing skins. It came from Boone County, Missouri. It is immensely old, so old that its date, or when it was made, can only be guessed. The antiquity of it in a general way can be insisted upon, because it is what is called "weathered," and by weathered this is meant: that the piece of flint has been so long exposed to the action of the air and moisture that the composition of the flint has altered. If you were to take a piece of freshly splintered flint and put it in a hole in the ground when you were ten years old, and waited until you were seventy, and then dug it up, the alteration on the outside would be but slight. You might, of course, put it in wet ground where the water was full of lime in solution, and more rapid changes would take place. Anyhow, you would not be likely in a lifetime to see much alteration in the character of your flint. If your great-great-great-grandfather had buried that flint, and you had found it, the changes would have been more evident. Now this gimlet, or borer, is of a white creamy color, and you cannot see that it resembles flint. I could not bore a hole with it, because it would be certain to break.
If I were to guess how old it is I should say, "Fifteen hundred years ago that borer was in use," and then I might not give it age enough. It is a very old-fashioned gimlet, and since we can make gimlets to-day for less than a cent apiece, I wonder what this flint one was worth fifteen or twenty thousand years ago?
You might never have thought about it, but the hardest thing to do to-day is to find out exactly what a thing costs. There are, however, certain things that you do know—the cost of the raw material, and the price of labor. When the gimlet-maker in New England made up the price of his wares by the millions, he had to count up a hundred or more different kinds of expenses before he could settle down to what was about the exact cost of a gimlet.
We cannot apply the same rules exactly to this flint tool. In 1896 you can buy iron or steel everywhere. Flint may seem to you to-day as of no great value, because there is so little demand for it, but in the early history of man it was a substance highly prized. It is not scattered about everywhere. Primitive man made long journeys in order to obtain it. He wanted it badly, not only for his tools, but for the purpose of making a fire. He knew that by striking it with a bit of metal or with certain natural metallic substances he could bring forth sparks. There are often found in the graves of men whose race or tribe or origin is lost bits of flint with fragments of pyrites; and pyrites is a natural combination of sulphur and iron. When you strike them together there is a spark. What is strange about these finds is this, that in the surrounding country there is not to be found a bit of flint or a scrap of pyrites. Primitive man must have set out to find them, or they came to him by barter. I should then think that if we could measure the values of tools in the past with those of to-day, such implements as early man had were expensive, and worth comparatively more to him than our tools are to us. It is, however, a puzzle. Labor must have been cheap, because savage people take little account of time. To-day we know how these flint tools or weapons are made, and coarser ones can be fashioned by us in a short time. There must have been developed, however, great skill in the long past, and for this simple reason: The flint tools broke so easily that there was always a demand for new tools, and so the old gimlet business must have been always brisk.
A PREHISTORIC SCRAPER.
Another illustration is a scraper, and belongs also to the United States National Museum. It served for dressing skins, in removing the hair and grease, before the rough process of tanning. These stone scrapers are found of all sizes, and as implements might have served for a variety of purposes. This bit of flint is as old as the gimlet or borer, being white with age.
THE CHISEL.
Here is a chisel, or gouge, and, compared with the other tools, this may be called an implement made the day before yesterday. Those who have studied this kind of tool, found in the Swiss lakes, say it is not more than 2500 or 3000 years old. Ages on ages ago there was a race of people who lived in houses built on piles which stood in the water of the Swiss lakes. Nobody ever thought such a race existed until the level of one of the lakes was lowered, and then the secrets of a long-forgotten people were discovered. This tool is made of a piece of green serpentine embedded in a handle, which socket is a portion of the antler of a deer. It has still a good edge on it, though it has remained under water thousands of years. I might scrape off a bit of wood with it to-day. The handle, however, is weak, rotten through age, and would crumble.
This is what I should like to impress on my readers: Our work to-day is what is called specialized. By that is meant that everybody has a special or particular trade or occupation. I should not want a carpenter to make my clothes, or a locksmith to make my boots. Men become skilled because they exercise one craft, doing it quicker and better. In those old days there must have been artisans, as the stone tool maker, who made blunt implements, and nothing else; but from the nature of things those who used the tools had many occupations. Having but few tools, one implement served various purposes. The edge of the drill might be used to cut with, or, attached to a stock, could be converted into a weapon. Primitive man, then, had to be a "Jack of all trades," and was not, as in the old adage, "master of none," for he was forced to turn his hand to many different kinds of occupations.
[INDEPENDENCE DAY.]
With pomp of waving banners,
With beat of throbbing drums,
And shouts of happy people,
The joyous morning comes;
The very air is thrilling,
And every heart is gay,
For once again we welcome
Our Independence day.
'Twas a very little nation
That set apart "the Fourth";
'Tis a nation strong and mighty
Which keeps it, South and North.
Our flag of stars is floating
From surging sea to sea,
And beneath its folds we gather,
A people great and free.
Not the older Magna Charta
Was a pledge of braver hearts
Than the later Declaration
From which this proud day starts.
Stout souls they were that framed it,
Stout hands that signed and sealed,
And the birthright thus they gave us
We never more will yield.
So to gallant martial music
We are stepping down the street,
With the shrilling bugles calling,
And the drum's exulting beat,
While from every spire and steeple
There flutters, blithe and gay,
The flag we love and honor
This Independence day.
Margaret E. Sangster.
[THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.]
LEXINGTON ON FOURTH OF JULY.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
ell you what, fellows, I mean to have a rousing good time this Fourth of July, and no mistake. I'm tired of just torpedoes, crackers, and cannons. What do you say to joining me?"
"Joining you, Alec? Of course we will," was the hearty response given by Sam Thayer, with a hurried look at each of the boys, as if to make doubly sure of their assent; and a second afterwards they all shouted, as if they had practised in concert, "You can make sure of me"; while a later voice added, with a face full of mischief, and a sly wink to the boy at his left, "Catch any of us missing Alec's fun"; and then, turning towards Alec, he asked, "Do you remember last Fourth how we scared cats with torpedoes until, notwithstanding their nine lives, I think some of them gave up the ghost? And do you remember, too, how we watched out for policemen before touching off our crackers? Whew!"
"Oh, that was the time," Alec laughingly responded, "when, to quote from my recitation to-morrow,
"'The boys turned out
With noise and rout,
And loud halloo, and lusty shout,
And racket of crackers, and boom, and pop,
And ringing of bells, and sizz, and splutter,
Till good folks trying to sleep would stop,
And get up, and close the windows and shutter.'
"But this time I propose something quite different."
The group numbered fifteen. They had been taking a spin on their bicycles, and now had stopped to rest, to lay plans for the coming Fourth, and also to get comfortably cool under the long branches of this welcome grove of maple-trees.
Alec was undoubtedly the ringleader, but Sam Thayer, John Sinclair, and Clarence Bruce were his right-hand men, so whenever an unusually big scheme was on foot Alec always bided his time until being sure of their support.
"Hurrah for Alec!" suddenly ejaculated John Sinclair, tossing his cap ten feet or more upward; and a tremendous whoop, followed by three times three cheers and a tiger; but Sam Thayer, not yet satisfied with the stir already made, thought he would continue, and picked up a stick and tin pan lying on the road, and, making believe he was a drummer-boy, banged away with all his might, rat-ta-tat-tat, rat-ta-tat-tat—and marching to his left and so around, he speedily made a circle which enclosed the group.
"Thayer is anticipating part of my programme, boys." These words were sufficient, for in a trice the stick and pan were thrown as far as Sam's strong arms could pitch them, while Sam, first having turned a summersault, threw himself on the soft grass, thus joining the other expectant listeners.
"What would you think of a battle, fellows?"
"Fine!" And the very suggestion threw the little group in such disorder and hubbub that Alec laughingly but decidedly called "Order," adding, "The time is rapidly passing, and if we are to go to war we must prepare. You are sure you will not fail me, boys?"
"Certain sure." And once again quiet was restored.
"My plan is very simple. It is to divide ourselves into two armies. One army will represent the British, the other the United States. Make believe that Congress has commanded us to fortify the farm that belongs to my father. You know the location?"
"Rather."
"Suppose we name the place Lexington. You each know that it was at Lexington, Massachusetts, that the first skirmish in the War of American Independence was fought.
"Well, the United States army must occupy the farm, and the British force must attack it; and, of course, the United States army must win.
"The British will simply respect the action of the Revolutionary period at the time of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis—they will run away, but not, like the boy in the story-book, 'come to fight another day.' In order to make it really jolly, though, we should enlist fifty boys, and more if possible, and, to make it a fair fight, divide them evenly.
"You'll have to be General-in-chief of the whole, Alec," interrupted one of the listeners.
"All right; as you have decided to adopt my plan, I cannot do otherwise than accept such a position. I'm bound on having a good time, and if you'll honestly join me, we'll have one.
"Now, by right of office, and to get the thing started, I appoint as head of the British army Clarence Bruce, and as head of the army of the United States Samuel Thayer. As General-in-chief of both armies I would further state that the said officers must secure the requisite number of men, and see that they are provided with suitable uniforms and flags. In order not to make ourselves a nuisance to our mothers and big sisters, adopt as uniform our very oldest clothing; then we'll not have any advice or fuss as to care. We can show our colors by means of flags, banners, and a short scarf of bunting tied around our left arms: or what's the matter with basting a narrow strip of bunting around our jackets or on the outside seams of our trousers? Everybody must be provided with a wooden gun, as neither balls, cartridges, nor shot of any sort will be allowed. But both officers and privates may use large fire-crackers, any amount of torpedoes, and cannon, for war is not altogether fun; and the soldiers on both sides must show pluck. My plan of battle would be the following, but the officers in charge must arrange for themselves: Commence hostilities at nine o'clock Fourth of July morning, thus enabling our parents and friends to watch, at which time half of the United States army will be hidden back of the rocks which skirt the southeast side of the farm, and most of the others will be in the old barn that my father has been trying to tear down for the last two years. A sentinel should pass to and fro before the barn, and back of him other men should occasionally appear. The onslaught should be made by the British throwing handfuls of torpedoes against the rocks; but on the same rocks the United States army will have previously placed cannon, which, at a few moments after nine, will go off with a tremendous bang. The British will continue the hurling of the torpedoes until they are satisfied that all of the United States men are about the barn, and then they will recklessly march directly on the forbidden territory. At this moment the hidden soldiers will jump to their feet, and those at the barn will come to assist them. Thus action will determinedly commence. The English, being surprised, will soon be surrounded, and a fierce battle will ensue. The United States soldiers are now firing, and it seems a veritable blinding hailstorm, so thick and fast the white torpedo shells shower down, and the noise from the occasional fire-cracker not only increases confusion, but creates dismay. In the excitement the English make a mad rush for the barn; but that action has been anticipated—indeed, so much so that one of the privates had staid behind with the express purpose of firing it. And what a magnificent conflagration it will make, fellows, for we must carefully prepare it with a coating of tar and long wisps of tarred paper!
"When the barn is fired the battle will end, for there will be nothing left for the British to do but to surrender. Those who will not willingly give up their guns will drop them in the chase, for the United States Soldiers will be after them sure and fast, and all their banners and flags will be exhibited as trophies."
When Alec concluded, the boys drew a long breath, and then all tongues were loosed, and each one seemed to talk faster and louder than the other in his desire for a hearing, all agreeing, however, that the battle would be "jolly fun," and it was "like Alec" to get ahead of them in planning such grand sport. But what would be done with the rest of the day? This amusement would be but a starter; not a moment must be left for idleness.
And so it was another of the boys that was heard. He had lately been reading, he explained, the story of Mary, the mother of Washington, and he suggested that something should be done in her honor. That so much was always said about General George Washington, the Declaration of Independence, and all that, and he had made up his mind for one that George Washington would have been nowhere without his mother, and that she should be celebrated.
This resulted in tremendous applause, and the calling out of, "Only listen to Mr. Wisdom."
For a second the boy was abashed; but suddenly regaining himself, he added, "I've explained I have only but just finished reading about her, and the book told me of General Lafayette's visit and of the impression she gave him; for on reporting the interview to his friends, he stated, 'I have seen the only Roman matron living at this day!' and it is also said of her that the cause of American Independence had no more steadfast adherent."
So, after a short discussion, the boys decided to follow the battle with a procession, in which every one would be invited to join, even the visitors, whether friends or strangers; these should follow either four or six abreast, as their number would allow. That the boys who had represented the English army should make the necessary change in attire, and march as the United States navy, while the other boys would march as the army. There should be a detachment of cavalry—for a few riders ought to be found somewhere—a battalion of volunteers and several companies of infantry, all followed by the Marine Band.
A banner should lead the procession, bearing the inscription, "In honor of Mary Washington," and the Star-spangled Banner should triumphantly wave throughout the entire line.
One of the younger boys was noticeably uneasy, and in reply to the question, "Don't you want the procession?" said:
"Oh yes! but the battle's far jollier. I like the smell and bang of gunpowder, and I've been studying a receipt for a powerful noise."
"What's that—a good receipt for a noise?" and the next instant the boy was surrounded by his fellows.
"Yes, simple enough too—nothing but chlorate of potash and sulphur mixed; you should put several pieces of paper around it, though, and hammer it down as heavy as you can."
Just then was heard a sharp whistle, and Alec, with a jump on his wheel, called, "Good-by, all; it's time for me to start home." And a minute later those who were watching saw a bicycle-race along the road.
[A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.]
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER III.
ext morning, as usual, George was up and on horseback by sunrise. Until this year he had ridden five miles a day each way to Mr. Hobby's school; but now he was so far ahead of the schoolmaster's classes that he went only a few times a week, to study surveying and the higher mathematics, and to have the week's study at home marked out for him. Every morning, however, it was his duty to ride over the whole plantation before breakfast, and to report the condition of everything in it to his mother. Madam Washington was one of the best farmers in the colony, and it was her custom, after hearing George's account at breakfast, to mount her horse and ride over the place also, and give her orders for the day.
The first long lances of light were just tipping the woods and the river when George came out, and found his horse held by Billy Lee, a negro lad of about his own age, who was his body-servant and shadow.[1] Billy was a chocolate-colored youth, the son of Aunt Sukey, the cook, and Uncle Jasper, the butler. He had but one idea and one ideal on earth, and that was "Marse George." It was in vain that Madam Washington, the strictest of disciplinarians, might lay her commands on Billy. Until he had found out what "Marse George" wanted him to do, Billy seemed unconscious of having got any orders. Madam Washington, who could awe much older and wiser persons than Billy, had often sent for the boy, when he was regularly taken into the house, and after reasoning with him, kindly explaining to him that both "Marse George" and himself were merely boys, and under her authority, would give him a stern reproof, which Billy always received in an abstracted silence, as if he had not heard a word that was said to him. Finding that he acted throughout as if he had not heard, Madam Washington turned him over to Aunt Sukey, who, after the fashion of those days with white boys as well as with black, gave him a smart birching. Billy's roars were like the trumpeting of an elephant; but within a week he went back to his old way of forgetting there was anybody in the world except "Marse George." Then Madam Washington turned him over to Uncle Jasper, who "lay" that he would "meck dat little triflin' nigger min' missis." A second and much more vigorous birching followed at the hands of Uncle Jasper, who triumphed over Aunt Sukey when Billy for two days actually seemed to realize that he had something else to do besides following George about and never taking his eyes off him. Uncle Jasper's victory was short-lived, though. Within a week Billy was as good for nothing as ever, except to George. Madam Washington then saw that it was not a case of discipline—that the boy was simply dominated by his devotion to George, and could neither be forced nor reasoned out of it. Therefore it was arranged that the care of the young master's horse and everything pertaining to him should be confided to Billy, who would work all day with the utmost willingness for "Marse George." By this means Billy was made of use. Nobody touched George's clothes or books or belongings except Billy. He scrubbed and then dry-rubbed the door of his young master's room, scoured the windows, cut the wood and made the fires, attended to his horse, and when George was there personally to direct him Billy would do whatever work he was ordered. But the instant he was left to himself he returned to idleness, or to some perfectly useless work for his young master—polishing up windows that were already bright, dry-rubbing a floor that shone like a mirror, or brushing George's clothes, which were quite spotless. His young master loved him with the strong affection that commonly existed between the masters and the body-servants in those days.
Like Madam Washington, George was a natural disciplinarian, and himself capable of great labor of mind and body, he exacted work from everybody. But Billy was an exception to this rule. It is not in the human heart to be altogether without weaknesses, and Billy was George's weakness. When his mother would declare the boy to be the idlest servant about the place, George could not deny it; but he always left the room when there were any animadversions on his favorite, and could never be brought to acknowledge that Billy was not a much-injured boy. Serene in the consciousness that "Marse George" would stand by him, Billy troubled himself not at all about Madam Washington's occasional cutting remarks as to his uselessness, nor his father's and mother's more outspoken complaints that he "warn't no good 'scusin' 'twas to walk arter Marse George, proud as a peacock ef he kin git a ole jacket or a p'yar o' Marse George's breeches fur ter go struttin' roun' in." Aunt Sukey was very pious, and Uncle Jasper was a preacher, and held forth Sunday nights, in a disused corn-house on the place, to a large congregation of negroes from the neighboring places. But Billy showed no fondness whatever for these meetings, preferring to go to the Established Church with his young master every Sunday, sitting in a corner of the gallery, and going to sleep with much comfort and regularity as soon as he got there. Madam Washington always exacted of every one who went to church from her house that he or she should repeat the clergyman's text on coming home, and Billy was no exception to the rule. On Sunday, therefore, instead of joining the gay procession of youths and young men, all handsomely mounted, who rode along the highway after church, George devoted his time on his way home to teaching Billy the text. The boy always repeated it very glibly when Madam Washington demanded it of him, and thereby won her favor, for a short time, once a week.
On this particular morning, as George took the reins from Billy and jumped on the back of his sorrel colt, and galloped down the lane towards the fodder-field, Billy, who was keen enough where his young master was concerned, saw that he was preoccupied. Contrary to custom, he would not take his dog Rattler with him, and Billy, dragging the whining dog by the neck, hauled him back into the house and up into George's room, where the two proceeded to lay themselves down before the fire and go to sleep. An hour later the indignant Aunt Sukey found them, and but for George's return just then it would have gone hard with Billy anyhow.
As George galloped briskly along in the crisp October morning he felt within him the full exhilaration of youth and health and hope. He had not been able to sleep all night for thinking of that promised visit to Greenway Court. He had heard of it—a strange combination of hunting-lodge and country-seat in the mountains, where Lord Fairfax lived, surrounded by dependents, like a feudal baron. George had never in his life been a hundred miles away from home. He had been over to Mount Vernon since his brother Laurence's marriage, and the visit had charmed him so that his ever-prudent mother had feared that the simpler and plainer life at Ferry Farm would be distasteful to him; for Mount Vernon was a fine, roomy country-house, where Laurence Washington and his handsome young wife, both rich, dispensed a splendid hospitality. There was a great stable full of saddle-horses and coach-horses, a retinue of servants, and a continual round of entertaining going on. Laurence Washington had only lately retired from the British army, and his house was the favorite resort for the officers of the British war-ships, that often came up the Potomac, as well as the officers of the military post at Alexandria. Although he enjoyed this gay and interesting life at Mount Vernon, George had left it without having his head turned, and came back quite willingly to the sober and industrious regularity of the home at Ferry Farm. He was the favorite over all his brothers with Laurence Washington and his wife, and it was a well-understood fact that, if they died without children, George was to inherit the splendid estate of Mount Vernon. Madam Washington had been a kind step-mother to Laurence Washington, and he repaid it by his affection for his half-brothers and young sister. In those days, when the eldest son was the heir, it seemed quite natural that George, as next eldest, should have preference, and should be the next person of consequence in the family to his brother Laurence.
He spent an hour riding over the place, seeing that the fodder had been properly stripped from the stalks in a field, looking after the ferry-boats, giving an eye to the feeding of the stock and a sharp investigation of the stables, and returned to the house by seven o'clock. Precisely at seven o'clock every morning all the children, servants, and whatever guests there were in the house, assembled in the sitting-room, where prayers were read. In his father's time the master of the house had read these prayers, and after his death Laurence, as the head of the family, had taken up this duty; but since his marriage and removal to Mount Vernon it had fallen upon George.
When he entered the room he found his mother waiting for him as usual, with little Mistress Betty and the three younger boys. The servants, including Billy, who had already been reported by Aunt Sukey, were standing around the wall. After an affectionate good-morning to his mother, George, with dignity and reverence, read the family prayers in the Book of Common Prayer. His mother was as calm and as collected as usual, but in the small velvet bag she carried over her arm lay an important letter, received between the time that George left the house in the morning and his return. Prayers over, breakfast was served, George sitting in his father's place at the head of the table, and Madam Washington talking calmly over every-day matters.
"I do not know what we are to do with that boy Billy," she said. "This morning, when he ought to have been picking up chips for the kitchen, he was lying in front of your fireplace with Rattler, both of them sound asleep."
George, instead of being scandalized at this, only smiled a little.
"I do not know which is the more useless," exclaimed Madam Washington, with energy, "the dog or that boy."
George ceased smiling at this; he did not like to have Billy too severely commented on, and deftly turned the conversation: "Lord Fairfax again asked me, when we were crossing the river last night, to visit him at Greenway Court. I should like very much to go, mother. I believe I would rather go even than to spend Christmas at Mount Vernon, for I have been to Mount Vernon, but I have never been to Greenway, or to any place like it."
"The Earl sent me a letter this morning on the subject before he left Fredericksburg," replied Madam Washington, quietly.
The blood flew into George's face, but he spoke no word. His mother was a person who did not like to be questioned.
"You may read it," she continued, handing it to him out of her bag.
It was sealed with the huge crest of the Fairfaxes, and was written in the beautiful penmanship of the period. It began:
"Honored Madam,—The promise you graciously made me, that your eldest son, Mr. George Washington, might visit me at Greenway Court, gave me both pride and pleasure; and will you not add to that pride and pleasure by permitting him to return with me when I pass through Fredericksburg again on my way home two days hence? Do not, honored madam, think that I am proposing that your son spend his whole time with me in sport and pleasure. While both have their place in the education of the young, I conceive, honored madam, that your son has more serious business in hand—namely, the improvement of his mind, and the acquiring of those noble qualities and graces which distinguish the gentleman from the lout.
"He would have at Greenway, at least, the advantage of the best minds in England, as far as they can be writ in books, and for myself, honored madam, I will be as kind to him as the tenderest father. If you can recall with any pleasure the days, so long ago, when we were both twenty years younger, and when your friendship, honored madam, was the chief pleasure, as it always will be the chief honor, of my life, I beg that you will not refuse my request. I am, madam, with sentiments of the highest esteem,
"Your obedient humble servant, Fairfax."
"Have you thought it over, mother?"
"Yes, my son; but, as you know, I am a person of deliberation; I will think it over yet more."
"I will give up Christmas at Mount Vernon, mother, if you will let me go."
"I have already promised your brother that you shall spend Christmas with him, and I cannot recall my word."
George said no more. He got up, and bowing respectfully to his mother, went out. He had that morning more than his usual number of tasks to do; but all day long he was in a dream. For all his steadiness and willingness to lead a quiet life with his mother and the younger children at Ferry Farm, he was by nature adventurous, and for more than a year he had chafed inwardly at the narrow and uneventful existence which he led. He had early announced that he wished to serve either in the army or in the navy, but, like all people, young or old, who have strong determination, he bided his time quietly, doing meanwhile what came to hand. He had been every whit as much fascinated with Lord Fairfax as the elder man had been with him; and the prospect of a visit to Greenway—of listening to his talk of the great men he had known; of seeing the mountains for the first time in his life, and of hunting and sporting in their wilds; of taking lessons in fencing from old Lance; of looking over Lord Fairfax's books—was altogether enchanting. He had a keen taste for social life, and his Christmas at Mount Vernon, with all its gayety and company, had been the happiest two weeks of his life. Suppose his mother should agree to let him go to Greenway with the Earl and then come back by way of Mount Vernon? Such a prospect seemed almost too dazzling. He brought his horse down to a walk along the cart-road through the woods he was traversing while he contemplated this delightful vision; and then, suddenly coming out of his day-dream, he pulled himself together, and striking into a sharp gallop, tried to dismiss the subject from his mind. This he could not do, but he could exert himself so that no one would guess what was going on in his mind, and in this he was successful.
Two o'clock was the dinner-hour at Ferry Farm, and a few minutes before that time George walked up from the stables to the house. Little Betty was on the watch, and ran down to the gate to meet him. Their mother, looking out of the window, saw them coming across the lawn, arm in arm, Betty chattering like a magpie, and George smiling as he listened. They were two of the handsomest and healthiest and brightest-eyed young creatures that could be imagined, and Madam Washington's heart glowed with a pride which she believed sinful, and strove unavailingly to smother.
At dinner Madam Washington and George and Betty talked, the three younger boys being made to observe silence, after the fashion of the day. Neither Madam Washington nor George brought up the subject of the Earl's visit, although it was a tremendous event in their quiet lives. But little Betty, who was the talkative member of the family, at once began on him. His coach and horses and outriders were grand, she admitted; but why an Earl, with bags of money, should choose to wear a plain brown suit, no better than any other gentleman, Mistress Betty vowed she could not understand. His knee-buckles were not half so fine as George's, and brother Laurence had a dozen suits finer than the Earl's.
"His sword-hilt is worth more than this plantation," remarked George, by way of mitigating Betty's scorn for the Earl's costume. Betty acknowledged that she had never seen so fine a sword-hilt in her life, and then innocently remarked that she wished she were going to visit at Greenway Court with George. George's face turned crimson, but he remained silent. He was a proud boy, and had never in his life begged for anything, but he wanted to go so badly that the temptation was strong in him to mount his horse, without asking anybody's leave, and taking Billy and Rattler with him, start off alone for the mountains.
Dinner was over presently, and as they rose, Madam Washington said, quietly:
"My son, I have determined to allow you to join Lord Fairfax, and I have sent an inquiry to him, an hour ago, asking at what time to-morrow you should meet him in Fredericksburg. You may remain with him until December; but the first mild spell in December I wish you to go down to Mount Vernon for Christmas, as I promised."
George's delight was so great that he grew pale with pleasure. He would have liked to catch his mother in his arms and kiss her, but mother and son were chary of showing emotion. Therefore he only took her hand and kissed it, saying, breathlessly:
"Thank you, mother. I hardly hoped for so much pleasure."
"But it is not for pleasure that I let you go," replied his mother, who, according to the spirit of the age, referred everything to duty. "'Tis because I think my Lord Fairfax's company will be of benefit to you; and as there is but little prospect of a school here this winter, and I have made no arrangements for a tutor, I must do something for your education, but that I cannot do until after Christmas. So, as I think you will be learning something of men as well as of books, I have thought it best, after reflecting upon it as well as I can, to let you go."
"I will promise you, mother, never to do or say anything while I am away from you that I would be ashamed for you to know," cried George.
Madam Washington smiled at this.
"Your promise is too extensive," she said. "Promise me only that you will try not to do or say anything that will make me ashamed, and that will be enough."
George colored at these words, as he answered, quickly: "I dare say I promised too much, and so I will accept the change you make."
HERE A WILD HOWL BURST UPON THE AIR.
Here a wild howl burst upon the air. Billy, who had been standing behind George's chair, understood well enough what the conversation meant, and that he was to be separated until after Christmas from his beloved "Marse George." Madam Washington, who had little patience with such outbreaks of emotion, sharply spoke to him: "Be quiet, Billy!"
Billy's reply was a fresh burst of tears and wailing, which brought home to little Betty that George was about to leave them, and caused her to dissolve into tears and sobs, while Rattler, running about the room, and looking from one to the other, began to bark furiously.
Madam Washington, standing up, calm, but excessively annoyed at this commotion in her quiet house, brought her foot down with a light tap, which, however, meant volumes. Uncle Jasper too appeared, and was about to haul Billy off to condign punishment, when George intervened.
"Hold your tongue, Billy," he said; and Billy, digging his knuckles into his eyes, subsided as quietly as he had broken forth.
"Now go up to my room, and take the dog, and stay there until I come," continued George.
Billy obeyed promptly. Betty, however, having once let loose the floodgates, hung around George's neck and wept oceans of tears. George soothed her as best he could, but Betty would not be comforted, and was more distressed than ever when, in a little while, a note arrived from Lord Fairfax, saying he would leave Fredericksburg the next morning at sunrise, if it would be convenient to Mr. Washington to join him then.