"The 'Bob White's' Hallowe'en"

by Josephine Scribner Gates, October 1918

No relation to Trixie Belden's group of friends, here is the original Hallowe'en celebration, complete with pranks and fortune-telling. Today we would call what the boys were planning "vandalism" and they would surely be arrested, but back then it was just part of the "fun" of Hallowe'en night. Like the establishment of the later trick-or-treat custom, our protagonist finds a way to curb the holiday's excesses

Mischief was brewing! You could fairly sniff it in the frosty air.

For days before Hallowe'en, groups of boys were seen in close conference, and occasional shouts of laughter floated down the village street.

Early one Saturday morning the girls of the village were in the woods gathering nuts. As they filled their baskets to the accompaniment of the usual chatter, they were suddenly interrupted by wild bursts of laughter and snatches of talk.

"Oh, Miss Ellen—we 'll scare her stiff as usual with a tick-tack. And old man Johnson—he 'll wish he 'd never been born when he finds his woodshed empty! And the bake-shop ladies! Oh my! we won't do a thing to them!"

"We 'll have a picnic in the barn with their apple pie and gingerbread; and incidentally, let 's carry their bakery stuff in next door to S'manthy Green's, and put her notions in for the bake ladies; let them keep a thread-and-needle shop for a change. We can get in easy as anything."

"I 'd like to see their faces when they come in the next morning!"

"Then we 'll write on all the windows with candles. It's awful hard to get off, and every body 'll be mad as anything!"

"We 'll throw every gate into the hollow, and change the doctors' signs."

"Wo n't Abigail Smith gasp when she finds the veterinary surgeon's sign at her door! She 's even skeered of a mouse. Let's catch some, and knock at her door, and, when she opens it, throw 'em in."

"Ha! ha! That will be our busy night!"

And as the boys passed on, they sang lustily:

"Needles and pins, needles and pins !
When Hallowe'en comes, your trouble begins!"

The girls, well screened by the underbrush, stood staring after them, appalled and speechless.

As the chorus died away, the clear sweet notes of "Bob White" twittered and chirped, and the girls clapped their hands in great relief, crying, "The Story Lady! Good! Good!"

"My, what a warm welcome!" exclaimed the adored one, as she stood before them clad in her khaki suit, her clear eyes twinkling merrily under the brown hat-brim. A perky red feather, nestling close to the crown, gave a needed touch of color to the close-fitting suit, and the girls gazed at her with admiring eyes.

"Holloa, wood-nymphs!" she cried. "Have the squirrels stolen your nuts, that you look so glum? Come, tell me your troubles and see if we can't banish them."

Seated at her feet, the girls breathlessly related all they had heard, and ended mournfully:

"Why do boys always want to do such horrid things? Miss Ellen is a sweet little old lady. She lives all alone and is so afraid at night!"

"Old Mr. Johnson just got in his winter wood. He never could get it back from the hollow."

"The bakc-shop ladies are so bright and cheery: though they 're so poor, they always give us one over when we ask for a dozen. They just laugh and say it's for good measure."

"It 'll just ruin S'manthy Green's notions the way they'll tumble them about; and the candle-writing—it's just terrible to scour off, and no one has time. Every one has finished house-cleaning, and they 're doing fall work—drying apples and making apple-butter and cider."

As this doleful chorus closed, the Story Lady threw back her head, and her merry laughter echoed and reechoed through the woods.

"Oh, my dearies!" she finally said, "the hobgoblins seems to have got hold of you long before the night. Don't you know Hallowe'en is the jolliest night of all the year—a night to remember for its good fun, not for bad; to look forward to with joy, not dread? Has it always been celebrated this way here?"

"Oh, yes; it is always scary and dreadful."

"Why don't you girls start out and have the right kind of fun?"

"We tried to once; but the boys are so strong they tossed us about like bean-bags, and carried us to our homes and told us they 'd lock us in a barn if they found us out again."

"What were you going to do?"

"Oh, we were undoing their bad work. We washed the windows, and put the gates back, and comforted Miss Ellen."

"Bless your little hearts! That was surely good work, but of course not what the boys wanted. Some one should have made them do that. It would have been a picture to see them washing windows! Why did n't you try it?"

"Oh, the boys say no one can stop them Hallowe'en. They say there 's a law about it. Everybody 's afraid of them that night."

Again the Story Lady's merry laugh bubbled up into the trees. Then she queried: "A Fraid? What is A Fraid, anyhow? Did you ever see one? I think we 'll have to down this creature, whatever it is. S'pose we celebrate.

"Let me tell you a little bit about Hallowe'en:

"In olden times it was the night when magic powers were supposed to swarm abroad to help or injure. A hallowe'en fire was supposed to protest the people from all evil.

"The early inhabitants of Great Britain, Ireland, and France were known as Celts. Their religion was directed by strange priests, called Druids. Three times a year—the first of May, for sowing; June twenty-first for ripening at the turn of the year; and the eve of November first for harvesting—the Druids built fires on hilltops in France, Britain, and Ireland in honor of the sun. You see, the sun did the work and brought them crops. At the last festival, Druids of all regions, clad in white robes, gathered around the cairn of the hilltop. There stood an emblem of the sun. On the cairn was a sacred fire, which had been kept burning all the year. They formed about the fire and, at a signal, quenches it, while deep silence rested on mountain-top and valley.

"Then the new fire gleamed on the cairn, and the people in the valley raised a jouous shout, and from hilltop to hilltop other fires answered the sacred flame.

"On this night all hearth-fires had been put out and were kindled anew with brands from the sacred fire, which was supposed to guard the households through the year.

"There! I learned that by heart once, and I've never forgotten it! I love to know what those people thought.

"Now, children, from the hilltop where I live I can see many hilltops; and we, too, can have hilltop fires which mean something. I am so glad I did n't go home. I came only for the summer, but I loved it so I wanted to stay on. Best of all, I have reveled in our story-hour, and I shall be sorry to give it up. But don't let the shadows creep over your faces that way, dearies; you know I promised to send you a story every week, and I 'm coming early in the spring and help hunt violets and pick wild strawberries.

"Now, let's think a little more about Hallowe'en. You know on that night not a village in New England but has its circle of fairies. Hobgoblins run wild. It is a time of frolic with the brownies, who hide in the acorns and dried leaves. The sprites who dwell in pop-corn, and the pixies who live in the chestnuts. Let us, too, be fairies and have the grandest night of all the year!"

"But how can we?" queried the girls. "The boys go so fast and are so much bigger, they will pick us up again and lock us in the barn the instant they see us; we're afraid!"

"A Fraid! Dear, dear! A lot of little Fraids sitting in the woods all huddled up in a heap. The boys have much more fun on that account. If no one was afraid of them, it would spoil all their fun. Let's show them we 're not afraid. We, too, will have a busy night. If the boys go fast, we will go faster. If they are big, we'll be bigger. This seems to be 'Fraid' village on that night. Let's have a new order of things. Instead of the village being housed, peering out behind locked windows and doors, timid and frightened over what may happen, the boys will find open doors, signs already changed in a new way, and, mark my words, there won't be a word written on a window-pane."

At this glorious news the girls shouted and danced gaily about. Such a wonderful person was this Story Lady! Many times had she helped them out of trouble, but never in so splendid a way as this.

"Won't they be mad!" cried one.

"Indeed not," replied the Story Lady. "The boys do not really want to be bad; they want to have some fun. Let us give them the right kind. We have only a short time to prepare for this grand event, so we must begin at once. We 'll be a band of brownies or Bob Whites, whichever you choose. Meet me here at four this afternoon. Good-by." And as she disappeared, her merry whistle floated back, a veritable chorus of bird- notes, leaving the girls thrilled through and through over the joyful time to come.

Four o'clock found them ready and waiting as the Bob White notes again trilled in their ears, and in a moment, there stood their beloved, beaming upon them, crying:

"Oh, girls! it's even better than I thought it would be. I 've been to the sewing society. Every one was there, and all so mournful. The bake-shop ladies were almost in tears. Little Miss Ellen's nose was red from crying, and Samanthy Green just knows the boys have planned some awful pranks against her thread and needles. The men came in to dinner. They 'd been asked to come and see what could be done about this awful night! Suddenly I hopped on to a chair. I 'm so little I had to, to be seen. I made a speech. I had them all laughing, the first thing. They decided to take my advice and not bar windows nor chain gates. The Fraids have vanished, and the 'Non-fraids' closed the meeting by singing 'Hold the Fort!' They are so happy and want to help at the party, and a rollicking time we will have. The people at the Hill Farm, where I live, entered right in to it, and will let us do anything we want to in their lovely big house.

"Now, girlies, 'mum' is the password of this Bob White band. Let it be a secret from the boys, and it will be a perfect success."

Early in the evening of the thirty-first of October the boys gathered in Billy Brown's barn. They seemed in an odd state of excitement. One cried uneasily:

"It's queer how the people act to-night! The gates are creaking in the wind, instead of being padlocked and chained; and that woman we were going to tick-tack has one all fixed and was working it like mad as I came by; and old Johnson's woodshed is empty. Nothing much left to do but dress up the bake-shop windows in S'manthy Green's book-muslin. Come on!"

And singing lustily,

"Needles and pins, needles and pins!
When Hallowe'en comes, your trouble begins,"

away they went.

Usually this well-known chorus, sung to the tread of many feet, struck terror to all hearts; and the boys gloried in the fact.

As they paused at the needle shop, they looked amazed to find cookies and pies sparkling in the soft glow of a lamp.

A glance at the sign showed them the one word "Welcome," instead of "Samanthy Green, Notions."

Next door the same warm greeting awaited them; and in that window reposed needles and pins daintily arranged.

"The dickens!" cried one. "I'll settle them!" and he started to write on the window; when suddenly against the pane was thrust a rifle.

They scampered on, and to their great chagrin found the villagers were all in various windows, fondling guns.

"Well!" cried the leader, "let's muffle the fire-bell."

That was a new and daring thing to do, but nothing was too bad, now that they seemed balked at every turn.

As they marched away from the engine-house, such a din arose all about them they surely were the "Fraids" for a moment, for they seemed surrounded by dozens of tall beings, gowned in black, waving plumes of fires. At once the boys were encircles and forced to march to the outskirts of the town, where they saw, to their horror, the hilltop ablaze.

The Hill Far, the price of the village, on fire, and the fire-bell muffled!

With a wild cry all started up the hill, all but one who raced back, and soon the fire-bell was madly clanging; but strange to say, there was no response.

"Oh! They think it 's a Hallowe'en prank!" wailed the boy, as he sped up the hill crying, "Fire! Fire!"

He caught up to the weird crowd as they paused and pointed off to many hilltop fires, then marched on to the rousing chorus of:

"Needles and pins, needles and pins!
When Hallowe'en comes, the fun begins."

As they reached the top of the hill they saw Jack-o'-lanterns grinning at them from every window of the farm-house, while the bonfire crackled merrily at a point far away. On the broad piazza the weird figures fell to the floor as the various villagers emerged from dressed-up brooms.

Then followed a rollicking dance to the music of the village fiddlers. The boys found themselves paired off with the bake-shop ladies, Miss Ellen, and many others. Abigail Smith wildly waved by the tail a chocolate mouse, which she nibbled as she danced.

After this came refreshments; and then, around the bonfire, some cracked nuts and popped corn, while others peered into the future pouring melted lead through a wedding-ring, watching nuts burn in hot ashes, and doing many other odd tricks. Then, when the fun died down the Story Lady clapped her hands for attention.

Mounting a box, standing in the gleam of the firelight, she told them of the olden-time thought of Hallowe'en, of the superstitions, and the hilltop fires which were supposed to give protection through the year. Then she went on:

"The Scotch say it is the jolliest, fearsomest night of all the year; and we, the Bob White Band, decided to have hilltop fires, too, and celebrate Hallowe'en each year as we have to-night. All who want to belong to this band may let us know by whistling our Bob White signal; one, two, three, pucker!" And the shrill notes that followed settled the question.

The Bob White Band was, and always would be; and with a shout of delight they joined hands and circled about the fire, singing joyfully:

Needles and pins, needles and pins!
When Hallowe'en comes, the fun begins."

"All-Hallow Eve Myths"

by David Brown, November 1881

The "long tradition" of trick or treating on Hallowe'en only dates back to the 1930s. Before that it was an evening for parties, where fortunetelling was common.

As the world grows old and wise, it ceases to believe in many of its superstitions. But, although they are no longer believed in, the customs connected with them do not always die out; they often linger on through centuries, and, from having once been serious religious rites, or something real in the life of people, they become at last mere children' s plays or empty usages, often most zealously enjoyed by those who do not understand their meaning.

Still other customs have been parts of a heathen religion, and when that religion was supplanted by Christianity, the people held on to the old customs, although they had lost their first significance.

For instance, when a party of boys and girls are out in a sail-boat, and the wind dies down, some one says, "Whistle for the wind." A boy whistles, and they all laugh, for it seems a good joke to think of raising the wind by a whistle. But it was a serious thing to the sailors of old time, for to them the whistle was an imitation of the sound of the winds, and their intention in making it was that the gods might hear, and make the real winds blow. But a better illustration of all this is our All-hallow Eve festival. Its history is that of a custom which has passed from the worship of heathen gods into the festivities of the Christian church, and has sunk at last into a mere sport.

All-hallow Eve is now, in our country towns, a time of careless frolic, and of great bonfires, which, I hear, are still kindled on the hill-tops in some places. We also find these fires in England, Scotland, and Ireland, and from their history we learn the meaning of our celebration. Some of you may know that the early inhabitants of Great Britain, Ireland, and parts of France were known as Celts, and that their religion was directed by strange priests called Druids. Three times in the year, on the first of May, for the sowing; at the solstice, June 21st, for the ripening and turn of the year; and on the eve of November 1st, for the harvesting, those mysterious priests of the Celts, the Druids, built fires on the hill-tops in France, Britain, and Ireland, in honor of the sun. At this last festival the Druids of all the region gathered in their white robes around the stone altar or cairn on the hill-top. Here stood an emblem of the sun, and on the cairn was the sacred fire, which had been kept burning through the year. The Druids formed about the fire, and, at a signal, quenched it, while deep silence rested on the mountains and valleys. Then the new fire gleamed on the cairn, the people in the valley raised a joyous shout, and from hill-top to hill-top other fires answered the sacred flame. On this night, all hearth-fires in the region had been put out, and they were rekindled with brands from the sacred fire, which was believed to guard the households through the year.

But the Druids disappeared from their sacred places, the cairns on the hill-tops became the monuments of a dead religion, and Christianity spread to the barbarous inhabitants of France and the British Islands. Yet the people still clung to their old customs, and felt much of the old awe for them. Still they built their fires on the first of May,—at the solstice in June,—and on the eve of November First. The church found that it could not all at once separate the people from their old ways, so it gradually turned these ways to its own use, and the harvest festival of the Druids became in the Catholic Calendar the Eve of All Saints, for that is the meaning of the name "All-hallow Eve." In the seventh century, the Pantheon, the ancient Roman temple of all the gods, was consecrated anew to the worship of the Virgin and of all holy martyrs. The festival of the consecration was held at first on May 13th, but it was afterward changed to November 1st, and thus All Saints Day, as it is now called, was brought into connection with the Druid festival. This union of a holy day of the church with pagan customs gave new meaning to the heathen rites in the minds of the common people, and the fires which once were built in honor of the sun, they came to think were kindled to lighten Christian souls out of purgatory. At All-hallow-tide, the church-bells of England used to ring for all Christian souls, until Henry VIII and Elizabeth forbade the practice.

But by its separation from the solemn character of the Druid festival, All-hallow Eve lost much of its ancient dignity, and became the carnival-night of the year for wild, grotesque rites. As century after century passed by, it came to be spoken of as the time when the magic powers, with which the peasantry, all the world over, filled the wastes and ruins, were supposed to swarm abroad to help or injure men. It was the time when those first dwellers in every land, the fairies, were said to come out from their grots and lurking-places; and in the darkness of the forests and the shadows of old ruins, witches and goblins gathered. In course of time, the hallowing fire came to be considered a protection against these malicious powers. It was a custom in the seventeenth century for the master of a family to carry a lighted torch of straw around his fields...to protect them from evil influence through the year, and as he went he chanted an invocation to the fire.

Because the magic powers were thought to be so near at that season, All-hallow Eve was the best time of the year for the practice of magic, and so the customs of the night grew into all kinds of simple, pleasant divination, by which it was pretended that the swarming spirits gave knowledge of the future. Even nowadays, it is the time, especially, of young lovers' divinations, and also for the practice of curious and superstitious rites. And almost all of these, if traced to their sources, lead us back to that dim past out of which comes so much of our superstition and fable.

But belief in magic is passing away, and the customs of All-hallow Eve have arrived at the last stage ; for they have become mere sports, repeated from year to year like holiday celebrations.

Indeed, the chief thing which this paper seeks to impress upon your minds in connection with All-hallow Eve is that its curious customs show how no generation of men is altogether separated from earlier generations. Far as we think we are from our uncivilized ancestors, much of what they did and thought has come into our doing and thinking,—with many changes perhaps, under different religious forms, and sometimes in jest where they were in earnest. Still, these customs and observances (of which All-hallow Eve is only one) may be called the piers, upon which rests a bridge that spans the wide past between us and the generations that have gone before.

"Witches' Night"

by Olive Thorne, October 1879

Hallowe'en, such a popular holiday now in the United States, was so little known in the early years of St. Nicholas' lifespan than I could find only two articles even referring to it. This is the first.

From the earliest times men have been trying to look ahead. The ancient Egyptians had oracles where their gods were supposed to answer the questions of men by dreams and other ways; the ancient Greeks also had famous oracles, which people came from far-off lands to consult; the Romans killed certain fowls or animals, and guessed at the future by the looks of their internal organs; the Hebrews and the Babylonians had their own peculiar ways of finding out what was to happen. The world has not yet outgrown the longing to look ahead. The Hindu to-day sets a lamp afloat on his sacred river, and judges of the future by the length of time it burns; the Chinaman consults his "wise men," who pretend to understand signs; the ignorant African takes notice of the cries of birds and animals; the English—not long ago—tried to learn by help of what they call "witches"; and Spiritualists, even now, believe the predictions of a "medium."

No serious attempt to look into the future has been made for a long time by intelligent people, and the old customs have become a frolicsome trying of "charms," especially on one night of the year. It is curious enough that the night selected is the eve of the festival of All Saints, which was established in the seventh century by a pope of Rome, in honor of all the saints who had no particular day assigned to them. The Romans brought this festival to England; there it became All Hallows, and the evening before it, Hallow-even or Halloween, and that was the night sacred to charms and games. In the seventeenth century, England gave up the night to feasting and frolicking. Nuts and apples were plenty from one end of the island to the other, and "Nut-crack Night" was the name given to it.

In England, the revels were for fun, such as diving for apples floating in a tub of water, and, of course, getting very wet; or trying to snatch in the teeth an apple on one end of a stick, which had a lighted candle at the other end, and, being hung by a string, could be spun around very fast, so that the players often seized the candle instead of the fruit; or a playful fortune-telling by naming nuts, roasting them before the fire, and watching their conduct when heated,—whether they burned steadily, or bounced away, or burst with a noise, each movement of the charmed nut being of great importance.

One nut test was tried by grinding and mixing together a walnut, hazel-nut, and nutmeg, making into pills, with butter and sugar, and swallowing them on going to bed. Wonderful dreams would follow (which was not surprising).

In superstitious Scotland, the night was given entirely to serious and sometimes frightful attempts to peer into the future by means of charms. One way of trying fortune was to throw a ball of blue yarn out of a window, and wind it into a ball again from the other end. Near the last something would hold it fast, when the winder must ask: "Who holds?" The answer would name one who was to have importance in the questioner's future.

Another Scotch custom was "pulling kale-stalks." A young person went blindfolded into the garden, pulled up the first kale or cabbage stalk he touched, and carried it into the house. The whole future was read from that stalk: the size indicated the stature of the future partner in life; the quantity of earth at the roots showed the amount of his, or her, fortune; the taste of the pith told what the temper would be; and when the stalk was placed over the door, the first name of the person entering was the fated name.

The island of Lewes, on the coast of Scotland, had some curious customs. Young women made a "dumb cake," and baked it before the fire with certain ceremonies and in perfect silence, expecting to see wonders; and the people also sacrificed to a sea-god called Shong, throwing a cup of ale into the sea, and calling on him to give them plenty of sea-weed to enrich their grounds.

In another Scotch trial, a girl would go into a barn, holding a winnowing sieve, and stand alone with both doors open, to see her fate. The fashion of trying charms is now nearly outgrown among English-speaking people. It survives in America as a pleasant frolic for a social gathering. In our own day, young people "sow hemp-seed," "eat apples before the glass," "go down the cellar stairs backward," holding a candle and a mirror. They also "pop chestnuts," "launch walnut-shells" holding tapers, and try the "three-saucer" test of the future.

In some of our cities, the boys on Halloween collect old tea-kettles, boots, large stones, etc., and deposit them in clean vestibules, ringing the doorbell and running away.

Thus the 31st of October—set apart by a pope as a religious festival—became, in superstitious times, "The Witches' Night;" crossed the ocean as a season for frolics, and ends with a street-boy's joke.

"The Sapphire Signet," Chapter 19 (conclusion)

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER XVI: THE SAPPHIRE SIGNET

Margaret continues:

"[Lady Washington] was traveling through the city on her way from Virginia to her husband's camp outside Boston when the accident happened. She congratulated Alison on her skill with horses, and asked her about herself. Alison was just beginning to tell her about Bermuda and how she longed to go back, when Madame Mortier, who had just learned about the occupant of the broken coach, rushed up and dragged her bodily away! And then things got worse and worse!

"Now, there 's no need of telling you all that happened after that because we know it; so I 'll skip at once to the night of that last entry in the journal, and explain how it came to be so mysteriously broken off. While Alison was sitting there writing, she suddenly heard again the mysterious footsteps, just as she had that time before. She was horribly nervous, but she suspected something wrong and crept to the door and opened it to peep out. And there, sure enough, was the steward, come back from Corbie's tavern, and evidently going down to the cellar again! Alison was scared to death, but, almost unconsciously, she found herself creeping after him, her journal still in her hand.

"Suddenly on the stairs something made him turn—and he saw her! Before she could cry out he made one leap and clapped his hand over her mouth. Then with the other he tried to get hold of the journal. She began to struggle and twist, and try to keep it away from him, and he whispered that if she made a sound he would kill her right there! Still she kept struggling, but at last he got hold of it and gave it a wrench. Of course it came in half, and at the same moment she got free from him and ran like mad to her own room and locked herself in.

"She hid the half of the journal she had kept hold of in the bottom of her trunk, and stayed for hours shivering with fright and listening at the door. Then, at last, not hearing anything more, she crept out, and rushed to Phoebe's room, and told her all about it. They decided that it was best to wait no longer, but tell the whole thing to Washington at early dawn, and let him take matters into his own hands. They had the interview, and Washington acted on the matter at once. He got his life-guard, Thomas Hickey, made him confess the whole thing, and then sent out and had every one of the conspirators arrested. Strangely enough, the steward was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared completely, and was never seen or heard of again. He had probably thought it wise to take flight in the night. Alison always thought, too, that he was intending to run away when he did, anyhow, without warning any one, because he had appropriated a lot of the gold and money that was to be used in paying the conspirators. That was what he had kept hidden in the beam, and he had removed it all that very night, preparatory to making off with it.

"Early that morning, Washington sent Phoebe back to the city to stay with her father, as she would be safer there. And as he thought the house no longer a safe place for his wife, either, he arranged to despatch her at once with a strong escort to Philadelphia. Alison had told him her own story, explained how she aided in the gunpowder plot, and begged him to send her back to Bermuda if he could. He was so grateful to her for the assistance which she had twice given that he told her he would send her to Philadelphia with Lady Washington, and there would arrange that she should sail for her home as soon as was possible.

"So Alison packed her little trunk, and without even bidding Madame Mortier good-by (for of course she did n't dare see her) she left that morning with Lady Washington, and never again in all her life looked upon Richmond Hill. In Philadelphia she was fortunate enough to catch a vessel sailing at once for Bermuda, but before she got to her home one other accident was to happen to her. The ship ran into a terrific storm and was completely dismasted. It almost foundered, but, after drifting around helplessly for more than a week, the passengers and crew were at last rescued by another vessel, leaving all their belongings behind on the wreck, and finally were landed in Bermuda.

"She went straight to her aunt first, for she did not dare go to her grandfather, thinking he had never forgiven her for running away. But her aunt told her that her grandfather, though terribly angry with her at first, was now very, very ill, and kept constantly calling for her. So she returned to him and was forgiven, and nursed him tenderly till he died, leaving her the fine old farm. A few years later she married Harrington Ord, for he had always admired and loved her. He died, in later years, by falling from the mast of the vessel of which he was captain, and Alison was left alone with one daughter, who also married, after a time, and it was her daughter, old Mrs. Jewell, who told us the story. Alison lived all her life in secret terror lest her part in the gunpowder plot should ever be discovered by the Bermudians, for she felt that she had been disloyal to her country in the part she played. Yet she never wholly regretted it, because of the intense admiration she always felt for Washington, and her gratitude to him for his timely rescue of her. Madame Mortier died soon after her departure, and never knew about the defeat of her beloved Tories.

"So that is the end of the story, folks, and I guess I 've explained everything!"

"No, you have n't!" said Alexander promptly. "What about that half of the diary that we found in the beam! Put us wise to that!"

"Well, of course, that's one of the things we can't be absolutely certain about, but can only guess at. The steward had gone off with that half, and Alison never saw it again. She always wondered what became of it. We think, though, that the steward must have come back that night looking for the slip of paper that he had forgotten or lost. He evidently thought it might be left in his hiding-place, and was on the way to hunt it up. Then he had the encounter with Alison, and got hold of that half of her diary. He must have taken it to the cellar, examined it hurriedly, written on it that mysterious sentence, and thrown it into the opening where he hid his things. Probably he looked for his paper, and, not finding it, thought he 'd dropped it elsewhere. We think likely he didn't suspect that any one had discovered the place in the beam. That's the only explanation that seems possible."

"Yes," objected Alexander, still unconvinced, "but how came it to remain there all that time untouched? Did n't they go and search the beam afterward? Didn't any one else ever know about it?"

"No, it seems that Phoebe and Alison, in their hurry that morning, did not think to tell Washington where they had found the paper. They did n't have time—everything had to be done so quickly. They just gave it to him and told who the conspirators were. Then Phoebe was sent right off, and Alison went away, too, and, of course, nobody else ever knew about it or suspected it. So it lay through all the years till Alexander unearthed it! Is n't it too wonderful!"

"Then that gink of a steward must have beat it out for keeps!" commented Alexander. "Guess he did n't think it 'd be healthy for him to shine about those parts again, after he 'd got away with all the swag! He was some pippin, he was!"

"Well," ended Margaret, "now you know all the mystery and the history of Alison Tren- ham, and I hope you 're satisfied!"

"Satisfied!" ejaculated Bess, sitting up very straight. "When you have n't said one word about the sapphire signet—the most important thing of all? I guess not!"

"I was wondering when you 'd begin to be curious about that," commented Margaret, with her tantalizing smile. "Since you seem a little anxious on the subject, I 'll go on with the second half of the story. Well, as I 've hinted, we did n't say a word about the signet to the old lady, and she did n't mention it in her account either. But when she had finished, Corinne asked her if there was anything else she knew of that had troubled Alison's mind—whether she 'd ever heard her grandmother speak of something she 'd lost. And at that Mrs. Jewell looked awfully surprised, and said no, her grandmother had never spoken of anything else, and what did we mean?

"Then we told her all about the signet, and how we 'd found it, and how valuable it was, and how we wanted above everything to return it to Alison's descendant, and were so glad we 'd found her at last. Well, if you 'll believe me, Mrs. Jewell looked simply stunned for a while, as if she could n't trust her senses! And we had the hardest time convincing her that the signet was really hers and she must take it. She insisted it ought to be ours, since we had found it. But finally we managed to convince her that she was its rightful owner, and told her that Mr. Cameron would get it from the safe at the hotel and bring it over to her the next day."

"But why do you suppose Alison never told her about it?" interrupted Jess.

"That's just what we all could n't fathom for a while, till at last Mrs. Jewell explained it in this way. Of course, when Alison was shipwrecked and rescued, she naturally supposed her trunk went down to the bottom of the ocean with the wreck. She told her grandmother that they had had to cling to the decks for several days, and never dared to go down to the cabins, for most of them were full of water. So she could n't get at her trunk to take out anything. We think that when she realized that the signet was lost forever, and after her grandfather had forgiven her for everything (including that, no doubt), she just forgot all about the matter and either did n't think of it again, or else did n't want to. What troubled her most was the fear that the second half of her journal would sometime be discovered and deciphered, and she, perhaps, be considered a traitor for twice giving aid to Washington.

"But now listen to the best part of the story, which comes last! We had asked Mrs. Jewell to say nothing just yet about what we 'd told her, and when the housekeeper came back for us, the old lady bade us good-by as calmly as though we had n't just given her the surprise of her life. But on the drive to the hotel we asked a few questions about her and found out, to our astonishment, that old Mrs. Jewell was really in very straitened circumstances. For years she had supported herself by doing the most beautiful lacework, and had earned enough to live on. But since her blindness came, her money had gradually disappeared, and she had had to borrow on the farm and the lovely old furniture. The housekeeper said she was afraid it would n't be long before she would lose everything. Every one was so sorry for her and wanted to help, but she was very proud and would accept nothing from them. No one could imagine what she would do when she was homeless.

"It set us thinking hard, of course, and we told Mr. Cameron about it that night. He only said we must leave it to him, and he 'd think out a scheme. Next day we three drove over there with the signet, and placed it in old Mrs. Jewell's hands. And right then and there Mr. Cameron told her that, if she cared to sell it to him, he 'd be only too delighted to buy it. And he offered her enough to keep her living comfortably for the rest of her days.

"You should have seen that poor old lady's face! She begged and protested that he should not give so much, that she could not accept it. But he assured her that he knew positively it was the real value of the signet, and to prove it, read her a letter he 'd received from some authority in such things. She gave in at last, and we left her with that big, fat check in her hands—the happiest woman in all Bermuda!"

"But what has become of the sapphire signet?" demanded her listeners, as Margaret paused.

"Here it is!" said Corinne, quietly, and she pulled from under the neck of her dress a thin golden chain. There on the end dangled the wonderful sapphire signet, more beautiful than ever since it had been cleaned and polished.

"Father has given it to me, and I 'm going to keep it always, in memory of the long-ago Alison and the strange way we stumbled on her mystery. I shall not wear it all the time, for it's too rare and valuable to run the risk of losing. But I put it on to-day in honor of the most satisfactory meeting the Antiquarian Club ever held!"

It was about noon of a day a week or two later that Corinne and Margaret stood together at the open window of the Charlton Street parlor. A light breeze flapped the awnings to and fro, a warm midday sun shone on the pavements outside, and the droning sound of busy Varick Street came distantly to them as they stood looking out. The twins were still at high school, but Corinne had not returned there, as she was expecting to study up during the summer and in the autumn pass the examinations she was now missing. So, during these idle days, she spent the greater part of her time with Margaret. Since their long Bermuda weeks together, they had grown into even closer intimacy, and sisters could not have loved each other with deeper devotion.

Leaning on her crutches, Margaret idly plucked the dead leaves from a geranium in the window-box, and Corinne stood twisting one of the younger girl's dark curls around her finger. Presently she said:

"Father had a letter from old Mrs. Jewell this morning. She says words would be impossible to describe how happy she is. She thinks it just marvelous that we girls were led to do what we did, for she was in desperate straits when we first came. She declares she would never have accepted it as a charity, but it was really help from her own dead kindred sent through us. She considers it an absolute miracle!"

"Is n't it strange!" began Margaret. "That's the exact word Mother used last night when we were talking it over. She said it all seemed like a miracle to her—the way you came into our lives, and walked straight to the heart of the mystery that very first day; the way we worked it all out and restored what was her own to Alison's granddaughter just in the nick of time; and best of all, what's happened to me!"

"Well, I wasn't left out in the miracle way, either," laughed Corinne; "for I 've had the loveliest adventure imaginable, and made the very dearest friend of all my life!" She squeezed Margaret's hand, and the two girls looked for one long, understanding moment into each other's eyes. After a quiet interval Corinne spoke again:

"Margaret, there 's something I never told you I No one but Father knows it. But I 'm going to tell you now. Do you know what I plan to be when I am older?"

Margaret looked up at her in quick interest, and said: "No! Tell me!"

"Well, it's my ambition to be a writer. Father says I have some gift in that direction, and I am constantly practising at it. But, after I 've learned how and can really write what people might like to read, the first story I 'm going to tell is the one about Alison Trenham and the wonderful way she helped to rescue Washington at the time he was in such danger!"

"Oh, that's perfectly splendid!" cried Margaret. "I wish I could do something like that, but I 'm afraid it is n't in me. Shall I tell you my chief ambition, Corinne? I want to get so strong that I can join a basket-ball team—and beat the twins at it!"

"Bless your heart, honey!" exclaimed Corinne, "you 're going to be the captain of that team, I 'll be willing to wager!"

Just at that moment Alexander came swinging down the street on his way home to luncheon, whistling the tune that had come to be such a momentous one in their lives. Margaret smiled as she heard it, and suddenly turned to her friend:

"Corinne, I want you to promise me something! When you come to write the story of Alison, I want you to call it The Lass of Richmond Hill! I think that would be the most appropriate title for it. Will you?"

Corinne thought it over a moment, then she said, slowly: "Yes, I think you 're right! I promise to call it—The Lass of Richmond Hill!"


THE END

"Tom, Dick and Harriet," Chapter 20

by Ralph Henry Barbour, beginning May 1907

CHAPTER XX: GOSSIP AND A MEETING


Harry and Dick were sitting on the lower step of the little flight leading to the Cottage porch. It was between ten and eleven of a perfect May morning. The crumbling red bricks paving the short path which led to the curving drive glowed warmly in the sun, and the little blades of grass springing up between them were very green and pert. The campus looked vastly different to-day from what it had that January afternoon when Harry had introduced Dick to Ferry Hill. To-day there was the bluest of blue skies overhead, and instead of the waste of snow the grass stretched away on every side fresh and verdant. The Grove was fast clothing itself in new, tender green, and beyond, at the foot of the long hill, the river dimpled and shone in the sunshine. Something of this occurred to Harry, I think, for she stopped pulling Snip's ear—an operation which that member of the group, half-asleep in the sunlight, thoroughly approved of—and asked:

"Dick, do you remember the day I brought you up here to show you the school? And how cold it was! And how nasty and dismal everything looked? After you 'd gone I never thought for a minute that you 'd come back."

"Neither did I," answered Dick with a little laugh. "I guess I 'd have stayed at Hammond and liked it all right if I had n't got there before school opened. It seemed so beastly lonesome over there, and the fellows who stayed during vacation were such a ghastly bunch, that I just had to get out. It was a toss-up whether I 'd come over here and try this or hit the trail for home."

"Are you sorry you came?" asked Harry anxiously.

"Not a bit," replied Dick with convincing heartiness. "I like it, and I like you and Chub and Roy. You 've all been so decent to me, you know. You 're all three mighty good fellows, Harry."

Harry flushed and looked pleased.

"I—I guess we liked you," she said. "I 'm glad you like Roy and Chub," she continued. "I just love them! They 're— they 're the nicest boys I ever knew, I guess; and you too, Dick."

Dick shook his head sorrowfully.

"I 'm jealous," he said. "You put Roy and Chub first."

"Well, you see, I 've known them longer, Dick," answered Harry earnestly. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not a bit," he laughed. "Besides, next year they won't be here, and you 'll have to like me best."

Harry looked grave.

"That 's the trouble," she sighed. "When you get to like a boy he goes and graduates and then you never see him again. I don't know what I 'll do when Roy and Chub go."

"Don't know what I 'll do, for that matter," growled Dick. "It 'll be beastly lonely at first. Maybe I won't come back myself."

"Oh, Dick, you must!" cried Harry. "Why, then there would n't be any one! You 've got to come back! You will, won't you, Dick?"

"Maybe."

"No, promise!"

"All right, I 'll come, Harry. You and I 'll have to comfort each other, eh? Say, is n't this a dandy day? Hope it 'll be like this Saturday, eh?"

"It 's going to be," said Harry decisively. "John says we 're in for a spell of settled weather, and he knows all about it; he never misses."

"Well, I hope he 's right. I want a good hard track on Saturday."

"Do you think we can beat them?" asked Harry.

Dick hesitated, then shook his head slowly.

"Honestly, I don't. But I 'm not telling the fellows that. It does n't help any, that sort of talk. I tell them we can win if we do our level best; and we can; the trouble is that every fellow can't do his level best when the time comes. Lots of them will be nervous, you know; can't help it. I may be myself. By the way, Sid got a note from their manager yesterday asking if we would mind changing the order of events so that the mile run will come last; he says two of their men who are going to run the mile are in the low hurdles and they would n't have time to get their wind. I told Sid to write and say it would be all right. It does n't matter to us, although I suppose if we insisted on having the things run off the way we first agreed to we 'd have a better chance to win the meet."

"But it would n't seem quite fair, would it, to make those boys run in the mile just after they 'd been hurdling?"

"Well, it would be fair enough, I guess; that 's their lookout, you know; only—well, I don't want to win that way. I say let every fellow have an even chance, and then the one that wins is the best man."

"Are you going to practise this afternoon!" Harry asked.

"No, on account of the ball game with Whittier. But to-morrow we 'll have a good stiff afternoon of it. Then Friday we 'll rest up. That reminds me: Sid 's trying to get up a meet with Prentice Military Academy for some time the last of June. I hope he fixes it, for if he does n't the fellows won't keep in training; and if they don't it will be all the harder to get in form again next year. I wish we were sure of having a decent track here next spring. If only the dormitory business had turned out better I guess the Doctor would have been willing to spend some money on the field and track."

"Do you think we 'll ever get the money for the dormitory, Dick?" asked Harry wistfully.

"Sure to, sooner or later," he answered stoutly. "But it 's slow going, is n't it? Have n't had any more letters, have you!"

Harry shook her head.

"Not one. I think some people are too mean for anything!"

"Well," Dick laughed, "I dare say they 've got plenty of uses for their money. We 'll get it yet. This summer I 'll strike dad for a thousand. If he 's had good luck he will give it in a minute. And when we 've got two thousand pledged I guess your father will be willing to help us. He will see then that we 're in earnest."

"I 'm sure he will," said Harry. "And is n't it too funny for anything about his being honorary president and not knowing it? Oh, Dick I What time is it?"

"Twenty of eleven," answered Dick, looking at his watch.

"I 'll be late if I don't go this minute! And I 'll have to run half the way anyhow!"

"I thought you did n't have to go until two on Wednesdays," said Dick.

"Eleven; it 's that awful music. 'Do, re, mi, fa, sol—' Good-by."

"Good-by," answered Dick, getting up and looking around for his books. "I 'll see you at the game this afternoon."

"Yes," called Harry from the door. "And I hope we win."

"Oh, we can't help it," laughed Dick. "It 's a way we have at Ferry Hill!"

But they did n't win; not unless the score lied. Seven to five it was when the last inning was over. Whittier Collegiate Institute had some good batters on her team and they had little trouble in finding Post and Kirby for twelve hits. Chub was inclined to be doleful after the game.

"Rotten!" he repeated over and over.

"Not a bit," said Dick. "The trouble was only that you fellows have n't been practising enough the last week. It 's my fault entirely. I Ve been after you for track work, and you can't do two things at once and do them well. I 'm sorry, Chub, but after Saturday I 'll let you alone."

"Think that 's it!" asked Chub, more cheerfully. "Well, if it is, I don't mind so much. Whittier is n't Hammond, after all. And if we make a good showing Saturday I shan't mind losing to-day's game. What do you say, Roy?"

"Me?" asked Roy, trotting away to the shower-bath. "Oh, I 'm not worrying about anything."

Events proved John the gardener to be a real weather prophet, for Saturday dawned clear and warm. The track and field meeting with Hammond was to begin at half past two, and at half past twelve Harry, music-roll in hand, was hurrying back along the dusty road from her music-lesson, fearful that she would n't get through luncheon in time to cross to Coleville on the first launch. Silver Cove was half a mile behind her and the tower of School Hall was already in sight above the tree-tops when the sound of wheels reached her from the road behind. A station carriage drawn by a dejected white horse and driven by a freckle-faced youth of seventeen or eighteen years was approaching unhurriedly from the direction of the Cove. In the rear seat, as Harry saw when the carriage overtook her, sat a gentleman in a neat gray suit, derby hat and brown gloves. The gloves were especially noticeable since they looked very new and were clasped tightly about the handle of a slenderly rolled umbrella which stood between his knees. He was about forty years old, had a round, smiling face, shrewd brown eyes and a short, bristly mustache which terminated at each side in a sharp, waxed point. As the carriage jolted past in its little cloud of dust the occupant of the back seat, who had been observing the pedestrian for several minutes, laid a hand on the driver's shoulder.

"Stop," he said.

"Whoa!" commanded the boy. "Whoa, I tell yer! Can't yer stop nohow, yer pesky brute?"

The horse showed as little inclination to stop as before it had shown to go, and when the vehicle finally drew up motionless, with the driver still scolding fretfully at the steed, it was some little distance beyond Harry. But it was quite evident that the occupants were awaiting her, and so she hurried up to it under the smiling scrutiny of the passenger. She had been walking fast, the forenoon was quite warm and her face was flushed as a result. Also the dust had settled upon her shoes and half way up her ankles, and Harry was sensible of not appearing at her best, a fact which annoyed her since the immaculate appearance of the stranger seemed to set a standard of neatness. Then she was looking up into a pair of smiling brown eyes, and—

"How do you do?" said the man. "May I offer you a seat?"


to be continued in two weeks...

"Young English Monarchs Who Never Reigned"

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, October 1920

Royalty, especially English royalty, was always a favorite subject of St. Nicholas, which published stories of kings and courtiers, dukes and damsels, and princes and knights with frequency. This nonfiction piece talks about some of the more obscure names in the royal household.

First William the Norman, then William his son,
Henry, Stephen and Henry, then Richard and John;
Next Henry the third, Edwards one, two, and three,
And again, after Richard, three Henrys we see;
Two Edwards, third Richard, if rightly I guess,
Two Henrys, sixth Edward, Queen Mary, Queen Bess;
Then Jamie the Scotchman, then Charles whom they slew,
Yet received, after Cromwell, another Charles too;
Next James called the second ascended the throne.
Then good William and Mary together came on;
Till Anne, Georges four, and fourth William all past,
God sent Queen Victoria, may she long be the last!

What child studying English history has not committed to memory this useful little doggerel, in order to keep well in mind the sequence of Great Britain's rulers! Nowadays we should have to alter the last line, and add another couplet, to include Edward VII and the present monarch; but let any one who doubts its helpfulness try to run over the list without its assistance!

As we glibly enumerate these kings of England, we are very apt to take it for granted that they all acceded to their rights in good and regular order, and it is seldom that we give much heed to the fact that there were five innocent, helpless boys who had every just and legal right to reign, and who never came into their own. Crowded away in the dim background of history, it is only faintly, vaguely, and very briefly that their claims are touched upon. Yet sometimes they seem to beckon to us with their shadowy, childish hands, and beg us to render them at least the recognition of a thought, the "passing tribute of a sigh"!

The crown of England has been always supposed to descend to the monarch's eldest son, or, if he lack descendants, to a male relative descended from the next eldest line. There were not a few cases where serious complications ensued in the latter event, as after the death of Edward VI, when there were a number of female claimants and not one male claimant for the crown. Here the succession was indeed difficult to decide; but in the five instances of which we speak, there is no doubt. In every case it was a boy who was defrauded, and in three of the five instances it was a heartless and unscrupulous uncle who did the defrauding.

The first was a grandson of William the Conqueror, known as William Clito, William of Normandy, or William Fitz-Robert. William the Conqueror's eldest son, Robert Curthose, was of a hot-headed, though well-meaning, disposition, and quarreled unceasingly with his father during the Conqueror's latter years. Consequently, the great William felt in no mood to relinquish the succession to this unprofitable son. On his death, therefore, he took matters into his own hands and left England to his second son, William Rufus, a considerable sum of money to his third son, Henry, but to Robert he gave the Province of Normandy, then England's most important possession.

William Rufus reigned thirteen years and died by an accident. He left no son to succeed him. and his brother Robert was off in the Holy Land. Only Henry was on hand to snatch the prize, and we may be sure he lost no time in taking possession. But the grasping Henry was not to be satisfied until he had succeeded in annexing Normandy also to the crown. Slowly, but surely, he set about its acquisition, till at length, in a great battle, he defeated Robert, captured him, and kept him for twenty-eight years a prisoner in Cardiff Castle, Wales, where he finally died, eighty years old and totally blind.

But it is Robert's little son, William Fitz-Robert, who claims our deepest sympathy. Eldest son of an eldest son, his rank entitled him to a seat on the world's greatest throne! It was a pitiful little boy of seven that they led crying before his uncle Henry, who had robbed the child of even his Normandy domain. For once, Henry's conscience was a little troubled, and when he might have put this obstacle forever out of the way, he magnanimously confided him to the care of a faithful servant, Helie de St. Saen. His conscience, however, did not, we notice, carry him to the length of restoring what did not belong to him!

Helie de St. Saen secretly carried the little William to France, fearing, no doubt, the uncertainty of Henry's mood. Here the child was befriended by Louis VI, who promised to aid him in recovering at least the Province of Normandy. The promises of most kings being ever thinner than air, poor little William's affairs were speedily forgotten when, in 1115, Henry made a treaty with Louis VI, and was promised a great French princess to marry his own son, another Prince William. That settled all question about Normandy, not to speak of any greater claim, and William Fitz-Robert faded into oblivion. He was a brave and persistent little prince, however, and as he was now well on to manhood, made a bold stand for his rights.

But a swift and terrible vengeance was shortly to overtake Henry I. Prince William and his father had been in France on a visit to Louis VI. In returning to England, Henry embarked first and his son came later on the ill-fated White Ship. Late in the night the White Ship struck a hidden rock, and went down with all on board. But one soul, a butcher's son, escaped to tell the tale, and it was he who broke the dreadful tidings to Henry. The king never recovered from the blow, and died, years after, a broken-hearted man, leaving no son to succeed him. On the death of Prince William, hope again revived for William Fitz-Robert. Many disgruntled English barons rallied to his cause, and the French king, Louis VI, had his interest rekindled to such a degree that he gave William his sister-in-law for a wife. It was at this bright turn of his affairs that the young man received a pike wound in his hand, during some unimportant battle. Little attention being paid it, blood-poisoning set in soon after and caused his death, at the age of twenty-six. Thus perished the first defrauded claimant to England's throne, struggling bravely to the last for the place so unscrupulously denied him.

Fifty-four years passed, and another child-king arose, the touching story of whose fate has stirred the world! King Henry II had three sons living, Richard, Geoffrey, and John. When Henry II died, Richard I came to the throne, and he is endeared to us in many a favorite book, under the title "Coeur de Lion" or "Lionhearted." Richard, however, died leaving no son, and the throne should have descended to the little son of his next younger brother Geoffrey. This boy, the famous Prince Arthur, was at the time a bonny lad of twelve. But here again, an uncle with neither heart nor conscience interposed; and being a man, older, stronger, and craftier, the throne of England fell easily into his grasp.

Again, as in the case of William Fitz-Robert, the French king, Philip, pretended to espouse the cause of the little English prince. But it is easy to see that Philip was only seeking for some pretext to oppose England, and here was a good and very opportune one. Philip made no move for two years, during which time the boy lived quietly with his mother in Brittany. Suddenly, however, Philip concluded that there might be something to gain by stirring up a fuss with England and England's abominable monarch, John. So he summoned Arthur to him and questioned him as to whether he would now like to claim his rights as sovereign. Poor little fellow!—dupe of two equally heartless rascals,—of course he would! Doubting nothing, and happy as though he already felt the crown's weight on his boyish brows, he gladly accepted the two hundred knights offered by Philip. Before he got them, however, he had to sign a little agreement in which he promised forever to acknowledge Philip as his superior lord and to allow him everything that he, Philip, might win from John. With these knights, and five hundred more sent by Brittany, and about five thousand foot-soldiers, the little lad started off gaily to attack the town of Mirabeau.

Can we not see him at the head of his troops, attired in glittering armor, fair curls flying and eyes alight with hope? How Philip must have laughed in his sleeve at the sight, and how John must have sneered as he prepared to meet him! Arthur had an object in besieging Mirabeau. There dwelt his grandmother, Elinor, and he imagined that, by capturing her, he could bring his Uncle John more easily to terms. The siege began, but had not advanced far when along came John, who speedily set about relieving his mother and capturing by stratagem the little prince. After that, the end was a foregone conclusion.

Arthur was confined in the castle of Falaise, and entrusted to the care of one Hubert de Burgh. The end of Arthur is shrouded in mystery. That he disappeared, was disposed of in some cruel manner, is certain; but just how, no one has ever known. Some think he was allowed to attempt to escape by leaping from the high castle walls and so met his end. Other circumstances point to a more horrible exit from his stormy little world. But one thing is sure: whatever was his fate, his miserable uncle was the cause of it. Somehow we cannot feel anything but satisfaction in knowing how supremely John was hated by the people over whom he reigned, and how they wrested from his unwilling hands the Magna Charta, that glorious treaty of English liberty. And we rather exult in the fact that he died from over-feeding himself with peaches and cider at Swinestead Abbey—a very appropriate name, by the way! Prince Arthur truly was avenged!

We now come to the most sensible, and certainly the happiest, of all the defrauded little monarchs. Richard II was, if anything, the most contemptible, idle, worthless, and utterly good-for-nothing sovereign under whom England ever suffered. Richard himself was a grandson of the great Edward III and son of the famous Black Prince, but was as little like either of these able men as could well be imagined. After he had administered the Government in the worst possible manner for twenty years, the people began to feel that they could endure it no longer. An insurrection arose, the idea being to depose Richard, who had no sons, and elevate to his place his cousin Henry Bolingbroke. Duke of Lancaster. Now this was all very well, had it not been that there was a little rightful heir to throne in the young Earl of March, then a child of nine. This boy was descended from an older son of Edward III than the one from whom Bolingbroke sprang, consequently his was the prior claim.

Well, the rebellion occurred, and poor Richard II, hounded from pillar to post, finally gave up the crown of his own accord, and was promptly rewarded by being clapped into the Tower, a despised and friendless prisoner. Now Henry Bolingbroke, who then became Henry IV, if he had acted properly, might have accepted the regency for this little nine-year-old Earl of March, who of course was not yet fitted to reign. But no such thought, apparently, occurred to Henry. Instead, he trumped up some absurd story about having been eldest descendant of Henry III, and therefore rightful heir to the throne—a claim patently unfounded and false, as everybody knew it to be, though they pretended they did n't!

Henry IV was not by any means a bad king. On the contrary, apart from having taken as his own a throne he had no business to occupy, he tried to rule wisely and justly, keeping his subjects' welfare always before his eyes. One of the first things he did was to put the little Earl of March in honorable confinement in Windsor Castle. This imprisonment was not rigorous, and Henry gave the little earl into the charge and companionship of his own son, afterward Henry V, one of the most attractive monarchs England ever had. To his credit it must be said that Henry IV never sought to harm the innocent child, and only kept him confined as a political measure.

For the way of the usurper is hard! Again and again was Henry obliged to meet and rush insurrections led by dissatisfied nobles, who wished to reinstate the rightful heir. Never was he allowed to feel that his throne was secure. At length he died. His last days had been harrowed by failing health, and a very much disturbed conscience (we hope!) on the subject of his usurpation. He passed away, gladly relinquishing a burdensome crown to his son.

The first act of the new king was gracious and magnanimous to a degree. He set free the Earl of March from his long imprisonment and bade him go his way in peace. These two young men had grown up together—theirs was a friendship reaching high above the ambitions even of a throne. Well did Henry know that not one move would be made by this lifelong companion to snatch away the coveted crown. And he was not mistaken. The Earl of March, besides having now not the slightest desire to reign, would have been too stanchly true to Henry ever to have made the attempt, even had that ambition still lurked in him.

The Earl of March became the firmest supporter of Henry's throne, and through all their lifetime not one instance occurred to mar the beauty of their mutual affection. At the marriage and coronation of Henry's queen, Katharine of Valois, the earl knelt on one side of her throne and held her scepter. Could regal dignity have further abased itself! The Earl of March outlived his kingly friend, but even then he made no effort to recover his own, and died at last unthroned, uncrowned.

The fourth and perhaps best known of our list is Edward V. When his father, Edward IV, died, he left two sons, aged thirteen and eleven. The former, the new little king, was at the time with his maternal uncle, Lord Rivers, at Ludlow Castle. Of course they started at once to London for the coronation. The younger, the little Duke of York, was with his mother elsewhere. But another uncle, the famous Duke of Gloucester, afterward Richard III, who at the death of the king was proclaimed Protector and Defender of the Kingdom, had his own ideas and schemes on the subject of the succession. The Duke of Gloucester and his nephew, Edward V, met on their way to London, at Stoney-Stratford. Richard immediately took the boy from the kindly charge of Lord Rivers, conducted him to London, and placed him in the Tower. Next he sent for the little Duke of York, whose distracted mother, fearing some evil, could scarcely be persuaded to relinquish him. The Duke of York was immediately sent to join his brother in the Tower. Then Richard doubtless rubbed his hands and chuckled wickedly to himself, for had he not now the whole line of succession secure!

Meanwhile, the people of England were patiently waiting for the coronation of the new little king, and wondering why it did not take place. Next, by an incomprehensible system of juggling with the poor ignorant multitude's muddled ideas, Richard proceeded to convince them that neither of these children had any right to reign, and that he was their only legal sovereign, anyhow! And as the wavering minds in any mob are willing to be swayed by the most absurd arguments, he somehow got the populace to shout, "Long live Richard III!" Of course that settled it, and he straightway went off and had himself crowned! Not a word was spoken in favor of the rightful king; but even so, the presence of these two children mightily troubled Richard. At any time the popular favor might veer again and return to its rightful allegiance. What was to be done? Oh, that was simple and easy to a conscience as hardened as Richard's! The pitiful story of the two friendless princes in the Tower, and how they are supposed to have perished, is known to the youngest reader of historical tales.

But Richard did not go unpunished. His only son, Edward, a boy of eleven, on whom the king built every hope of future succession, died suddenly at Middleham Castle, and the blow completely staggered his father. Popular favor, too, had long since deserted him, and the people wearied for a new and more acceptable monarch. This monarch they declared they had found in Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, a son of the rival house of Lancaster. Sick to death of the fear and treason in the midst of which he existed, Richard III met the Duke of Richmond in the great battle of Bosworth. He was utterly defeated and struck from his horse, but perished fighting fiercely to the end. His golden crown was snatched from his head, and there, on the battle-field, placed upon the brow of Richmond, who became Henry VII. Thus was the throne of the usurper usurped!

The last of the little defrauded monarchs is strangely connected in fate with that of the previous one. Richard III had an older brother, the Duke of Clarence, whom he had sometime before, and for reasons best known to himself, disposed of by the new and entirely original method of drowning him in a cask of Malmsey wine! Clarence, however, left a surviving son, Edward Plantagenet, Earl of Warwick. How his existence ever escaped the vigilant eye of Richard is a thousand wonders, but we find no record of its greatly troubling the unscrupulous usurper. At the time of Henry VII's coronation, this boy was fifteen years of age. As the first act of his reign, Henry had the child transferred from the castle of Sheriffe-Sutton (where he had been virtually a prisoner since his father's death) to the Tower of London. But this king was inclined to be merciful, and only intended to keep the lad a prisoner. The young earl, about whom very little is known and who was never more than a pale shadow across the page of history, passed the entire remainder of his life in this confinement. He was destined, however, to be the center of two singular conspiracies, and his life was curiously and fatally linked with those of .the two little princes who perished by the hand of Richard.

Henry VII had not been reigning more than fifteen months when strange rumors were wafted over from Ireland. It was there declared that the Earl of Warwick had escaped from the Tower.

To support this, a handsome youth, who certainly bore a strange resemblance to the uncrowned king, was exhibited to the people. This youth was better known as Lambert Simnel, a baker's son and a rank impostor. The credulous Irish received him, notwithstanding, with open arms, declaring that they would support his cause, and he set about entering England. Meanwhile, Henry VII had had the real Edward Plantagenet exhibited in all parts of London, for of course he had never for one moment escaped from the well-guarded Tower. When the pretender landed at Furness, the populace did not rise for him as he had hoped, and Henry met and easily defeated him in a battle at Stoke. Lambert Simnel, for he was no other after all, was placed in the king's kitchen as a scullery-boy, where he seemed heartily content to remain!

That ended the first conspiracy.

But another was treading fast upon its heels. Once more a pretended claimant for the crown arose, and again Ireland was first to be duped into belief in the impostor. This time the personage declared that he was no other than the Duke of York, brother of the little murdered Edward V, who, so he said, had escaped a like fate and had been wandering about unknown for seven years. Now this Perkin Warbeck, as he really was, proved to be a far more audacious and resourceful impostor than his predecessor. Moreover, he claimed to be some one whom all thought dead, and whose death would be very hard to prove. Therefore he quickly gained to himself supporters, and not a few important ones at that. The Duchess of Burgundy pretended that she recognized him as her nephew, and solemnly proclaimed him Duke of York, rightful heir to the throne. Many English malcontents joyfully embraced his cause, and also a goodly number of eminent men became concerned in the conspiracy—for which indiscretion they presently lost their heads!

Warbeck first advanced into Scotland, where the Scotch king, James IV, was so befooled as to believe in him, and give him the charming Lady Katharine Gordon for his wife. Then Warbeck made his great blunder—he determined to cross the frontier into England. He advanced boldly till he was obliged to confront the royal army, when courage forsook him and he took refuge in ignominious and precipitate flight. He was captured at length, hiding in a church, led to London, and exhibited to the people as a fraud.

But Perkin Warbeck must have been a rather likable fellow, on the whole, for Henry decided to keep him right there at court, albeit rather closely watched. But Warbeck made the mistake of attempting to escape from this pleasant surveillance, was recaptured, and thrown this time into the Tower.

Here it was that this pretender became the companion of poor Edward Plantagenet, who was no doubt glad of any diversion to while away the dreary hours, and whose unworldly mind was easily deceived by Warbeck's clever pretensions. At any rate, Warbeck gained such a hold over the luckless youth that together they planned to escape and incite a fresh rebellion. But even the first step of the plot was not taken before all was discovered. Perkin Warbeck had exhausted Henry's last atom of patience, and the monarch felt that there was nothing for it now but to be rid of him, which was speedily accomplished. But poor Edward Plantagenet, whose innocent feet had become entangled in the wily rascal's net, was destined to pay all too dear for his complicity, and his life was also forfeited on the twenty-third of November, 1499, at the age of twenty-nine.

Thus perished the last of the legitimate and much-wronged claimants to England's throne. What differences might not have been effected had any one of these children been elevated to the position to which he was rightly entitled! Certain it is that the whole face of England's history, perhaps the history of the world, would have been altered. We wonder vainly would it have been for better or for worse. Of all the five young lives, but one was happy and peaceful and useful, and that one only so because, like a sensible person, he early renounced all ambition to sit upon an unstable throne. Truly has Shakespeare said: "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!" And perhaps it is better that these unfortunate young monarchs should have been spared that greater misery of reigning in sorrow over a perhaps fickle and ungrateful people.

So they pass before us, wan, pathetic little shadows out of the tumultuous long ago. We sigh for their misfortune in that they were born to the purple, when they might, in some lesser sphere, have been entitled to happy childhoods and well-spent lives. But as they fade again into the misty past, we let them go, whispering perhaps in our thoughts, "Ill-fated young uncrowned monarchs, you are not wholly forgotten!"

"With Howard in Charge"

by Julian Josephson, November 1914

Technology may have changed, but unexpected frosts still threaten citrus growers everywhere. Crokinole "is an action board game similar to carrom, marbles, shove ha'penny or squails with elements of shuffleboard and curling reduced to table-top size." More here.

As Mrs. Ford picked up the invitation that had come several days ago and read it over again. a wistful look came into her face. Social events were rare indeed among the scattered, hardworking fruit-growers of the Umpqua valley; and, as this was the time of year when Mrs. Ford's work was most severe and monotonous, the party at the big Farrington place promised a welcome bit of recreation. Her face brightened at the prospect. But the next moment it wore a look of quiet decision as she turned to her husband and said, "I don't think we had better go, Albert."

Mr. Ford, struggling manfully with a tight collar, looked up at his wife with an expression of mingled surprise and concern. It was not like her to change her mind this way at the last minute. "Why not, dear?" he asked gently. "Are n't you feeling well?"

"Oh, I'm all right," returned Mrs. Ford, quickly, noticing the worried look on her husband's face. "I was thinking about Howard. I don't like the idea of leaving him alone on the farm at night."

"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Ford, in tones of great relief. "If that 's all that 's worrying you, you can quit worrying right now. I forgot to tell you that when the Wilsons stop for us with the auto, they are going to leave Walter here with Howard until we get back. We 'll be home by midnight, at the latest."

"Then we 'll go!" cried Mrs. Ford, gaily. "I 'll hurry and get dressed, so as to be ready by the time the Wilsons get here."

Half an hour later, the Wilsons drove up in their big gray car, and a few minutes afterward, the jolly little party was whirling down the road on its way to Farrington's. As Mrs. Ford turned for a parting glance at their farm before rounding a bend in the road that would hide it from view, her face suddenly became serious and she touched her husband on the arm. "Albert," she whispered, "do you think the orchard is perfectly safe?"

Mr. Ford smiled. "Why, Kate, this is June!" he exclaimed confidently. "Who ever heard of a frost in June—at least a frost hard enough to hurt prunes that are as far along as ours? You surely don't mean to say seriously that you think there 's any danger of frost to-night! Why, it 's balmy!"

"I suppose it is a foolish fear, Albert," replied Mrs. Ford, with a trace of anxiety still in her voice. "But I was just thinking how much depended on our getting a good crop this fall, and I guess it made me a little nervous."

It was now her husband's turn to look thoughtful. But he was not a man to borrow trouble, and his face quickly cleared as he said reassuringly, "Don't worry, dear. There is n't the slightest chance of a frost to-night."

Mrs. Ford was not entirely reassured. She was thinking about the June frost that old Charlie, the hired man, had told her about that morning. True, it had happened thirty years ago, and there had never been a June frost since. But it could happen again—it might happen again. And this was the thought that was troubling her now. Still, she reflected, a June frost was at best a highly improbable thing, so she decided not to worry her husband by mentioning what old Charlie had said.

The Fords had bought their prune farm three years ago. paying half the purchase price in cash and giving a mortgage on the place to secure payment of the balance, which was to be paid within three years under penalty of foreclosure of the mortgage. The first year, they had a good crop of prunes; and, as the market-price was excellent that season, they realized enough from the orchard to make a substantial payment on the mortgage. The second year, the crop was almost a failure; and it was only by the hardest kind of pinching and scraping that the Fords were able to pay the expenses of the farm and the interest on the mortgage. The final payment on the mortgage had to be met this year, so that everything depended on the year's prune crop. A good crop, and the farm would be theirs; a poor crop, and they must lose not only much of the money they had put into the place, but also the hard, grinding toil of three years.

Small wonder that the thought of a killing frost made Mrs. Ford look worried. But as she leaned back comfortably against the big, padded seat of the Wilsons' car and listened to the soothing whir of the smooth-running motor, her fears gradually died away. By the time they were half-way on their journey, she had forgotten them entirely, and was chatting gaily with Mrs. Wilson.

In the meantime, and almost before the last shrill rattle of the big auto siren had died away, Howard and Walter, who had been left in charge of the Ford farm, were preparing for a pleasant evening by themselves. The crokinole board was set up, and delighted preparations made for a contest of unlimited length to decide the long- disputed championship. The boys were great friends, and, incidentally, great rivals at this particular sport. An exciting game was soon in full swing.

Time passes swiftly when one is doing something absorbingly pleasant. It is therefore not surprising that when the boys, from sheer weariness, finally stopped playing, the hands of the big wooden clock had crept round to eleven. It had been quite warm earlier in the evening, and the fire in the fireplace, which had not been a large one in the first place, had been allowed to die down to a flat bed of coals. Howard looked at the clock in surprise and shivered slightly. "My!" he exclaimed. "It must be turning chilly. We 'd better fix up a good fire in the fireplace, the folks will be pretty cold by the time they get home."

As the boys opened the door to go out to the woodpile for some big fir chunks, a stinging draft of air blew into their faces. As they came back into the house with their load, Howard Ford looked thoughtful. Although only a little past fifteen, he was a well-grown, bright, self-reliant young American, and his training had been of a nature to give these qualities unusual development. He had helped with the orchard work every vacation for the past two years, working under the competent instruction of old Charlie Foss, an orchard man of thirty years' experience. He had made good use of his brain, as well as of his hands, and was a practical young prune-grower to his finger-tips. He turned to Walter. "Do you think it could get cold enough to freeze?" he asked anxiously.

"Of course not!" replied Walter, vehemently. "It does n't freeze in June!"

Howard did not seem entirely reassured. He, too, had heard what old Charlie had said that morning about the memorable June frost thirty years ago that destroyed every prune crop in the valley. He knew, too, something about how much was depending on the prune crop this year, and the anxious look on his face deepened. "I think I 'd better call up father on the 'phone," he said quietly. He went into the hall where the telephone hung, and was gone several minutes. When he came back, his face wore the same anxious look. "I can't get anybody," he explained. "Our line must be out of order."

"What 's the difference?" exclaimed Walter, a little testily. "There 's no danger." Walter's father was wealthy, and did not grow prunes.

Howard did not reply at once, but looked at the clock and drew considerable comfort from the fact that it was now nearly half-past eleven. "The folks will be here in a few minutes, anyway," he remarked more cheerfully.

The boys heaped up the fir chunks on the fire until the flames were crackling and dancing merrily. Then each pulled up a big chair in front of the fire, and they talked and gazed sleepily into the bright flames. Gradually conversation began to lag. The eyes that looked into the fire drooped more and more, until both boys were sound asleep.

They had been sleeping for perhaps ten minutes, when both awoke with a start. "Ting-a- ling! Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!" galloped the swift, sharp strokes of the frost alarm in Mr. Ford's bedroom, sounding as loud through the half-opened door as if it were right against their ears. The boys sprang out of their chairs, and, for a moment too startled to move, stood looking at each other with frightened faces.

Howard was first to recover his presence of mind. His face stiffened with resolution as he gripped Walter's arm. "Walter," he said, speaking in sharp, rapid tones, "do you know what that means? It means that it 's already within eight degrees of freezing-point in the orchard. If it drops to freezing-point before we can get the smudge-pots going, our prunes will be ruined—and so will we. Charlie 's gone to town to-night, and won't be back until to-morrow. It 's up to us to get the pots lighted!"

"And we 'll do it!" was Walter's ringing response.

"Come on then!" cried Howard. Pulling on their sweaters, they started on the run for the tool house, where the torches and cans of gasolene were always kept in readiness during the frost season. Then, each with a torch and a large can of gasolene, they made for the orchard. When they came to the prune drier, a small, low building at the entrance to the orchard, Howard stopped a moment to glance at the thermometer that hung outside the door in a protected niche. The temperature had not fallen any more as yet. It was still eight degrees above freezing-point. Howard turned to Walter with a grimly hopeful face. They hurried into the orchard.

This thermometer that hung outside the drier was called a frost thermometer. It was of the same outward appearance as an ordinary good-sized dial thermometer, and was equipped with a steel hand like that of a clock, only much more delicate. This moved across the dial, controlled by the rise and fall of a concealed mercury column. When the steel hand approached within a certain number of degrees of freezing-point, it touched a small iron pin projecting from the face of the dial. This pin was connected with a small battery inside the thermometer case. The moment that the steel hand touched the iron pin, a contact was formed and an electric circuit completed, exactly as is done when one presses the button of a door-bell. From the small battery inside the thermometer case a wire ran to Mr. Ford's bedroom, where it was connected with an electric bell. The moment that the temperature dropped dangerously near to freezing-point, the bell in Mr. Ford's room would send out its warning alarm, and make it possible, with prompt work, for the smudge-pots to be lighted in time to protect the prunes from the deadly frost.

As Howard led the way rapidly into the orchard, he realized that there was not a moment to lose. The temperature might begin dropping at any minute. It was after twelve now, and within the next hour the mercury was almost certain to go down to freezing-point. He realized that the safety of the orchard to-night depended on two possibilities: the immediate arrival of his father with adequate assistance; secondly, the ability of Walter and himself, unaided, to get the smudge-pots lighted before the frost struck the orchard. And, as he reflected on how many pots must be lighted, and the short time in which it must be done, he felt, with a sinking heart, that it was almost a hopeless task. But at least they would save what they could.

These smudge-pots were simply tins about the size of a gallon lard-pail, filled with crude oil. This is a very low-grade oil, thick, black, and greasy. It does not ignite from immediate contact with fire, hence it is necessary to pour gasolene over the oil before it can be lighted. When burning, the smudge-pots send up a dense smoke or smudge—hence the name. The pots are set on the ground, throughout the orchard, varying in frequency from fifty to one hundred and fifty to the acre, and are so placed as to afford maximum warmth to the greatest number of trees. If the smudge-pots are properly located, and are lighted before the temperature in an orchard has dropped too low, they will keep it above the freezing-point.

Howard and Walter darted among the trees, pouring and lighting as they ran. At first it seemed quite easy, and they made splendid progress. The first half of the orchard was covered in rapid time, and Howard's hopes began to rise. He ran to the drier and glanced at the thermometer. Then his hopes fell—lower than ever. It was just three degrees above freezing-point. Shouting encouragement to Walter, he went frantically to work again. But the pace of the past forty minutes had been a cruel one, and it now began to tell. Their backs ached from the continual stooping and darting forward; their arms hurt cruelly from the weight of the heavy gasolene cans. Their legs were beginning to sag under them, from the swift, long-sustained pace over the rough plowed ground. After ten minutes more of this grilling effort, they were ready to drop from sheer exhaustion.

Walter looked at Howard with brave but despairing face. "I 'm pretty near all in!" he gasped.

Howard, himself staggering, smiled back at him grimly. "Stay with it, Walt!" he cried hoarsely.

Walter set his lips and forced himself wearily along. And so they both struggled on, dragging their tired limbs along by sheer grit, feeling with each step forward that they could go no farther, yet each time rallying with fierce determination their little remaining strength. They were fighting to save the orchard.

The orchard was by this time filled with thick, choking smoke. The boys could breathe only with painful difficulty. The harsh smudge filled their eyes, blinded them, and made their lungs ache cruelly. Still they kept on. But it could not be for much longer. Human endurance had almost reached its limit. They were only lads, without the hardened frames and toughened sinews of men, yet they had already accomplished what few men could have done.

Walter was the first to fall, dropping in a heap, with the torch still clutched in his hand. Howard, feeling his strength leaving him with every second, managed to stagger about for a few moments longer. Then he, too, collapsed, within a few feet of where Walter had fallen.


All this because of a bursting automobile tire.

At the first intimation that the temperature was beginning to fall pretty rapidly, the Fords, alarmed for the safety of their orchard, had explained matters to the Farringtons, and prepared to leave immediately for home. As it was still early, only a little past eleven, Mr. Ford did not feel like asking the Wilsons to take them home, and thus spoil their own evening. He was just on the point of asking Mr. Farrington to have his chauffeur take them home in one of his cars, when Mr. Wilson overheard him.

"Nonsense!" he interrupted genially. "I 'll take you myself."

It was just about an even twenty miles from Farrington's to the Ford place. As the roads were in very good condition and the car a powerful six-cylinder affair, Mr. Wilson assured his friend that they could easily make the distance in forty minutes. They had been an hour in coming, but there had been no need of haste then.

The first half of the distance was covered in a little less than twenty minutes. The speed-indicator showed thirty miles an hour, and the engine was running beautifully. Suddenly there was a report like that of a heavy gun, and Mr. Wilson brought the car to an abrupt halt. One of the rear tires had burst.

"It 's all right," reassured Mr. Wilson, noticing the anxious look on Mr. Ford's face. "I have extra tires, and it 'll take but a few minutes to put one on." So saying, he jumped down and ran to the back of the car, where the extra tires were always kept. He came back a moment later, with a look of disappointment on his face. "Hard luck!" he exclaimed. "Pete must have forgotten to put them in when we started. We 'll have to patch it."

Mr. Ford knew that this would mean at least half an hour's delay, probably much more. But there was nothing to do but wait. It was entirely too far to think of walking. They would simply have to make the best of it. While he was helping Mr. Wilson with the tire, he could not avoid noticing that the air was getting colder and colder. With every minute of delay he could see his orchard that much nearer to ruin. He did not look at his wife, for he did not want her to see his worried face.

At length after what seemed hours of waiting, but was in reality only a little more than a single hour, Mr. Wilson announced that the tire was repaired. Mr. Ford climbed wearily into the seat beside his wife. Then noticing her pale, anxious face, he placed his arm protectingly about her, and whispered: "Never mind, dear. We still have each other, and Howard!"

Mr. Wilson knew the importance of making the rest of the distance in the quickest possible time, and sent the powerful car forward at a furious speed. In a very few minutes they were at the Fords' gate. Mr. Ford helped his wife out of the auto, then ran up the front steps.

Striking a match, he glanced at the small thermometer that hung against one of the porch posts. His head dropped between his shoulders as he walked slowly into the house, and on his face was a look of utter dejection.

As he stepped into the living-room, he started in surprise. It was empty. The fire was still blazing merrily, but there was no sign of Howard and Walter. The look of hopelessness on his face changed swiftly into one of wondering hope. He turned to his wife, who had just come in with Mr. Wilson, and said, "Wait here a moment, dear. Frank and I are going to take a look at the orchard."

They had not taken fifty steps in the direction of the orchard when Mr. Ford's nostrils caught the unmistakable odor of the smudge. It was a good, strong odor, too, such as could come only from many burning smudge-pots. Filled with sudden joyful hope, he made for the orchard on the run, followed closely by Mr. Wilson. As they came nearer, they could see the huge masses of smoke rising against the starlit sky, and could catch a glimpse here and there of a smudge-pot burning steadily among the trees. Filled with sudden, overpowering emotion, Mr. Ford caught his friend's arm to steady himself. "God bless the boys!" he murmured huskily.

Going over the orchard rapidly, but with experienced eye, he glanced from time to time at the little thermometer which he had taken from the porch and brought with him. Gradually his tense features softened into an expression of gratitude and relief.

"Where are the boys?" asked Mr. Wilson.

The question brought Mr. Ford to himself with a shock. For a moment he looked puzzled, then worried. He had been almost over the whole orchard, and had seen nothing of them. "Howard! Walter!" he called in his powerful voice. There was no response. He called again, and then again. Still no response. The two men looked at each other with anxious faces.

Mr. Ford glanced thoughtfully at the many smudge-pots burning, then at a sudden thought which came into his mind, he turned pale and began to examine the ground very closely as they went along. All at once, his keen eye caught sight of a gasolene torch on the ground, still burning faintly. As they hurried toward it. a cry broke simultaneously from both men. The next moment they had the two exhausted boys in their arms, and were carrying them tenderly to the house.

But the crop was saved. And the two men who told the story a few days later were the proudest fathers in the State of Oregon.

"The Sapphire Signet," Chapter 19 (first half)

by Augusta Huiell Seaman, beginning November 1915

CHAPTER XIX: THE MISSING LINKS

"So you thought that because we were having such a good time in Bermuda, we had forgotten all about the mystery!" laughed Margaret, the next afternoon, at the grand assembly of the Antiquarian Club. They were all gathered in the Charlton Street parlor—all but Mr. Cameron. He had, indeed, fully expected to be present, not intending to go to his office till the following day. But unexpected business had called him there, after all, so he could only send his hearty regrets to the meeting of the club. It seemed like old times for the young folks to be together again in this familiar room. The only wonderful difference was in Margaret. No longer was she ensconced in her accustomed wheel-chair, but in a big "comfy" armchair, with her cherished crutches leaning against its arm. No longer did she seem a wan, frail, delicate little invalid, but a brown, rosy, plump, and increasingly energetic young person. But the sweetness of her smile and the shy, trusting expression of her big gray eyes had not changed.

"Yes, I know you all must have thought we 'd forgotten it," she went on; "but we hadn't—not for a minute! Only, for several weeks, we did n't seem to make any progress with it at all. We used to inquire of every native Bermudian we met if he or she had ever heard of any one living there by the name of Trenham; but no one seemed to have any ideas at all about it. They 'd say they had n't heard of the name themselves, but would always refer you to some one else, who would turn out to know as little as they did! It was awfully discouraging! Finally, Mr. Cameron suggested that the only way would probably be to go around to all the different parish churches and consult the old parish registers for the lists of births and marriages and deaths. He thought the name had probably died out long ago, and perhaps no relatives or descendants remained, or were even remembered.

"Well, this seemed a big piece of work, of course, and none of us felt quite like attempting it just then, for Mr. Cameron was n't yet a bit well himself, and I was having treatments every day with the big doctor in Hamilton. So we decided to put it off for a while. And then—meantime—a very unexpected thing happened!

"You know, we were staying at a big hotel about four miles from Hamilton, near Harrington Sound. Mr. Cameron likes it there because it's out of the city, well away from everything distracting, like the things going on in Hamilton. Part of this hotel is big and new, but another section, where the dining-room is, has been standing for over two hundred years. You can see how old it is by its very looks, and we heard that it was really the old homestead of the proprietor's ancestors.

"The housekeeper is a dear, kindly lady, and we got rather well acquainted with her, because often we had to ask her for different and rather unusual things for me. She was just lovely to me, always, and after a while we had some long, interesting talks with her about Bermuda and the different families living there. And once she took us up to her own apartments, in the old part of the house, and showed us a collection of the most wonderful old furniture and antiques that had been in her own and her husband's families since way, way back. Corinne and her father went just wild over them, for you know how they love antiques!

"Well, one day we thought we 'd ask her if she 'd ever heard of any one on the island by the name of Trenham. She said no, she had n't, but, if we were interested to find out, she 'd take us over to the South Shore to see a very old lady there who knew lots and lots about Bermuda history and former people. She said she was driving to Hamilton that morning on some business, but would first take us over to the Jewell Farm, introduce us to old Mrs. Jewell, go on to Hamilton, and come back to get us later. She declared that the old lady would be delighted to have us come, because she was blind now and had very little to entertain her, and she loved to talk to people.

"This seemed too good a chance to lose, and Corinne and I accepted at once. Mr. Cameron had gone off on a fishing-trip, so he could n't be included. We piled into the big, comfy carriage, and you ought to see that great, strapping driver lift me in and out and carry me around! Well, we got to the Jewell Farm over on the South Shore, and, oh, folks! how I wish you could all see that place! It's simply the most charming old house—two hundred and fifty years old!—set high on a hill overlooking that marvelous blue ocean, with a garden all around it that is like the things you dream about! We took some pictures of the house and garden which I 'll show you later, but they don't do it anything like justice. You can only get a faint idea of its real beauty!

"And the whole house, inside, was filled with the dearest old-time furniture! It nearly set Corinne crazy! But never mind about all that now—we must come to the best part! The driver carried me in, and we were introduced to the sweetest old lady you ever saw! She was nearly ninety-five, with snow-white hair, and a dainty lace cap over it. Her eyes were pretty and blue, and you 'd hardly guess, to look at her, that she could n't see a thing. If she 'd known us all her life, she could n't have received us more cordially, or seemed less surprised to have complete strangers landed on her without any warning. She made us feel at home and acquainted right away, and after a few moments the housekeeper left us alone with her and went on to Hamilton.

"We did n't like to introduce the subject we were most interested in right away, so we chatted with her about her lovely old home, and the furniture in it, and its history. After a while, though, when we could bring it in naturally, we asked her if she had ever known any one by the name of Trenham in Bermuda. She gave the most curious little start, but only said very quietly:

"'I would like to know why you ask? Whom do you know of that name?' Well, Corinne and I looked at each other and I saw we were agreed that it was time to make a bold move, so I said right out that we were very much interested in some one who lived in Bermuda a long while ago and whose name was Alison Trenham.

"Folks, if I live to be a hundred, I 'll never forget the strange expression that came over that old lady's face when I spoke that name! For a minute or two she didn't answer—just sat quietly thinking. Then at last she said, still very quietly:

"'Yes, I know the name! I have heard of only one Alison Trenham in my life, and that was—my grandmother!'"

There was a gasp and a start from her listeners, and Margaret laughed as she continued:

"You 'd just better believe we jumped, too! And I thought Corinne's eyes would pop out of her head—she looked so startled! I just could n't help smiling to myself at her expression, though I was so deep in other things. Then I said:

"'Well, Mrs. Jewell, since you do know an Alison Trenham, and she was your own grandmother, I guess we 'd just better tell you our whole story. For the two Alisons may turn out to be the same!' Then, as quickly as I could, I told her all about finding the trunk and the journal, and our Antiquarian Club, and all the discoveries we made afterward, and how we 'd come to a snag and could get no further. I even told her how Sarah had burned the original journal. But I did n't say a word about the sapphire signet—just then. I wish you could have seen the expression on her face all the time I was talking! It was as though she were listening to a story so strange that she could n't believe a word of it! I ended by begging her, please, if she could throw the least light on our mystery, to oblige us by doing so, as it was the chief aim of our Antiquarian Club to find the key to the riddle!

"She was silent a long time after I had finished—so long that we were beginning to think she must have fallen asleep, for she had covered her eyes with her hand, and was leaning her elbow on the arm of the chair. But suddenly she spoke, saying very low:

"'All this seems like a dream to me! You children have stumbled upon a secret that I supposed no mortal would ever discover in this world! The ways of chance are very mysterious ! Yes, it is the same Alison; and since you know so much, I am going to tell you the rest of the story, though she made me solemnly promise, when I was a young girl, that I would never tell a soul. That is why I was hesitating. But I feel certain that, were she to know these circumstances, she would have no real objection to your knowing the whole story. It can harm no one now—least of all herself!

"'As I told you, she was my grandmother. I was born in 1820, and she was then a woman sixty years old. My own mother and father died in my infancy, and left me to her care. This was her home, this same old farm, and I came here to live with her. We are a long-lived race, here in Bermuda, and she lived on to be almost ninety-five, as I myself am doing! A few years before she died she told me that she had something on her conscience that she would like to tell me, because she felt that she would die happier, knowing that she had not kept the secret unconfessed to the end. She made me promise I would never disclose it, as some of it had once been of political consequence, and she had always feared its discovery.'

"And now, folks, I 'm going to tell you the story of Alison in my own words, because I can't remember all of hers!" ended Margaret. Then she re-settled herself in her big chair and began anew, very much flattered by the breathless attention of her auditors.

"Alison Trenham lived on this same old farm with her grandfather, Archibald Trenham. Her parents had both been lost at sea when she was little, and that's why she was living with him. He was a queer, crabby sort of an old man, and had never loved Alison because he was so disappointed she had n't been a boy. She was a big, beautiful-looking, athletic girl, and he had had her taught to ride, and swim, and sail a boat, and do most of the things boys generally do, besides learning to read and write and some Latin and French. It was his whim that she should be educated like a boy, even if she wasn't one.

"But she was restless and discontented and headstrong, and hated her life there with her grandfather, and wanted the worst way to go away from Bermuda altogether and see some of the world. She had an aunt, a Madame Pennington, living down at Flatts (that's right where our hotel was), and a cousin Betty, and she was very fond of them both. The aunt was like a mother to her, and spoiled her a lot. Well, Alison confided to her aunt that she wanted to go away from Bermuda, but that her grandfather wouldn't hear of it. And she said she was so crazy to go that sometime she was going to run away!

"The aunt was very much shocked, but finally Alison begged her so hard that she consented to write to a friend of hers in New York, a Madame Mortier, and get her to invite Alison up there for a long visit. Madame Mortier wrote back that she would be delighted to have Alison come, especially as her husband had just lately died and she was very lonely. So that much was arranged, and Alison was delighted. But the difficulty was to get away from Bermuda without her grandfather knowing, for he would never have consented. Alison discovered a way out of this herself, and here comes the exciting part! Alexander, you were right, after all, as you 'll see in a moment!"

"Oh, your Uncle Dudley's right sometimes," grumbled that irrepressible youngster, trying to conceal his satisfaction.

"Now, to go on. One day Alison happened to meet, quite unexpectedly, a neighbor of theirs, a young fellow named Harrington Ord—"

"'H'!" shouted the listening ones, simultaneously.

"Yes, you 're right! that was 'H'! He had been away on a cruise with his uncle, George Ord, in his uncle's ship, the Lady. Harrington said they had only touched at St. George's for a day or so to take on a cargo of salt, and would then be off again for America. Then Alison saw her chance. She begged Harrington to ask his uncle if she might be taken aboard to go with them without letting her grandfather know. She knew the uncle and her grandfather had some standing quarrel between them, and that George Ord would not be sorry to do anything to get the best of the old man. Harrington hesitated about it, then finally confided to her the news that his uncle was engaged in a strange plot—"

"The gunpowder!" exclaimed the audience.

"Yes, the very thing! Alexander was exactly right in his guess! George Ord was planning to steal the gunpowder the very next night, and all the details were arranged except one thing, and that was puzzling them all dreadfully. It was this: the governor slept with the keys of the magazine under his pillow, and how to get at them without disturbing him, nobody could think. Some one had suggested putting a heavy sleeping-powder in his food, but that was all but impossible, as no one knew any of his servants or could get into his kitchen. Harrington had the powder in his pocket, and, at his wits' end, he showed it to Alison. She had an idea right away. She told him to give it to her, and she would see that it got to its proper destination all right, if, in return, his uncle would take her secretly to America.

"He declared that his uncle would be only too delighted to reward her in that way, and everything was arranged. She was to go next day to her aunt's as if for a week's visit. That same afternoon she would take a little cat-boat and sail by herself up to St. George's, and be taken aboard the Lady at sundown, as she was setting sail, and when no one was observing. But first she intended to stop at the governor's mansion and make a call on his niece, whom she knew rather well.

"Everything went off like clockwork! Her grandfather suspected nothing. She got to her aunt's and bade her good-by, sailed up to St. George's in her little dinghy, called on the governor's niece, and, before she left, went down to the kitchen to see the colored cook Dinah, who was a sister of her grandfather's cook and was rather fond of Alison. She found, just as she had expected, that Dinah was preparing the governor's little afternoon snack of cake and a glass of wine. When Dinah was n't looking, she quietly dropped the powder in the wine, and the game was won! Later, as she went out, she saw him drinking it.

"Well, the governor slept like a log that night, and you all know how successful the rest of the scheme was! Captain Ord was so grateful to Alison that he could n't do enough for her. He landed in New York, and Harrington escorted her to Richmond Hill, the home of Madame Mortier. The old song, 'The Lass of Richmond Hill,' was very popular just then, and Harrington kept teasing Alison by whistling and singing it constantly, and saying she was now that 'lass'!

"Madame Mortier was lovely to her at first, and seemed delighted to have her there. But Alison didn't have a very lively time, because Madame Mortier lived a very secluded and quiet life, and her house was way off from the city, and she never went anywhere. And Alison found out, too, that she was a strict Tory, and hated Washington and the rebels, and felt very bitter about the war that was just commencing. Now, Alison had heard a lot about Washington from Captain Ord and Harrington, who both admired him terrifically, and she herself had begun to feel a great respect for the rebel leader. But when she spoke in praise of him, one day, Madame Mortier just 'jumped on her,' as Alexander would say, and almost went crazy denouncing him.

"Well, by and by Alison began to feel dreadfully lonely and homesick, and just longed to go back to Bermuda, and wished she 'd never come away! But getting back was more difficult than coming to New York. She did n't like to tell Madame Mortier she was tired of her and wanted to leave, for she had been invited to stay a year, at least, as a companion to the old lady. Then something happened that changed the whole face of affairs for her—two things, in fact!

"A sailor from Captain Ord's ship turned traitor some months after the gunpowder affair, and in Corbie's tavern let it all out and told how Alison had been mixed up in the plot,—or at least, that he suspected she was, for he did n't actually know about her drugging the governor. This got round to the steward, whom we all know about, and finally was hinted at by him to Madame Mortier. She began to treat poor Alison very coldly and suspiciously, without, however, telling her the real reason. She evidently thought Alison was some kind of a spy! And Alison never guessed the reason till Harrington gave her the hint that night under her window.

"Anyhow, that was when she first began to feel uneasy, and as if things had changed in the house and she was not altogether safe there.

But the climax came when one stormy winter day she and Madame Mortier were driving home along Greenwich road and saw ahead of them a coach whose wheel had come off and whose horses were snorting and kicking with fright. The driver could seem to do nothing with them. Alison got out, rushed to the horses, and held them steady till they quieted down. She knew horses well and just how to treat them. Then, while the wheel was being adjusted, she spoke to the occupant of the coach, who proved to be none other than Lady Washington!"


to be concluded...