THE MAGIC WAND.
A STORY OF OLD WILMINGTON.
BY HOWARD PYLE.
In the good old days of the city of Wilmington, some seventy or eighty years ago, there lived a couple in that quaint little Quaker town by the name of Vertz, better known as Dutch Dolly and her husband.
Dutch Dolly had a truck patch wherein she raised vegetables—peas, radishes, potatoes, and beans—supplying the better part of the town with such produce. Her husband was a tailor, and is described in the chronicles of the town as sitting cross-legged on his bench opposite the window that looked out on the stony street.
Dutch Dolly was a woman of much importance of demeanor, and is described as being the admiration of the rising generation when, on a fair-day or holiday, she appeared in "a black velvet hood, a bodice of the same, a petticoat of superior blue cloth, the whole dress trimmed with gold-lace and two rows of gold-fringe on the skirt." But Tailor Vertz was as puny and insignificant as his helpmate was large and imposing. Dutch Dolly attended to her husband's business, collected his bills for him, and took such good care of his money that the poor little fellow was driven to many an odd shift to get a stray cent or fip[1] to buy him a pinch of rappee or a small glass of strong waters to comfort his inner man. One of his means for gaming small contributions was by telling fortunes, which he did by the aid of astrology, knowing a great many stars, from Aldebaran downward. For those who consulted him, chiefly serving-maids and very young girls, he drew mysterious signs of the heavens, in which the sun, moon, and stars were represented in miraculous conjunction. But with all his faults, with all his cloudy reputation among the good folk, Tailor Vertz was a merry, chipper little fellow, and though not entirely trustworthy, had as blithe a heart as any in Wilmington. He was a great favorite with the boys; he could whistle as sweetly as a robin, he could sing numberless ballads and songs in his queer piping voice, and had a knack of whittling little trinkets out of wood, which he sold, thus turning an odd penny from his young friends.
There were two boy friends especially, Ned Springer and Billy Shallcross by name, who were fond of loitering at odd times in the dusty, musty little shop. They looked upon the tailor as one of the wisest of men, and would listen by the hour to his stories of wonderful adventures, of perils he had escaped, of magic books he had read, and of the wonders of his black-art, believing everything with the utmost sincerity; for boys were much more credulous then than they are nowadays. The little tailor delighted especially to talk of his mysterious art, and often bewailed himself that he had never been able to find a branch of witch-willow, which had such properties that he could with it tell wherever secret treasure lay buried. He generally spoke of this witch-willow in connection with old Jan Judson's house.
Jan Judson was an old Swede of a generation preceding that of which we are speaking. So far as trustworthy narratives tell of him, he appears to have been only an eccentric, miserly old bachelor. A very heavy thunderstorm which passed over the region in which Jan lived struck his house with lightning, and it was burned to the ground, all that was left being a tall stone chimney and a pile of stones. Whether it was the effect of the electricity, or merely the shock of losing his property that affected the owner, certain it is that the old Swede, though rescued from the flames, died a day or two after the accident. Of course the occurrence gave rise to many weird stories connected with old Jan Judson. It was said that One had appeared to him in fire and flame to carry him off bodily, and all agreed that he had left great wealth behind. Treasure-hunters had dug in the cellar, and had turned over the stones, but had found nothing; or, if they had, had said nothing about it.
One bright afternoon the two boys entered the shop of Tailor Vertz, whom they found sitting cross-legged on his bench, with one finger touching his forehead, apparently sunk in deep meditation—a position which he had assumed when he heard the boys approaching. He held up his hand to them to enjoin silence, and they stood looking at him, a little awe-struck and very much wondering. At last he roused himself, and, looking cautiously, beckoned them to draw near.
"I haf foundt it," said he, in a mysterious tone.
"Found what?"
"Hush!—de vitch-villow."
"The witch-willow?"
"Yes, de vitch-villow. I haf foundt it town in de marsh. Look!" And he drew forth a slender osier twig that he had cut and peeled the day before.
"Then you'll be rich, won't you?" said Ned Springer, excitedly. "All you've got to do is to walk around and to find treasure."
Tailor Vertz shook his head sadly. "I am like many creat mens," said he; "I haf foundt creat tings, but I lack von tings."
"What's that?"
"Money. If I had von quarter of a tollar, I vas all right. I must coot a leetle hole into de vitch-villow, and melt some silfer and bour into it, and den it is magics."
"Why don't you get somebody to lend you a quarter?" said Billy.
"Dat's vot I vants to do," said Tailor Vertz. "Now I tells you vot I do. To-morrow's Plack Imp's Night—"
"Black Imp's Night! what's that?" interrupted Ned.
"Shust vait, and I tells you. To-morrow's Plack Imp's Night, de fery night de vitch-villow's able to findt de moneys. Now I am fondt of you poys: you lend me a quarter of a tollar to melt and run in de hole I coots in de vitch-villow, and I gifs you de first lot of moneys vot ve findt."
"But suppose you don't find any?" said Ned, dubiously.
"Of course I findt some," said Tailor Vertz, indignantly. "Didn't I tells you I foundt a pranch of vitch-villow?" Then, in a reproachful manner: "I didn't tinks you vouldn't peliefe me—me, as alvays tells you de trut'. Nefer mind. I goes to somepody else and gets a quarter of a tollar; somepodies as tinks I'm honest."
"Of course we think you're honest," spoke up Billy. "If I had a quarter of a dollar I'd lend it to you. I've only got a levy. How much have you got, Ned?"
"Only a fip. Maybe I can get another from Aunt Catherine, though."
"Very vells," said the little man, climbing rather hastily back on the bench, for he thought he heard his wife coming—"very vells; put pring de quarter to-night, else I get it from somepodies."
The boys were all excitement and interest. They laid out so many plans for the spending of their wealth—when they should get it—and built so many castles in the air, that they wound themselves up to a thorough pitch of enthusiasm. That night they brought the tailor the quarter of a dollar. He pocketed the money, made an appointment with them for the next night to go treasure-hunting, and, after they were gone, melted some lead and poured it into a hole in the willow wand for the sake of appearances.
The next night the three met at a paling fence at the foot of Stalcop's lot; the tailor brought his magic wand, Billy Shallcross a lantern, and Ned Springer a crowbar for turning over the stones.
As the three walked along, Tailor Vertz beguiled the way with stories of the departed Swede, and how his ghost still haunted the ruins—how it was apt to appear to treasure-hunters, laying its grisly hand upon them at the very moment of finding the sought-for treasure, until the very hearts of his listeners quaked with dread. Probably they would willingly have sacrificed their hopes of treasure and turned back, but neither of them liked to propose such a measure. The lantern cast a ghostly flitting light on the fence posts and trees as they walked along, and so drew near the ruined house, the chimney of which stood black against the sky.
"Now dere is von tings to remember," said Tailor Vertz, as they stood on the shapeless pile of stones that marked the ruin. He spoke impressively. "Now dere is von tings to remember. From de moment de stick pegins to p'int, you mustn't speak von vord, for shoost as soon as you do—poof!—de magics all goes out of de stick, de silfer turns into lead, and de treasure all melt like ice on a hot stove. If you see a ghost, den mind, shoost don't pay no notice to him, but go on vorkings, and say nodings. Are you ready?"
"Suppose you take the crowbar, and I'll hold the lantern," said Billy.
"No, I've carried it all the way, and I'm tired," said Ned.
They both thought there was less danger from the ghost to the one that held the lantern than to the one that laid a hand on his buried treasure. However, it was finally determined that Ned should begin, and work until he was tired, and then Billy should take a turn. The tailor stepped forward, holding the wand by the middle between his finger and thumb. In this way the slightest movement of the fingers would direct it. The boys watched him with the most intense interest. The willow wand moved slowly this way and that, and finally pointed toward a great beam that reached across the chimney just over the fire-place, thus indicating it as the place where a treasure must be. The boys approached cautiously, Billy holding the lantern, and Ned firmly grasping the crowbar, both wrought up to a high pitch of nervous excitement, while the tailor stood a little back from them. It was a hopeless-looking piece of work for two boys to remove such a beam, so imbedded in the stone and mortar, and probably that was why the tailor had selected it. Ned struck the crowbar between the stones just under the beam, but it was a quarter of an hour's job to loosen the first stone, which was very large; but finally it came, and then another. Then Ned, whose face was beaded with perspiration, handed the crowbar to Billy. By this time they were beginning to regain their courage. Billy examined the chimney carefully, and seeing a stone looser than the rest, just over the beam, determined to begin the attack in that quarter; so he stuck the crowbar between that stone and the next, and began to prize. In the mean time, Tailor Vertz had grown tired, and determined to hasten matters; accordingly, just as the stone was loosening, he gave an unearthly groan.
"What's that?" cried Billy, and let go of the crowbar. It fell clanking on the stones, and with it fell the stone he was loosening. The groan, and the noise of the falling of the crowbar and the stone, frightened Ned so that he dropped the lantern; and the boys, leaping over the pile of stones, fled up the road like frightened deer, closely followed by the tailor, who was scarcely less frightened than they were. At length they stopped, and stood panting about a hundred yards up the road.
"Ach! mein Himmel!" cried Tailor Vertz, stamping his foot, "what you speak for? You have shpoilt all de magic of de vitch-villow. Vy did you not hold your tongue?"
"Did you hear that groan?" said Billy, in an awful voice.
"It must have been the ghost," said Ned. Then, in a very loud voice, "I don't want the money anyhow," cried he.
"But you dropped father's lantern back there."
"Well, you dropped my father's crowbar. It was you that scared me, dropping it, so you ought to go back for it."
Finally they concluded that all three should go, for company's sake.
They approached the spot very cautiously, the tailor, who had no further reason for frightening them, encouraging them to proceed, but himself keeping a little back, as he was secretly much afraid of ghosts. Luckily for their fears, the candle in the lantern had not gone out, but had burned as it fell, guttering the tallow, and running it over the glass of the lantern. Billy picked it up, and the light flashed out more brightly. Ned also picked up his crowbar, and they turned to leave, when Billy cast a glance at the hole whence the stone he had been working at had fallen.
"Stop," he cried, suddenly; "what's this?"
"What's what?" said Ned.
"There's something in there."
"Dere? where?" said the tailor, pressing forward.
They all three looked in the hole; then Billy thrust in his hand, and drew out a small wooden box. It was crumbling with dry-rot, and without much effort he broke off the lid with his fingers. The boys could scarcely believe their eyes. Ned sprang from the ground and gave a shout. The box was full of money. They were chiefly copper coins and small silver pieces; still, it was a treasure to the boys.
All this time Tailor Vertz had been standing with staring eyes and open mouth. He was amazed, thunder-struck, dumfounded, that he, who had been deceiving the boys with juggling tricks, should have actually showed them a real treasure. All of a sudden it came over him with a rush that he had deliberately led the boys to this spot, and placed their very hands, as it were, upon all this money. He felt as though it had been taken from his own pocket, and burst out in a sudden torrent of words, scolding and stamping his feet in such a way that the boys stood amazed.
"What's the matter?" they cried.
"Vat's de matter?" shouted the tailor, beating his breast—"vat's de matter? Oh, Vertz! you fool! you fool! Oh, if I'd only known it vas dere!—if I'd only known it vas dere! To go empty it out of my pockets into yours! Bah! I might er had it all myself."
"But didn't you know it was there? Didn't the witch-willow tell you so?" said Billy.
"Vitch-villow! Oh, you yank! vat's a vitch-villow but to fool such tunces as you?"
"Then you were only fooling us, were you?" said Billy.
The tailor began to cool down somewhat at that, and entered on a long explanation, in which he got very much involved.
"All very well," said Billy; "but tell us now, up and down, fair and square, did you know anything about the money being there?"
The little tailor looked at him doubtfully for a while.
"Vell," said he, hesitatingly, "no-o, I didn't, and dat's de trut'."
Both boys burst into a laugh.
"Well," said Billy, "share and share alike anyhow; that's fair."
However, they deducted the quarter-dollar from Tailor Vertz's share. Billy's share was six dollars and twenty-three cents, Ned's six dollars and twenty-two cents, and Tailor Vertz's five dollars and ninety-seven cents, with which he expressed himself perfectly satisfied.
Forever after this adventure Dutch Dolly's husband was more careful about telling the boys of the mysteries of his art; and when he would get on the subject, Billy was apt to slyly remind him of the magic wand.
[MOUNTAIN-PEAKS.]
AMONG THE ALPS.
When the world was comparatively young, and people were contented with legends and myths concerning the wonders of creation, just as children like fairy stories, it was the common belief that mountains were the work of gods and genii, who hurled them down from heaven, and allowed them to fall by chance, or else raised them as mighty pillars destined to bear the vaults of the skies. The Titans, who were not gods, threw down all the mountains of Thessaly in order to use them again for building up the ramparts round Olympus. Another story is that a giantess of the North had filled her apron with little hills, and dropped them at certain distances that she might recognize her way. And still another, from the other end of the earth, is that Vishnu, one day, seeing a young girl asleep beneath the sun's too ardent rays, took up a mountain, and held it poised upon his finger-tips to shelter the beautiful sleeper. This, the legend tells us, was the origin of sun-shades. Nor was it even always necessary for gods and giants to lift up the mountains in order to remove them; the latter obeyed a mere sign. Stones hastened to listen to the strains of Orpheus's lyre; mountains stood erect to hear Apollo. It was thus that Helicon, the home of the Muses, took its birth.
Strange as are these stories, they are no more wonderful than the actual fact that, under the direction of the Creator, the two great giants Fire and Water have been and still are at work constructing mountains, slowly, it is true, and not by any sudden upheaval, as the lovers of the marvellous would have it to be, but none the less surely.
While wandering over the surface of the globe, and carefully observing its natural phenomena, we see that mountains are the slow growth of ages. When an insular or continental mass some hundreds or thousands of yards high receives rain in abundance, its slopes gradually become indented with ravines, dales, valleys; the uniform surface of the plateau is cut into peaks, ridges, pyramids; scooped out into amphitheatres, basins, precipices; systems of mountains appear by degrees wherever the level ground has rolled down to any enormous extent. In addition to these external causes which change plateaus into mountains, slow transformations in the interior of the earth are also being accomplished, bringing about vast excavations. Those hard-working men who, hammer in hand, go about for many years among the mountains in order to study their form and structure, observe in the lower beds of marine formation, which constitute the non-crystalline portion of the mountains, gigantic rents or fissures extending thousands of yards in length. Masses millions of yards thick have been completely raised up again by these shocks, or turned as completely upside down, so that what was formerly the surface has now become the bottom. And in this way have been revealed the crystalline rocks. Plication, or folding, is also an important feature in the history of the earth. By this process, subjected to slow pressure, the rock, the clay, the layers of sandstone, the veins of metal, have all been folded up like a piece of cloth, and the folds thus formed become mountains and valleys.
One of the most interesting features in the study of mountains is the discovery of fossils, by which the naturalist accurately determines the age of rocks. Millions of these remains of animal and vegetable life have been preserved. Of course the tissues of flesh and drops of blood or sap are gone, but in their stead are particles of stone which have kept the form, and sometimes even the color, of the creature destroyed. Within the thickness of these stones are shells of mollusks, disks, spheres, spines, cylinders in astounding numbers; we see the skeletons of fish with their fins and scales, the wing-sheaths of insects, and even foot-prints; upon the hard rock, too, which was formerly the shifting sand of the beach, we find the impression of drops of rain, and the intersecting ripple marks traced by wavelets on the shore. These fossils, which lived millions of years ago in the mud of oceanic abysses, are now met at every mountain height. They are to be seen on most of the Pyrenees, they constitute whole Alps, they are recognized upon the Caucasus and Cordilleras.
The wealth contained in mountains in the shape of silver and gold ore and precious stones has ever been, like the magic thread of the labyrinth, leading miners and geologists into the depths of their caverns. Formerly it was supposed to be an easy matter to reach these riches. All that a man needed was what is called "luck" and the favor of the gods. Boldly seizing some opportunity, such as the rolling away of a stone from a crevice, he had but to mutter some magic words, creep into a dark passage, and find himself beneath a vaulted roof of crystals and diamonds; he needed but to stoop and gather the rubies beneath his feet. Not by chance and magic do the miners of our day reach the rich veins of minerals. Study and hard work are behind all the engineering skill which penetrates our mountains.
When the summer is here, and you go forth with merry hearts and stout staves to climb some "Saddleback" or "Mount Tom," just stop and think of all the wonderful things which happen to make a mountain; and as you glance up its wooded sides, and see the clouds resting upon its summit, or behold the purple hues of evening gathering about its majestic form, remember "the hand that made it is Divine."