Myths and Legends of Our Own Land — Volume 04 : Tales of Puritan Land (2024)

Produced by David Widger

By
Charles M. Skinner

Vol. 4.

TALES OF PURITAN LAND

CONTENTS:

Evangeline
The Snoring of Swunksus
The Lewiston Hermit
The Dead Ship of Harpswell
The Schoolmaster had not reached Orrington
Jack Welch's Death Light
Mogg Megone
The Lady Ursula
Father Moody's Black Veil
The Home of Thunder
The Partridge Witch
The Marriage of Mount Katahdin
The Moose of Mount Kineo
The Owl Tree
A Chestnut Log
The Watcher on White Island
Chocorua
Passaconaway's Ride to Heaven
The Ball Game by the Saco
The White Mountains
The Vision on Mount Adams
The Great Carbuncle
Skinner's Cave
Yet they call it Lover's Leap
Salem and other Witchcraft
The Gloucester Leaguers
Satan and his Burial-Place
Peter Rugg, the Missing Man
The Loss of Weetamoo
The Fatal Forget-me-not
The Old Mill at Somerville
Edward Randolph's Portrait
Lady Eleanore's Mantle
Howe's Masquerade
Old Esther Dudley
The Loss of Jacob Hurd
The Hobomak
Berkshire Tories
The Revenge of Josiah Breeze
The May-Pole of Merrymount
The Devil and Tom Walker
The Gray Champion
The Forest Smithy
Wahconah Falls
Knocking at the Tomb
The White Deer of Onota
Wizard's Glen
Balanced Rock
Shonkeek-Moonkeek
The Salem Alchemist
Eliza Wharton
Sale of the Southwicks
The Courtship of Myles Standish
Mother Crewe
Aunt Rachel's Curse
Nix's Mate
The Wild Man of Cape Cod
Newbury's Old Elm
Samuel Sewall's Prophecy
The Shrieking Woman
Agnes Surriage
Skipper Ireson's Ride
Heartbreak Hill
Harry Main: The Treasure and the Cats
The Wessaguscus Hanging
The Unknown Champion
Goody Cole
General Moulton and the Devil
The Skeleton in Armor
Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket
Love and Treason
The Headless Skeleton of Swamptown
The Crow and Cat of Hopkins Hill
The Old Stone Mill
Origin of a Name
Micah Rood Apples
A Dinner and its Consequences
The New Haven Storm Ship
The Windham Frogs
The Lamb of Sacrifice
Moodus Noises
Haddam Enchantments
Block Island and the Palatine
The Buccaneer
Robert Lockwood's Fate
Love and Rum

EVANGALINE

The seizure by England of the country that soon afterward wasrechristened Nova Scotia was one of the cruellest events in history. Theland was occupied by a good and happy people who had much faith and fewlaws, plenty to eat and drink, no tax collectors nor magistrates, inbrief, a people who were entitled to call themselves Acadians, for theymade their land an Arcady. Upon them swooped the British ships, took themunarmed and unoffending, crowded them aboard their transports,—oftenseparating husband and wife, parents and children,—scattered them farand wide, beyond hope of return, and set up the cross of St. George onthe ruins of prosperity and peace. On the shore of the Basin of Minas canstill be traced the foundations of many homes that were perforce desertedat that time, and among them are the ruins of Grand Pre.

Here lived Evangeline Bellefontaine and Gabriel Lajeunesse, who werebetrothed with the usual rejoicings just before the coming of theEnglish. They had expected, when their people were arrested, to be sentaway together; but most of the men were kept under guard, and Gabriel wasat sea, bound neither he nor she knew whither, when Evangeline foundherself in her father's house alone, for grief and excitement had beenmore than her aged parent could bear, and he was buried at the shore justbefore the women of the place were crowded on board of a transport. Asthe ship set off her sorrowing passengers looked behind them to see theirhomes going up in flame and smoke, and Acadia knew them no more. TheEnglish had planned well to keep these people from coming together forconspiracy or revenge: they scattered them over all America, fromNewfoundland to the southern savannas.

Evangeline was not taken far away, only to New England; but withoutGabriel all lands were drear, and she set off in the search for him,working here and there, sometimes looking timidly at the headstones onnew graves, then travelling on. Once she heard that he was a coureur desbois on the prairies, again that he was a voyageur in the Louisianalowlands; but those of his people who kept near her inclined to jest ather faith and urged her to marry Leblanc, the notary's son, who trulyloved her. To these she only replied, "I cannot."

Down the Ohio and Mississippi she went—on a raft—with a little band ofthose who were seeking the French settlements, where the language,religion, and simplicity of life recalled Acadia. They found it on thebanks of the Teche, and they reached the house of the herdsman Gabriel onthe day that he had departed for the north to seek Evangeline. She andthe good priest who had been her stay in a year of sorrow turned back inpursuit, and for weary months, over prairie and through forest, skirtingmountain and morass, going freely among savages, they followed vainclues, and at last arrived in Philadelphia. Broken in spirit then, butnot less sweet of nature for the suffering that she had known, she whohad been named for the angels became a minister of mercy, and in theblack robe of a nun went about with comforts to the sick and poor. Apestilence was sweeping through the city, and those who had no friendsnor attendants were taken to the almshouse, whither, as her way was,Evangeline went on a soft Sabbath morning to calm the fevered andbrighten the hearts of the dying.

Some of the patients of the day before had gone and new were in theirplaces. Suddenly she turned white and sank on her knees at a bedside,with a cry of "Gabriel, my beloved!" breathed into the ears of aprematurely aged man who lay gasping in death before her. He came out ofhis stupor, slowly, and tried to speak her name. She drew his head to herbosom, kissed him, and for one moment they were happy. Then the lightwent out of his eyes and the warmth from his heart. She pressed hiseyelids down and bowed her head, for her way was plainer now, and shethanked God that it was so.

THE SNORING OF SWUNKSUS

The original proprietor of Deer Isle, off the coast of Maine—at least,the one who was in possession one hundred and thirty years ago—had theliquid name of Swunksus. His name was not the only liquid thing in theneighborhood, however, for, wherever Swunksus was, fire-water was notfar. Shortly before the Revolution a renegade from Boston, one Conary,moved up to the island and helped himself to as much of it as he chose,but the longer he lived there the more he wanted. Swunksus was willingenough to divide his domain with the white intruder, but Conary was notsatisfied with half. He did not need it all; he just wanted it. Moreover,he grew quarrelsome and was continually nagging poor Swunksus, until atlast he forced the Indian to accept a challenge, not to immediate combat,but to fight to the death should they meet thereafter.

The red man retired to his half of the island and hid among the bushesnear his home to await the white man, but in this little fastness hediscovered a jug of whiskey that either fate or Conary had placed there.Before an hour was over he was "as full and mellow as a harvest moon,"and it was then that his enemy appeared. There was no trouble in findingSwunksus, for he was snoring like a fog horn, and walking boldly up tohim, Conary blew his head off with a load of slugs. Then he tookpossession of the place and lived happily ever after. Swunksus takes hisdeposition easily, for, although he has more than once paraded along thebeaches, his ghost spends most of the time in slumber, and terrificsnores have been heard proceeding from the woods in daylight.

THE LEWISTON HERMIT

On an island above the falls of the Androscoggin, at Lewiston, Maine,lived a white recluse at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Thenatives, having had good reason to mistrust all palefaces, could think nogood of the man who lived thus among but not with them. Often theygathered at the bank and looked across at his solitary candle twinklingamong the leaves, and wondered what manner of evil he could be planningagainst them. Wherever there are many conspirators one will be a gabbleror a traitor; so, when the natives had resolved on his murder, he,somehow, learned of their intent and set himself to thwart it. So greatwas their fear of this lonely man, and of the malignant powers he mightconjure to his aid, that nearly fifty Indians joined the expedition, togive each other courage.

Their plan was to go a little distance up the river and come down withthe current, thus avoiding the dip of paddles that he might hear in adirect crossing. When it was quite dark they set off, and keeping headwayon their canoes aimed them toward the light that glimmered above thewater. But the cunning hermit had no fire in his cabin that night. It wasburning on a point below his shelter, and from his hiding-place among therocks he saw their fleet, as dim and silent as shadows, go by him on theway to the misguiding beacon.

Presently a cry arose. The savages had passed the point of safe sailing;their boats had become unmanageable. Forgetting their errand, their onlyhope now was to save themselves, but in vain they tried to reach theshore: the current was whirling them to their doom. Cries and death-songsmingled with the deepening roar of the waters, the light barks reachedthe cataract and leaped into the air. Then the night was still again,save for the booming of the flood. Not one of the Indians who had set outon this errand of death survived the hermit's stratagem.

THE DEAD SHIP OF HARPSWELL

At times the fisher-folk of Maine are startled to see the form of a ship,with gaunt timbers showing through the planks, like lean limbs throughrents in a pauper's garb, float shoreward in the sunset. She is a ship ofancient build, with tall masts and sails of majestic spread, all torn;but what is her name, her port, her flag, what harbor she is trying tomake, no man can tell, for on her deck no sailor has ever been seen torun up colors or heard to answer a hail. Be it in calm or storm, in-comeor ebb of tide, the ship holds her way until she almost touches shore.

There is no creak of spars or whine of cordage, no spray at the bow, noripple at the stern—no voice, and no figure to utter one. As she nearsthe rocks she pauses, then, as if impelled by a contrary current, floatsrudder foremost off to sea, and vanishes in twilight. Harpswell is herfavorite cruising-ground, and her appearance there sets many heads toshaking, for while it is not inevitable that ill luck follows her visits,it has been seen that burial-boats have sometimes had occasion to crossthe harbor soon after them, and that they were obliged by wind or tide orcurrent to follow her course on leaving the wharf.

THE SCHOOLMASTER HAD NOT REACHED ORRINGTON.

The quiet town of Orrington, in Maine, was founded by Jesse Atwood, ofWellfleet, Cape Cod, in 1778, and has become known, since then, as aplace where skilful farmers and brave sailors could always be found. Italso kept Maine supplied for years with oldest inhabitants. It is saidthat the name was an accident of illiteracy, and that it is the onlyplace in the world that owes its title to bad spelling. The settlers whofollowed Atwood there were numerous enough to form a township after tenyears, and the name they decided on for their commonwealth wasOrangetown, so called for a village in Maryland where some of the peoplehad associations, but the clerk of the town meeting was not a collegegraduate and his spelling of Orange was Orring, and of town, ton. Hisdraft of the resolutions went before the legislature, and the peopledirectly afterward found themselves living in Orrington.

JACK WELCH'S DEATH LIGHT

Pond Cove, Maine, is haunted by a light that on a certain evening, everysummer, rises a mile out at sea, drifts to a spot on shore, then whirlswith a buzz and a glare to an old house, where it vanishes. Its firstappearance was simultaneous with the departure of Jack Welch, afisherman. He was seen one evening at work on his boat, but in themorning he was gone, nor has he since shown himself in the flesh.

On the tenth anniversary of this event three fishermen were hurrying upthe bay, hoping to reach home before dark, for they dreaded that uncannylight, but a fog came in and it was late before they reached the wharf.As they were tying their boat a channel seemed to open through the mist,and along that path from the deep came a ball of pallid flame with therush of a meteor. There was one of the men who cowered at the bottom ofthe boat with ashen face and shaking limbs, and did not watch the light,even though it shot above his head, played through the rigging, and aftera wide sweep went shoreward and settled on his house. Next day one of hiscomrades called for him, but Tom Wright was gone, gone, his wife said,before the day broke. Like Jack Welch's disappearance, this departure wasunexplained, and in time he was given up for dead.

Twenty years had passed, when Wright's presumptive widow was startled bythe receipt of a letter in a weak, trembling hand, signed with herhusband's name. It was written on his death-bed, in a distant place, andheld a confession. Before their marriage, Jack Welch had been a suitorfor her hand, and had been the favored of the two. To remove his rivaland prosper in his place, Wright stole upon the other at his work, killedhim, took his body to sea, and threw it overboard. Since that time thedead man had pursued him, and he was glad that the end of his days wascome. But, though Tom Wright is no more, his victim's light comes yearlyfrom the sea, above the spot where his body sank, floats to the scene ofthe murder on the shore, then flits to the house where the assassin livedand for years simulated the content that comes of wedded life.MOGG MEGONE

Hapless daughter of a renegade is Ruth Bonython. Her father is as unfairto his friends as to his enemies, but to neither of them so merciless asto Ruth. Although he knows that she loves Master Scammon—in spite of hisdesertion and would rather die than wed another, he has promised her toMogg Megone, the chief who rules the Indians at the Saco mouth. He,blundering savage, fancies that he sees to the bottom of her grief, andone day, while urging his suit, he opens his blanket and shows the scalpof Scammon, to prove that he has avenged her. She looks in horror, butwhen he flings the bloody trophy at her feet she baptizes it with aforgiving tear. What villainy may this lead to? Ah, none for him, forBonython now steps in and plies him with flattery and drink, gaining fromthe chief, at last, his signature—the bow totem—to a transfer of theland for which he is willing to sell his daughter. Ruth, maddened at herfather's meanness and the Indian's brutality, rushes on the imbrutedsavage, grasps from his belt the knife that has slain her lover, cleaveshis heart in twain, and flies into the wood, leaving Bonython stupid withamazement.

Father Rasles, in his chapel at Norridgewock, is affecting his Indianconverts against the Puritans, who settled to the southward of him fiftyyears before. To him comes a woman with torn garments and frightenedface. Her dead mother stood before her last night, she says, and lookedat her reprovingly, for she had killed Mogg Megone. The priest startsback in wrath, for Mogg was a hopeful agent of the faith, and bids hergo, for she can ask no pardon. Brooding within his chapel, then, he isstartled by the sound of shot and hum of arrows. Harmon and Moulton areadvancing with their men and crying, "Down with the beast of Rome! Deathto the Babylonish dog!" Ruth, knowing not what this new misfortune maymean, runs from the church and disappears.

Some days later, old Baron Castine, going to Norridgewock to bury andrevenge the dead, finds a woman seated on the earth and gazing over afield strewn with ashes and with human bones. He touches her. She iscold. There has been no life for days. It is Ruth.

THE LADY URSULA

In 1690 a stately house stood in Kittery, Maine, a strongly guarded placewith moat and drawbridge (which was raised at night) and a moated grangeadjacent where were cattle, sheep, and horses. Here, in lonely dignity,lived Lady Ursula, daughter of the lord of Grondale Abbey, across thewater, whose distant grandeurs were in some sort reflected in this manorof the wilderness. Silver, mahogany, paintings, tapestries, waxed floors,and carven chests of linen represented wealth; prayers were said by achaplain every morning and evening in the chapel, and, though the mainhall would accommodate five hundred people, the lady usually sat at meatthere with her thirty servants, her part of the table being raised twofeet above theirs.

It was her happiness to believe that Captain Fowler, now absent inconflict with the French, would return and wed her according to hispromise, but one day came a tattered messenger with bitter news of thecaptain's death. She made no talk of her grief, and, while her face waspale and step no longer light, she continued in the work that customexacted from women of that time: help for the sick, alms for the poor,teaching for the ignorant, religion for the savage. Great was her joy,then, when a ship came from England bringing a letter from Captain Fowlerhimself, refuting the rumor of defeat and telling of his coming. Now thehall took on new life, reflecting the pleasure of its mistress; colorcame back to her cheek and sparkle to her eye, and she could only controlher impatience by more active work and more aggressive charities. The daywas near at hand for the arrival of her lover, when Ursula and herservants were set upon by Indians, while away from the protection of themanor, and slain. They were buried where they fell, and Captain Fowlerfound none to whom his love or sorrow could be told.

FATHER MOODY'S BLACK VEIL

In 1770 the Reverend Joseph Moody died at York, Maine, where he had longheld the pastorate of a church, and where in his later years his face wasnever seen by friend or relative. At home, when any one was by, on thestreet, and in the pulpit his visage was concealed by a double fold ofcrape that was knotted above his forehead and fell to his chin, the loweredge of it being shaken by his breath. When first he presented himself tohis congregation with features masked in black, great was the wonder andlong the talk about it. Was he demented? His sermons were too logical forthat. Had he been crossed in love? He could smile, though the smile wassad. Had he been scarred by accident or illness? If so, no physician knewof it.

After a time it was given out that his eyes were weakened by reading andwriting at night, and the wonder ceased, though the veiled parson wasless in demand for weddings, christenings, and social gatherings, andmore besought for funerals than he had been. If asked to take off hiscrape he only replied, "We all wear veils of one kind or another, and theheaviest and darkest are those that hang about our hearts. This is but amaterial veil. Let it stay until the hour strikes when all faces shall beseen and all souls reveal their secrets."

Little by little the clergyman felt himself enforced to withdraw from thepublic gaze. There were rough people who were impertinent and timidpeople who turned out of their road to avoid him, so that he found hisout-door walks and meditations almost confined to the night, unless hechose the grave-yard for its seclusion or strolled on the beach andlistened to the wallowing and grunting of the Black Boars—the rocks offshore that had laughed on the night when the York witch went up thechimney in a gale. But his life was long and kind and useful, and when atlast the veiled head lay on the pillow it was never to rise fromconsciously, a fellow-clergyman came to soothe his dying moments andcommend his soul to mercy.

To him, one evening, Father Moody said, "Brother, my hour is come and theveil of eternal darkness is falling over my eyes. Men have asked me why Iwear this piece of crape about my face, as if it were not for them areminder and a symbol, and I have borne the reason so long within me thatonly now have I resolved to tell it. Do you recall the finding of youngClark beside the river, years ago? He had been shot through the head. Theman who killed him did so by accident, for he was a bosom friend; yet hecould never bring himself to confess the fact, for he dreaded the blameof his townsmen, the anguish of the dead man's parents, the hate of hisbetrothed. It was believed that the killing was a murder, and that someroving Indian had done it. After years of conscience-darkened life, inwhich the face of his dead friend often arose accusingly before him, theunhappy wretch vowed that he would never again look his fellows openly inthe face: he would pay a penalty and conceal his shame. Then it was thatI put a veil between myself and the world."

Joseph Moody passed away and, as he wished, the veil still hid his facein the coffin, but the clergyman who had raised it for a moment tocompose his features, found there a serenity and a beauty that weremajestic.

THE HOME OF THUNDER

Some Indians believe that the Thunder Bird is the agent of storm; thatthe flashes of his eyes cause lightning and the flapping of hiscloud-vast wings make thunder. Not so the Passamaquoddies, for they holdthat Katahdin's spirit children are Thunders, and in this way an Indianfound them: He had been seeking game along the Penobscot and for weekshad not met one of his fellow creatures. On a winter day he came on theprint of a pair of snow-shoes; next morning the tracks appeared inanother part of the forest, and so for many days he found them.

After a time it occurred to him to see where these tracks went to, and hefollowed them until they merged with others in a travelled road, endingat a precipice on the side of Katahdin (Great Mountain).

While lost in wonder that so many tracks should lead nowhere, he wasroused by a footfall, and a maiden stepped from the precipice to theledge beside him. Though he said nothing, being in awe of her statelinessand beauty, she replied in kind words to every unspoken thought and badehim go with her. He approached the rock with fear, but at a touch fromthe woman it became as mist, and they entered it together.

Presently they were in a great cave in the heart of Katahdin, where satthe spirit of the mountain, who welcomed them and asked the girl if herbrothers had come. "I hear them coming," she replied. A blinding flash, aroar of thunder, and there stepped into the cave two men of giant sizeand gravely beautiful faces, hardened at the cheeks and brows to stone."These," said the girl to the hunter, "are my brothers, the Thunder andthe Lightning. My father sends them forth whenever there is wrong toredress, that those who love us may not be smitten. When you hearThunder, know that they are shooting at our enemies."

At the end of that day the hunter returned to his home, and behold, hehad been gone seven years. Another legend says that the stone-faced sonsof the mountain adopted him, and that for seven years he was a roamingThunder, but at the end of that time while a storm was raging he wasallowed to fall, unharmed, into his own village.

THE PARTRIDGE WITCH

Two brothers, having hunted at the head of the Penobscot until theirsnow-shoes and moccasins gave out, looked at each other ruefully andcried, "Would that there was a woman to help us!" The younger brotherwent to the lodge that evening earlier than the elder, in order toprepare the supper, and great was his surprise on entering the wigwam tofind the floor swept, a fire built, a pot boiling, and their clothingmended. Returning to the wood he watched the place from a covert until hesaw a graceful girl enter the lodge and take up the tasks ofhousekeeping.

When he entered she was confused, but he treated her with respect, andallowed her to have her own way so far as possible, so that they becamewarm friends, sporting together like children when the work of the daywas over. But one evening she said, "Your brother is coming. I fear him.Farewell." And she slipped into the wood. When the young man told hiselder brother what had happened there—the elder having been detained fora few days in the pursuit of a deer—he declared that he would wish thewoman to come back, and presently, without any summons, she returned,bringing a toboggan-load of garments and arms. The luck of the huntersimproved, and they remained happily together until spring, when it wastime to return with their furs.

They set off down the Penobscot in their canoe and rowed merrily along,but as they neared the home village the girl became uneasy, and presently"threw out her soul"—became clairvoyant—and said, "Let me land here. Ifind that your father would not like me, so do not speak to him aboutme." But the elder brother told of her when they reached home, whereonthe father exclaimed, "I had feared this. That woman is a sister of thegoblins. She wishes to destroy men."

At this the elder brother was afraid, lest she should cast a spell onhim, and rowing up the river for a distance he came upon her as she wasbathing and shot at her. The arrow seemed to strike, for there was aflutter of feathers and the woman flew away as a partridge. But theyounger did not forget the good she had done and sought her in the wood,where for many days they played together as of old.

"I do not blame your father: it is an affair of old, this hate he bearsme," she said. "He will choose a wife for you soon, but do not marry her,else all will come to an end for you." The man could not wed the witch,and he might not disobey his father, in spite of this adjuration; so whenthe old man said to him, "I have a wife for you, my son," he answered,"It is well."

They brought the bride to the village, and for four days thewedding-dance was held, with a feast that lasted four days more. Thensaid the young man, "Now comes the end," and lying down on a bear-skin hesighed a few times and his spirit ascended to the Ghosts' road—the milkyway. The father shook his head, for he knew that this was the witch'swork, and, liking the place no longer, he went away and the tribe wasscattered.

THE MARRIAGE OF MOUNT KATAHDIN

An Indian girl gathering berries on the side of Mount Katahdin looked upat its peak, rosy in the afternoon light, and sighed, "I wish that I hada husband. If Katahdin were a man he might marry me." Her companionslaughed at this quaint conceit, and, filled with confusion at beingoverheard, she climbed higher up the slope and was lost to sight. Forthree years her tribe lost sight of her; then she came back with a childin her arms a beautiful boy with brows of stone. The boy had wonderfulpower: he had only to point at a moose or a duck or a bear, and it felldead, so that the tribe never wanted food. For he was the son of theIndian girl and the spirit of the mountain, who had commanded her not toreveal the boy's paternity. Through years she held silence on this point,holding in contempt, like other Indians, the prying inquiries of gossipsand the teasing of young people, and knowing that Katahdin had designedthe child for the founder of a mighty race, with the sinews of the verymountains in its frame, that should fill and rule the earth. Yet, oneday, in anger at some slight, the mother spoke: "Fools! Wasps who stingthe fingers that pick you from the water! Why do you torment me aboutwhat you might all see? Look at the boy's face—his brows: in them do younot see Katahdin? Now you have brought the curse upon yourselves, for youshall hunt your own venison from this time forth." Leading the child bythe hand she turned toward the mountain and went out from their sight.And since then the Indians who could not hold their tongues, and whomight otherwise have been great, have dwindled to a little people.

THE MOOSE OF MOUNT KINEO

Eastern traditions concerning Hiawatha differ in many respects from thoseof the West. In the East he is known as Glooskap, god of thePassamaquoddies, and his marks are left in many places in the maritimeprovinces and Maine. It was he who gave names to things, created men,filled them with life, and moved their wonder with storms. He lived onthe rocky height of Blomidon, at the entrance to Minas Basin, NovaScotia, and the agates to be found along its foot are jewels that he madefor his grandmother's necklace, when he restored her youth. He threw up aridge between Fort Cumberland and Parrsboro, Nova Scotia, that he mightcross, dry shod, the lake made by the beavers when they dammed the straitat Blomidon, but he afterward killed the beavers, and breaking down theirdam he let the lake flow into the sea, and went southward on a huntingtour. At Mount Desert he killed a moose, whose bones he flung to theground at Bar Harbor, where they are still to be seen, turned to stone,while across the bay he threw the entrails, and they, too, are visible asrocks, dented with his arrow-points. Mount Kineo was anciently a cowmoose of colossal size that he slew and turned into a height of land, andthe Indians trace the outline of the creature in the uplift to this day.Little Kineo was a calf moose that he slew at the same time, and KettleMountain is his camp-caldron that he flung to the ground in the ardor ofthe chase.

THE OWL TREE

One day in October, 1827, Rev. Charles Sharply rode into Alfred, Maine,and held service in the meeting-house. After the sermon he announced thathe was going to Waterborough to preach, and that on his circuit he hadcollected two hundred and seventy dollars to help build a church in thatvillage. Would not his hearers add to that sum? They would and did, andthat evening the parson rode away with over three hundred dollars in hissaddlebags. He never appeared in Waterborough. Some of the country peoplegave tongue to their fear that the possession of the money had made himforget his sacred calling and that he had fled the State.

On the morning after his disappearance, however, Deacon Dickermanappeared in Alfred riding on a horse that was declared to be theminister's, until the tavern hostler affirmed that the minister's horsehad a white star on forehead and breast, whereas this horse was allblack. The deacon said that he found the horse grazing in his yard atdaybreak, and that he would give it to whoever could prove it to be hisproperty. Nobody appeared to demand it, and people soon forgot that itwas not his. He extended his business at about that time and prospered;he became a rich man for a little place; though, as his wealth increased,he became morose and averse to company.

One day a rumor went around that a belated traveller had seen a mistything under "the owl tree" at a turn of a road where owls were hooting,and that it took on a strange likeness to the missing clergyman.Dickerman paled when he heard this story, but he shook his head andmuttered of the folly of listening to boy nonsense. Ten years had goneby-during that time the boys had avoided the owl tree after dark—when aclergyman of the neighborhood was hastily summoned to see Mr. Dickerman,who was said to be suffering from overwork. He found the deacon in hishouse alone, pacing the floor, his dress disordered, his cheek hectic.

"I have not long to live," said he, "nor would I live longer if I could.I am haunted day and night, and there is no peace, no rest for me onearth. They say that Sharply's spirit has appeared at the owl tree. Well,his body lies there. They accused me of taking his horse. It is true. Alittle black dye on his head and breast was all that was needed todeceive them. Pray for me, for I fear my soul is lost. I killed Sharply."The clergyman recoiled. "I killed him," the wretched man went on, "forthe money that he had. The devil prospered me with it. In my will I leavetwo thousand dollars to his widow and five thousand dollars to the churchhe was collecting for. Will there be mercy for me there? I dare not thinkit. Go and pray for me." The clergyman hastened away, but was hardlyoutside the door when the report of a pistol brought him back. Dickermanlay dead on the floor. Sharply's body was exhumed from the shade of theowl tree, and the spot was never haunted after.

A CHESTNUT LOG

There is no doubt that farmer Lovel had read ancient history or he wouldnot have been so ready in the emergency that befell him one time in thelast century. He had settled among the New Hampshire hills near the sitethat is now occupied by the village of Washington and had a real goodtime there with bears and Indians. It was when he was splitting rails onLovel Mountain—they named it for him afterward—that he found himselfsurrounded by six Indians, who told him that he was their prisoner. Heagreed that they had the advantage over him and said that he would goquietly along if they would allow him to finish the big chestnut log thathe was at work on. As he was a powerful fellow and was armed with an axeworth any two of their tomahawks, and as he would be pretty sure to havethe life of at least one of them if they tried to drive him faster thanhe wanted to go, they consented. He said that he would be ready all thesooner if they would help him to pull the big log apart, and they agreedto help him. Driving a wedge into the long split he asked them to takehold, and when they had done this he knocked out the wedge with a singleblow and the twelve hands were caught tight in the closing wood. Struggleas the savages might, they could not get free, and after calmly enjoyingthe situation for a few minutes he walked slowly from one to the otherand split open the heads of all six. Then he went to work again splittingup more chestnuts.

THE WATCHER ON WHITE ISLAND

The isles of Shoals, a little archipelago of wind and wave-swept rocksthat may be seen on clear days from the New Hampshire coast, have beenthe scene of some mishaps and some crimes. On Boone Island, where theNottingham galley went down one hundred and fifty years ago, thesurvivors turned cannibals to escape starvation, while Haley's Island ispeopled by shipwrecked Spanish ghosts that hail vessels and beg forpassage back to their country. The pirate Teach, or Blackbeard, used toput in at these islands to hide his treasure, and one of his lieutenantsspent some time on White Island with a beautiful girl whom he hadabducted from her home in Scotland and who, in spite of his rough life,had learned to love him. It was while walking with her on this rock,forgetful of his trade and the crimes he had been stained with, that oneof his men ran up to report a sail that was standing toward the islands.The pirate ship was quickly prepared for action, but before embarking,mindful of possible flight or captivity, the lieutenant made his mistressswear that she would guard the buried treasure if it should be tilldoomsday.

The ship he was hurrying to meet came smoothly on until the pirate craftwas well in range, when ports flew open along the stranger's sides, gunswere run out, and a heavy broadside splintered through the planks of therobber galley. It was a man-of-war, not a merchantman, that had runBlackbeard down. The war-ship closed and grappled with the corsair, butwhile the sailors were standing at the chains ready to leap aboard andcomplete the subjugation of the outlaws a mass of flame burst from thepirate ship, both vessels were hurled in fragments through the air, and aroar went for miles along the sea. Blackbeard's lieutenant had fired themagazine rather than submit to capture, and had blown the two ships intoa common ruin. A few of both crews floated to the islands on planks, sorefrom burns and bruises, but none survived the cold and hunger of thewinter. The pirate's mistress was among the first to die; still, true toher promise, she keeps her watch, and at night is dimly seen on a rockypoint gazing toward the east, her tall figure enveloped in a cloak, hergolden hair unbound upon her shoulders, her pale face still as marble.

CHOCORUA

This beautiful alp in the White Mountains commemorates in its name aprophet of the Pequawket tribe who, prior to undertaking a journey, hadconfided his son to a friendly settler, Cornelius Campbell, of Tamworth.The boy found some poison in the house that had been prepared for foxes,and, thinking it to be some delicacy, he drank of it and died. WhenChocorua returned he could not be persuaded that his son had fallenvictim to his own ignorance, but ascribed his death to the white man'streachery, and one day, when Campbell entered his cabin from the fields,he found there the corpses of his wife and children scalped and mangled.

He was not a man to lament at such a time: hate was stronger than sorrow.A fresh trail led from his door. Seizing his rifle he set forth inpursuit of the murderer. A mark in the dust, a bent grass blade, a tornleaf-these were guides enough, and following on through bush and swampand wood they led him to this mountain, and up the slope he scrambledbreathlessly. At the summit, statue-like, Chocorua stood. He saw theavenger coming, and knew himself unarmed, but he made no attempt toescape his doom. Drawing himself erect and stretching forth his hands heinvoked anathema on his enemies in these words: "A curse upon you, whitemen! May the Great Spirit curse you when he speaks in the clouds, and hiswords are fire! Chocorua had a son and you killed him while the skylooked bright. Lightning blast your crops! Winds and fire destroy yourdwellings! The Evil One breathe death upon your cattle! Your graves liein the war-path of the Indian! Panthers howl and wolves fatten over yourbones! Chocorua goes to the Great Spirit. His curse stays with the whiteman."

The report of Campbell's rifle echoed from the ledges and Chocorua leapedinto the air, plunging to the rocks below. His mangled remains wereafterward found and buried near the Tamworth path. The curse had itseffect, for pestilence and storm devastated the surrounding country andthe smaller settlements were abandoned. Campbell became a morose hermit,and was found dead in his bed two years afterward.

PASSACONAWAY'S RIDE TO HEAVEN

The personality of Passaconaway, the powerful chief and prophet, isinvolved in doubt, but there can be no misprision of his wisdom. By somehistorians he has been made one with St. Aspenquid, the earliest ofnative missionaries among the Indians, who, after his conversion byFrench Jesuits, travelled from Maine to the Pacific, preaching tosixty-six tribes, healing the sick and working miracles, returning to dieat the age of ninety-four. He was buried on the top of Agamenticus,Maine, where his manes were pacified with offerings of three thousandslain animals, and where his tombstone stood for a century after, bearingthe legend, "Present, useful; absent, wanted; living, desired; dying,lamented."

By others Passaconaway is regarded as a different person. The Child ofthe Bear—to English his name—was the chief of the Merrimacs and aconvert of the apostle Eliot. Natives and colonists alike admired him forhis eloquence, his bravery, and his virtue. Before his conversion he wasa reputed wizard who sought by magic arts to repel the invasion of hiswoods and mountains by the white men, invoking the spirits of natureagainst them from the topmost peak of the Agiochooks, and his nativefollowers declared that in pursuance of this intent he made water burn,rocks move, trees dance, and transformed himself into a mass of flame.

Such was his power over the forces of the earth that he could burn a treein winter and from its ashes bring green leaves; he made dead woodblossom and a farmer's flail to bud, while a snake's skin he could causeto run. At the age of one hundred and twenty he retired from his tribeand lived in a lonely wigwam among the Pennacooks. One winter night thehowling of wolves was heard, and a pack came dashing through the villageharnessed by threes to a sledge of hickory saplings that bore a tallthrone spread with furs. The wolves paused at Passaconaway's door. Theold chief came forth, climbed upon the sledge, and was borne away with atriumphal apostrophe that sounded above the yelping and snarling of histrain. Across Winnepesaukee's frozen surface they sped like the wind, andthe belated hunter shrank aside as he saw the giant towering against thenorthern lights and heard his death-song echo from the cliffs. Throughpathless woods, across ravines, the wolves sped on, with never slackenedspeed, into the mazes of the Agiochooks to that highest peak we now callWashington. Up its steep wilderness of snow the ride went furiously; thesummit was neared, the sledge burst into flame, still there was no pause;the height was gained, the wolves went howling into darkness, but thecar, wrapped in sheaves of fire, shot like a meteor toward the sky andwas lost amid the stars of the winter night. So passed the Indian king toheaven.

THE BALL GAME BY THE SACO

Water-Goblins from the streams about Katahdin had left their birthplaceand journeyed away to the Agiochooks, making their presence known to theIndians of that region by thefts and loss of life. When the manitou,Glooskap, learned that these goblins were eating human flesh andcommitting other outrages, he took on their own form, turning half hisbody into stone, and went in search of them. The wigwam had been pitchednear the Home of the Water Fairies,—a name absurdly changed by thepeople of North Conway to Diana's Bath,—and on entering he was invitedto take meat. The tail of a whale was cooked and offered to him, butafter he had taken it upon his knees one of the goblins exclaimed, "Thatis too good for a beggar like you," and snatched it away. Glooskap hadmerely to wish the return of the dainty when it flew back into hisplatter. Then he took the whale's jaw, and snapped it like a reed; hefilled his pipe and burned the tobacco to ashes in one inhalation; whenhis hosts closed the wigwam and smoked vigorously, intending to foul theair and stupefy him, he enjoyed it, while they grew sick; so theywhispered to each other, "This is a mighty magician, and we must try hispowers in another way."

A game of ball was proposed, and, adjourning to a sandy level at the bendof the Saco, they began to play, but Glooskap found that the ball was ahideous skull that rolled and snapped at him and would have torn hisflesh had it not been immortal and immovable from his bones. He crushedit at a blow, and breaking off the bough of a tree he turned it by a wordinto a skull ten times larger than the other that flew after the wickedpeople as a wildcat leaps upon a rabbit. Then the god stamped on thesands and all the springs were opened in the mountains, so that the Sacocame rising through the valley with a roar that made the nations tremble.The goblins were caught in the flood and swept into the sea, whereGlooskap changed them into fish.

THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

From times of old these noble hills have been the scenes of supernaturalvisitations and mysterious occurrences. The tallest peak of theAgiochooks—as they were, in Indian naming—was the seat of God himself,and the encroachment there of the white man was little liked. NearFabyan's was once a mound, since levelled by pick and spade, that wasknown as the Giant's Grave. Ethan Allen Crawford, a skilful hunter,daring explorer, and man of herculean frame, lived, died, and is buriedhere, and near the ancient hillock he built one of the first publichouses in the mountains. It was burned. Another, and yet another hostelrywas builded on the site, but they likewise were destroyed by fire. Thenthe enterprise was abandoned, for it was remembered that an Indian oncemounted this grave, waved a torch from its top, and cried in a loudvoice, "No pale-face shall take root on this spot. This has the GreatSpirit whispered in my ear."

Governor Wentworth, while on a lonely tour through his province, foundthis cabin of Crawford's and passed a night there, tendering manycompliments to the austere graces of the lady of the house and drinkinghimself into the favor of the husband, who proclaimed him the prince ofgood fellows. On leaving, the guest exacted of Crawford a visit toWolfeborough, where he was to inquire for "Old Wentworth." This visit wasundertaken soon after, and the sturdy frontiersman was dismayed atfinding himself in the house of the royal governor; but his reception washearty enough to put him at his ease, and when he returned to themountains he carried in his pocket a deed of a thousand acres of forestabout his little farm. The family that he founded became wealthy andincreased, by many an acre, the measure of that royal grant.

Not far below this spot, in the wildest part of the Notch, shut in bywalls of rock thousands of feet high, is the old Willey House, and this,too, was the scene of a tragedy, for in 1826 a storm loosened the soil onMount Willey and an enormous landslide occurred. The people in the houserushed forth on hearing the approach of the slide and met death almost attheir door. Had they remained within they would have been unharmed, forthe avalanche was divided by a wedge of rock behind the house, and thelittle inn was saved. Seven people are known to have been killed, and itwas rumored that there was another victim in a young man whose name wasunknown and who was walking through the mountains to enjoy their beauty.The messenger who bore the tidings of the destruction of the family wasbarred from reaching North Conway by the flood in the Saco, so he stoodat the brink of the foaming river and rang a peal on a trumpet. Thisblast echoing around the hills in the middle of the night roused severalmen from their beds to know its meaning. The dog belonging to the inn issaid to have given first notice to people below the Notch that somethingwas wrong, but his moaning and barking were misunderstood, and afterrunning back and forth, as if to summon help, he disappeared. At the hourof the accident James Willey, of Conway, had a dream in which he saw hisdead brother standing by him. He related the story of the catastrophe tothe sleeping man and said that when "the world's last knell" sounded theywere going for safety to the foot of the steep mountain, for the Saco hadrisen twenty-four feet in seven hours and threatened to ingulf them infront.

Another spot of interest in the Notch is Nancy's Brook. It was at thepoint where this stream comes foaming from Mount Nancy into the greatravine that the girl whose name is given to it was found frozen to deathin a shroud of snow in the fall of 1788. She had set out alone fromJefferson in search of a young farmer who was to have married her, andwalked thirty miles through trackless snow between sunset and dawn. Thenher strength gave out and she sank beside the road never to rise again.Her recreant lover went mad with remorse when he learned the manner ofher death and did not long survive her, and men who have traversed thesavage passes of the Notch on chill nights in October have fancied thatthey heard, above the clash of the stream and whispering of the woods,long, shuddering groans mingled with despairing cries and gibberinglaughter.

The birth of Peabody River came about from a cataclysm of less violentnature than some of the avalanches that have so scarred the mountains. InWhite's "History of New England," Mr. Peabody, for whom the stream isnamed, is reported as having taken shelter in an Indian cabin on theheights where the river has its source. During the night a loud roaringwaked the occupants of the hut and they sprang forth, barely in time tosave their lives; for, hardly had they gained the open ground before acavern burst open in the hill and a flood of water gushed out, sweepingaway the shelter and cutting a broad swath through the forest.

Although the Pilot Mountains are supposed to have taken their name fromthe fact that they served as landmarks to hunters who were seeking theConnecticut River from the Lancaster district, an old story is still toldof one Willard, who was lost amid the defiles of this range, and nearlyperished with hunger. While lying exhausted on the mountainside his dogwould leave him every now and then and return after a couple of hours.Though Willard was half dead, he determined to use his last strength infollowing the animal, and as a result was led by a short cut to his owncamp, where provisions were plenty, and where the intelligent creaturehad been going for food. The dog was christened Pilot, in honor of thisservice, and the whole range is thought by many to be named in his honor.

Waternomee Falls, on Hurricane Creek, at Warren, are bordered with richmoss where fairies used to dance and sing in the moonlight. These spriteswere the reputed children of Indians that had been stolen from theirwigwams and given to eat of fairy bread, that dwarfed and changed them ina moment. Barring their kidnapping practices the elves were an innocentand joyous people, and they sought more distant hiding-places in thewilderness when the stern churchmen and cruel rangers penetrated theirsylvan precincts.

An old barrack story has it that Lieutenant Chamberlain, who fought underLovewell, was pursued along the base of Melvin Peak by Indians and wasalmost in their grasp when he reached Ossipee Falls. It seemed as ifthere were no alternative between death by the tomahawk and death by afall to the rocks below, for the chasm here is eighteen feet wide; butwithout stopping to reckon chances he put his strength into a runningjump, and to the amazement of those in pursuit and perhaps to his ownsurprise he cleared the gap and escaped into the woods. The foremost ofthe Indians attempted the leap, but plunged to his death in the ravine.

The Eagle Range was said to be the abode, two hundred years ago, of a manof strange and venerable appearance, whom the Indians regarded withsuperstitious awe and never tried to molest. He slept in a cave on thesouth slope and ranged the forest in search of game, muttering andgesturing to himself. He is thought to be identified with Thomas Crager,whose wife had been hanged in Salem as a witch, and whose only child hadbeen stolen by Indians. After a long, vain search for the little one hegave way to a bitter moroseness, and avoided the habitations of civilizedman and savages alike. It is a satisfaction to know that before he diedhe found his daughter, though she was the squaw of an Indian hunter andwas living with his tribe on the shore of the St. Lawrence.

THE VISION ON MOUNT ADAMS

There are many traditions connected with Mount Adams that have faded outof memory. Old people remember that in their childhood there was talk ofthe discovery of a magic stone; of an Indian's skeleton that appeared ina speaking storm; of a fortune-teller that set off on a midnight quest,far up among the crags and eyries. In October, 1765, a detachment of nineof Rogers's Rangers began the return from a Canadian foray, bearing withthem plate, candlesticks, and a silver statue that they had rifled fromthe Church of St. Francis. An Indian who had undertaken to guide theparty through the Notch proved faithless, and led them among labyrinthinegorges to the head of Israel's River, where he disappeared, afterpoisoning one of the troopers with a rattlesnake's fang. Losing allreckoning, the Rangers tramped hither and thither among the snowy hillsand sank down, one by one, to die in the wilderness, a sole survivorreaching a settlement after many days, with his knapsack filled withhuman flesh.

In 1816 the candlesticks were recovered near Lake Memphremagog, but thestatue has never been laid hold upon. The spirits of the famished menwere wont, for many winters, to cry in the woods, and once a hunter,camped on the side of Mount Adams, was awakened at midnight by the notesof an organ. The mists were rolling off, and he found that he had gone tosleep near a mighty church of stone that shone in soft light. The doorswere flung back, showing a tribe of Indians kneeling within. Candlessparkled on the altar, shooting their rays through clouds of incense, andthe rocks shook with thunder-gusts of music. Suddenly church, lights,worshippers vanished, and from the mists came forth a line of uncouthforms, marching in silence. As they started to descend the mountain asilver image, floating in the air, spread a pair of gleaming pinions andtook flight, disappearing in the chaos of battlemented rocks above.

THE GREAT CARBUNCLE

High on the eastern face of Mount Monroe shone the Great Carbuncle, itsflash scintillating for miles by day, its dusky crimson glowing among theledges at night. The red men said that it hung in the air, and that thesoul of an Indian—killed, that he might guard the spot—made approachperilous to men of all complexions and purposes. As late as EthanCrawford's time one search band took a "good man" to lay the watcher,when they strove to scale the height, but they returned "sorely bruised,treasureless, and not even saw that wonderful sight." The value of thestone tempted many, but those who sought it had to toil through a denseforest, and on arriving at the mountain found its glories eclipsed byintervening abutments, nor could they get near it. Rocks covered withcrystals, at first thought to be diamonds, were readily despoiled oftheir treasure, but the Great Carbuncle burned on, two thousand feetabove them, at the head of the awful chasm of Oakes Gulf, and baffledseekers likened it to the glare of an evil eye.

There was one who had grown old in searching for this gem, oftenscrambling over the range in wind and snow and cloud, and at last hereached a precipitous spot he had never attained before. Great was hisjoy, for the Carbuncle was within his reach, blazing into his eyes in thenoon sunlight as if it held, crystallized in its depths, the brightnessof all the wine that had ever gladdened the tired hearts of men. Therewere rivals in the search, and on reaching the plateau they looked up andsaw him kneeling on a narrow ledge with arms extended as in rapture. Theycalled to him. He answered not. He was dead—dead of joy and triumph.While they looked a portion of the crag above him fell away and rolledfrom rock to rock, marking its course with flashes of bloody fire, untilit reached the Lake of the Clouds, and the waters of that tarn drownedits glory. Yet those waters are not always black, and sometimes thehooked crest of Mount Monroe is outlined against the night sky in a ruddyglow.

SKINNER'S CAVE

The abhorrence to paying taxes and duties—or any other levy from whichan immediate and personal good is not promised—is too deeply rooted inhuman nature to be affected by statutes, and whenever it is possible tobuy commodities that have escaped the observation of the revenue officersmany are tempted to do so for the mere pleasure of defying the law. Inthe early part of this century the northern farmers and their wives were,in a way, providing themselves with laces, silver-ware, brandy, and otherprotected and dreadful articles, on which it was evident that somebodyhad forgotten to pay duty. The customs authorities on the American sideof the border were long puzzled by the irruption of these forbiddenthings, but suspicion ultimately fell on a fellow of gigantic size, namedSkinner.

It was believed that this outlaw carried on the crime of free trade aftersunset, hiding his merchandise by day on the islands of LakeMemphremagog. This delightful sheet of water lies half in Canada and halfin Vermont—agreeably to the purpose of such as he. Province Island isstill believed to contain buried treasure, but the rock that containsSkinner's Cave was the smuggler's usual haunt, and when pursued he rowedto this spot and effected a disappearance, because he entered the cave onthe northwest side, where it was masked by shrubbery. One night theofficers landed on this island after he had gone into hiding, and afterdiligent search discovered his boat drawn up in a covert. They pushed itinto the lake, where the winds sent it adrift, and, his communicationwith the shore thus cut off, the outlaw perished miserably of hunger. Hisskeleton was found in the cavern some years later.

YET THEY CALL IT LOVER'S LEAP

In the lower part of the township of Cavendish, Vermont, the Black Riverseeks a lower level through a gorge in the foot-hills of the GreenMountains. The scenery here is romantic and impressive, for the rivermakes its way along the ravine in a series of falls and rapids that areoverhung by trees and ledges, while the geologist finds something worthlooking at in the caves and pot-holes that indicate an older level of theriver. At a turn in the ravine rises the sheer precipice of Lover's Leap.It is a vertical descent of about eighty feet, the water swirling at itsfoot in a black and angry maelstrom. It is a spot whence lovers mighteasily step into eternity, were they so disposed, and the name fitsdelightfully into the wild and somber scene; but ask any good villagerthereabout to relate the legend of the place and he will tell you this:

About forty years ago a couple of young farmers went to the Leap—whichthen had no name—to pry out some blocks of the schistose rock for afoundation wall. They found a good exposure of the rock beneath the turfand began to quarry it. In the earnestness of the work one of the menforgot that he was standing on the verge of a precipice, and through aslip of his crowbar he lost his balance and went reeling into the gulf.His horrified companion crept to the edge, expecting to see his mangledcorpse tossing in the whirlpool, but, to his amazement, the unfortunatewas crawling up the face of a huge table of stone that had fallen fromthe opposite wall and lay canted against it.

"Hello!" shouted the man overhead. "Are you hurt much?"

The victim of the accident slowly got upon his feet, felt cautiously ofhis legs and ribs, and began to search through his pockets, his facebetraying an anxiety that grew deeper and deeper as the search went on.In due time the answer came back, deliberate, sad, and nasal, butdistinct above the roar of the torrent: "Waal, I ain't hurt much, butI'll be durned if I haven't lost my jack-knife!"

And he was pulled out of the gorge without it.

SALEM AND OTHER WITCHCRAFT

The extraordinary delusion recorded as Salem witchcraft was but areflection of a kindred insanity in the Old World that was not extirpateduntil its victims had been counted by thousands. That human beings shouldbe accused of leaguing themselves with Satan to plague their fellows andoverthrow the powers of righteousness is remarkable, but that they shouldadmit their guilt is incomprehensible, albeit the history of everypopular delusion shows that weak minds are so affected as to lose controlof themselves and that a whimsey can be as epidemic as small-pox.

Such was the case in 1692 when the witchcraft madness, which might havebeen stayed by a seasonable spanking, broke out in Danvers,Massachusetts, the first victim being a wild Irishwoman, named Glover,and speedily involved the neighboring community of Salem. The mischiefsdone by witches were usually trifling, and it never occurred to theirprosecutors that there was an inconsistency between their pretendedpowers and their feeble deeds, or that it was strange that those whomight live in regal luxury should be so wretchedly poor. Aches and pains,blight of crops, disease of cattle, were charged to them; childrencomplained of being pricked with thorns and pins (the pins are stillpreserved in Salem), and if hysterical girls spoke the name of any feebleold woman, while in flighty talk, they virtually sentenced her to die.The word of a child of eleven years sufficed to hang, burn, or drown awitch.

Giles Corey, a blameless man of eighty, was condemned to the mediaevalpeine forte et dure, his body being crushed beneath a load of rocks andtimbers. He refused to plead in court, and when the beams were laid uponhim he only cried, "More weight!" The shade of the unhappy victim hauntedthe scene of his execution for years, and always came to warn the peopleof calamities. A child of five and a dog were also hanged after formalcondemnation. Gallows Hill, near Salem, witnessed many sad tragedies, andthe old elm that stood on Boston Common until 1876 was said to haveserved as a gallows for witches and Quakers. The accuser of one day wasthe prisoner of the next, and not even the clergy were safe.

A few escapes were made, like that of a blue-eyed maid of Wenham, whoselover aided her to break the wooden jail and carried her safely beyondthe Merrimac, finding a home for her among the Quakers; and that of MissWheeler, of Salem, who had fallen under suspicion, and whose brothershurried her into a boat, rowed around Cape Ann, and safely bestowed herin "the witch house" at Pigeon Cove. Many, however, fled to other townsrather than run the risk of accusation, which commonly meant death.

When the wife of Philip English was arrested he, too, asked to share herfate, and both were, through friendly intercession, removed to Boston,where they were allowed to have their liberty by day on condition thatthey would go to jail every night. Just before they were to be taken backto Salem for trial they went to church and heard the Rev. Joshua Moodypreach from the text, "If they persecute you in one city, flee untoanother." The good clergyman not only preached goodness, but practisedit, and that night the door of their prison was opened. Furnished with anintroduction from Governor Phipps to Governor Fletcher, of New York, theymade their way to that settlement, and remained there in safe andcourteous keeping until the people of Salem had regained their senses,when they returned. Mrs. English died, soon after, from the effects ofcruelty and anxiety, and although Mr. Moody was generally commended forhis substitution of sense and justice for law, there were bigots whopersecuted him so constantly that he removed to Plymouth.

According to the belief of the time a witch or wizard compacted withSatan for the gift of supernatural power, and in return was to give uphis soul to the evil one after his life was over. The deed was signed inblood of the witch and horrible ceremonies confirmed the compact. Satanthen gave his ally a familiar in the form of a dog, ape, cat, or otheranimal, usually small and black, and sometimes an undisguised imp. Tosuckle these "familiars" with the blood of a witch was forbidden inEnglish law, which ranked it as a felony; but they were thus nourished insecret, and by their aid the witch might raise storms, blight crops,abort births, lame cattle, topple over houses, and cause pains,convulsions, and illness. If she desired to hurt a person she made a clayor waxen image in his likeness, and the harms and indignities wreaked onthe puppet would be suffered by the one bewitched, a knife or needlethrust in the waxen body being felt acutely by the living one, no matterhow far distant he might be. By placing this image in running water, hotsunshine, or near a fire, the living flesh would waste as this melted ordissolved, and the person thus wrought upon would die. This belief isstill current among negroes affected by the voodoo superstitions of theSouth. The witch, too, had the power of riding winds, usually with abroomstick for a conveyance, after she had smeared the broom or herselfwith magic ointment, and the flocking of the unhallowed to their sabbathsin snaky bogs or on lonely mountain tops has been described minutely bythose who claim to have seen the sight. Sometimes they cackled andgibbered through the night before the houses of the clergy, and it wasonly at Christmas that their power failed them. The meetings were devotedto wild and obscene orgies, and the intercourse of fiends and witchesbegot a progeny of toads and snakes.

Naturally the Indians were accused, for they recognized the existence ofboth good and evil spirits, their medicine-men cured by incantations inthe belief that devils were thus driven out of their patients, and in theearly history of the country the red man was credited by white settlerswith powers hardly inferior to those of the oriental and Europeanmagicians of the middle ages. Cotton Mather detected a relation betweenSatan and the Indians, and he declares that certain of the Algonquinswere trained from boyhood as powahs, powwows, or wizards, acquiringpowers of second sight and communion with gods and spirits throughabstinence from food and sleep and the observance of rites. Their severediscipline made them victims of nervous excitement and theresponsibilities of conjuration had on their minds an effect similar tothat produced by gases from the rift in Delphos on the Apollonianoracles, their manifestations of insanity or frenzy passing for deific orinfernal possession. When John Gibb, a Scotchman, who had gone madthrough religious excitement, was shipped to this country by his tiredfellow-countrymen, the Indians hailed him as a more powerful wizard thanany of their number, and he died in 1720, admired and feared by thembecause of the familiarity with spirits out of Hobbomocko (hell) that hisravings and antics were supposed to indicate. Two Indian servants of theReverend Mr. Purvis, of Salem, having tried by a spell to discover awitch, were executed as witches themselves. The savages, who took Salemwitchcraft at its worth, were astonished at its deadly effect, and theEnglish may have lost some influence over the natives in consequence ofthis madness. "The Great Spirit sends no witches to the French," theysaid. Barrow Hill, near Amesbury, was said to be the meeting-place forIndian powwows and witches, and at late hours of the night the light offires gleamed from its top, while shadowy forms glanced athwart it. Oldmen say that the lights are still there in winter, though modern doubtersdeclare that they were the aurora borealis.

But the belief in witches did not die even when the Salem people came totheir senses. In the Merrimac valley the devil found converts for manyyears after: Goody Mose, of Rocks village, who tumbled down-stairs when abig beetle was killed at an evening party, some miles away, after it hadbeen bumping into the faces of the company; Goody Whitcher, of Ameshury,whose loom kept banging day and night after she was dead; Goody Sloper,of West Newbury, who went home lame directly that a man had struck hisaxe into the beam of a house that she had bewitched, but who recoveredher strength and established an improved reputation when, in 1794, sheswam out to a capsized boat and rescued two of the people who were inperil; Goodman Nichols, of Rocks village, who "spelled" a neighbor's son,compelling him to run up one end of the house, along the ridge, and downthe other end, "troubling the family extremely by his strangeproceedings;" Susie Martin, also of Rocks, who was hanged in spite of herdevotions in jail, though the rope danced so that it could not be tied,but a crow overhead called for a withe and the law was executed withthat; and Goody Morse, of Market and High Streets, Newburyport, whosebaskets and pots danced through her house continually and who was seen"flying about the sun as if she had been cut in twain, or as if the devildid hide the lower part of her." The hill below Easton, Pennsylvania,called Hexenkopf (Witch's head), was described by German settlers as aplace of nightly gathering for weird women, who whirled about its top in"linked dances" and sang in deep tones mingled with awful laughter. Afterone of these women, in Williams township, had been punished forenchanting a twenty-dollar horse, their sabbaths were held more quietly.Mom Rinkle, whose "rock" is pointed out beside the Wissahickon, inPhiladelphia, "drank dew from acorn-cups and had the evil eye." JuanPerea, of San Mateo, New Mexico, would fly with his chums to meetings inthe mountains in the shape of a fire-ball. During these sallies he lefthis own eyes at home and wore those of some brute animal. It was becausehis dog ate his eyes when he had carelessly put them on a table that hehad always afterward to wear those of a cat. Within the present centuryan old woman who lived in a hut on the Palisades of the Hudson was heldto be responsible for local storms and accidents. As late as 1889 twoZuni Indians were hanged on the wall of an old Spanish church near theirpueblo in Arizona on a charge of having blown away the rainclouds in atime of drouth. It was held that there was something uncanny in the eventthat gave the name of Gallows Hill to an eminence near Falls Village,Connecticut, for a strange black man was found hanging, dead, to a treenear its top one morning.

Moll Pitcher, a successful sorcerer and fortune-teller of old Lynn, hasfigured in obsolete poems, plays, and romances. She lived in a cottage atthe foot of High Rock, where she was consulted, not merely by people ofrespectability, but by those who had knavish schemes to prosecute and whowanted to learn in advance the outcome of their designs. Many a ship wasdeserted at the hour of sailing because she boded evil of the voyage. Shewas of medium height, big-headed, tangle-haired, long-nosed, and had asearching black eye. The sticks that she carried were cut from a hazelthat hung athwart a brook where an unwedded mother had drowned her child.A girl who went to her for news of her lover lost her reason when thewitch, moved by a malignant impulse, described his death in a fiercelydramatic manner. One day the missing ship came bowling into port, and theshock of joy that the girl experienced when the sailor clasped her in hisarms restored her erring senses. When Moll Pitcher died she was attendedby the little daughter of the woman she had so afflicted.

John, or Edward, Dimond, grandfather of Moll Pitcher, was a benevolentwizard. When vessels were trying to enter the port of Marblehead in aheavy gale or at night, their crews were startled to hear a trumpet voicepealing from the skies, plainly audible above the howling and hissing ofany tempest, telling them how to lay their course so as to reach smoothwater. This was the voice of Dimond, speaking from his station, milesaway in the village cemetery. He always repaired to this place introublous weather and shouted orders to the ships that were made visibleto him by mystic power as he strode to and fro among the graves. Whenthieves came to him for advice he charmed them and made them take backtheir plunder or caused them to tramp helplessly about the streetsbearing heavy burdens.

"Old Mammy Redd, of Marblehead, Sweet milk could turn to mould in churn."

Being a witch, and a notorious one, she could likewise curdle the milk asit came from the cow, and afterward transform it into blue wool. She hadthe evil eye, and, if she willed, her glance or touch could blight likepalsy. It only needed that she should wish a bloody cleaver to be foundin a cradle to cause the little occupant to die, while the whole townascribed to her the annoyances of daily housework and business. Herunpleasant celebrity led to her death at the hands of her fellow-citizenswho had been "worrited" by no end of queer happenings: ships had appearedjust before they were wrecked and had vanished while people looked atthem; men were seen walking on the water after they had been comfortablyburied; the wind was heard to name the sailors doomed never to return;footsteps and voices were heard in the streets before the great were todie; one man was chased by a corpse in its coffin; another was pursued bythe devil in a carriage drawn by four white horses; a young woman who hadjust received a present of some fine fish from her lover was amazed tosee him melt into the air, and was heart-broken when she learned nextmorning that he had died at sea. So far away as Amesbury the devil'spower was shown by the appearance of a man who walked the roads carryinghis head under his arm, and by the freak of a windmill that the milleralways used to shut up at sundown but that started by itself at midnight.Evidently it was high time to be rid of Mammy Redd.

Margaret Wesson, "old Meg," lived in Gloucester until she came to herdeath by a shot fired at the siege of Louisburg, five hundred miles away,in 1745. Two soldiers of Gloucester, while before the walls of the Frenchtown, were annoyed by a crow, that flew over and around them, cawingharshly and disregarding stones and shot, until it occurred to them thatthe bird could be no other than old Meg in another form, and, as silverbullets are an esteemed antidote for the evils of witchcraft, they cuttwo silver buttons from their uniforms and fired them at the crow. At thefirst shot its leg was broken; at the second, it fell dead. On returningto Gloucester they learned that old Meg had fallen and broken her leg atthe moment when the crow was fired on, and that she died quickly after.An examination of her body was made, and the identical buttons wereextracted from her flesh that had been shot into the crow at Louisburg.

As a citizen of New Haven was riding home—this was at the time of thegoings on at Salem—he saw shapes of women near his horse's head,whispering earnestly together and keeping time with the trot of hisanimal without effort of their own. "In the name of God, tell me who youare," cried the traveller, and at the name of God they vanished. Next daythe man's orchard was shaken by viewless hands and the fruit thrown down.Hogs ran about the neighborhood on their hind legs; children cried thatsomebody was sticking pins into them; one man would roll across the flooras if pushed, and he had to be watched lest he should go into the fire;when housewives made their bread they found it as full of hair as food ina city boarding-house; when they made soft soap it ran from the kettleand over the floor like lava; stones fell down chimneys and smashedcrockery. One of the farmers cut off an ear from a pig that was walkingon its hind legs, and an eccentric old body of the neighborhood appearedpresently with one of her ears in a muffle, thus satisfying thatcommunity that she had caused the troubles. When a woman was makingpotash it began to leap about, and a rifle was fired into the pot,causing a sudden calm. In the morning the witch was found dead on herfloor. Yet killing only made her worse, for she moved to a deserted housenear her own, and there kept a mad revel every night; fiddles were heard,lights flashed, stones were thrown, and yells gave people at a distance aseries of cold shivers; but the populace tried the effect of tearing downthe house, and quiet was brought to the town.

In the early days of this century a skinny old woman known as AuntWoodward lived by herself in a log cabin at Minot Corner, Maine, enjoyingthe awe of the people in that secluded burg. They moved around but littleat night, on her account, and one poor girl was in mortal fear lest bymysterious arts she should be changed, between two days, into a whitehorse. One citizen kept her away from his house by nailing a horseshoe tohis door, while another took the force out of her spells by keeping abranch of "round wood" at his threshold. At night she haunted a big,square house where the ghost of a murdered infant was often heard to cry,and by day she laid charms on her neighbors' provisions and utensils, andturned their cream to buttermilk. "Uncle" Blaisdell hurried into thesettlement to tell the farmers that Aunt Woodward had climbed into hissled in the middle of the road, and that his four yoke of oxen could notstir it an inch, but that after she had leaped down one yoke of cattledrew the load of wood without an effort. Yet she died in her bed.

THE GLOUCESTER LEAGUERS

Strange things had been reported in Gloucester. On the eve of KingPhilip's War the march of men was heard in its streets and an Indian bowand scalp were seen on the face of the moon, while the boom of cannon androll of drums were heard at Malden and the windows of Plymouth rattled tothe passage of unseen horsem*n. But the strangest thing was the arrivalon Cape Ann of a force of French and Indians that never could be caught,killed, or crippled, though two regiments were hurried into Gloucesterand battled with them for a fortnight. Thus, the rumor went around thatthese were not an enemy of flesh and blood, but devils who hoped to worka moral perversion of the colony. From 1692, when they appeared, untilSalem witchcraft was at an end, Cape Ann was under military and spiritualguard against "the spectre leaguers."

Another version of the episode, based on sworn evidence, has it thatEbenezer Babson, returning late on a summer night, saw two men run fromhis door and vanish in a field. His family denied that visitors hadcalled, so he gave chase, for he believed the men to have a mischievousintention. As he left the threshold they sprang from behind a log, onesaying to the other, "The master of the house is now come, else we mighthave taken the house," and again they disappeared in a swamp. Babson wokethe guard, and on entering the quarters of the garrison the sound of manyfeet was heard without, but when the doors were flung open only the twomen were visible and they were retreating. Next evening the yeoman waschased by these elusive gentry, who were believed to be scouts of theenemy, for they wore white breeches and waistcoats and carried brightguns.

For several nights they appeared, and on the 4th of July half a dozen ofthem were seen so plainly that the soldiers made a sally, Babson bringingthree of "ye unaccountable troublers" to the ground with a single shot,and getting a response in kind, for a bullet hissed by his ear and burieditself in a tree. When the company approached the place where lay thevictims of that remarkable shot, behold, they arose and scampered away asblithely as if naught had happened to them. One of the trio was corneredand shot anew, but when they would pick him up he melted into air. Therewas fierce jabbering in an unknown tongue, through all the swamp, and bythe time the garrison had returned the fellows were skulking in theshrubbery again. Richard Dolliver afterward came on eleven of themengaged in incantations and scattered them with a gunshot, but they wouldnot down. They lurked about the cape until terror fell on all the people,remaining for "the best part of a month together," so it was deemed that"Satan had set ambushments against the good people of Gloucester, withdemons in the shape of armed Indians and Frenchmen."

Stones were thrown, barns were beaten with clubs, the marching of unseenhosts was heard after dark, the mockers grew so bold that they venturedclose to the redoubtable Babson, gazed scornfully down the barrel of hisgun, and laid a charm on the weapon, so that, no matter how often hesnapped it at them, it flashed in the pan. Neighboring garrisons weresummoned, but all battling with goblins was fruitless. One night a darkand hostile throng emerged from the wood and moved toward the blockhouse,where twenty musketeers were keeping guard. "If you be ghosts or devils Iwill foil you," cried the captain, and tearing a silver button from hisdoublet he rammed it into his gun and fired on the advancing host. Evenas the smoke of his musket was blown on the wind, so did the beleagueringarmy vanish, the silver bullet proving that they were not of human kind.The night was wearing on when a cry went out that the devils were comingagain. Arms were laid aside this time, and the watchers sank to theirknees in prayer. Directly that the name of God was uttered the marchingceased and heaven rang with the howls of the angry fiends. Never againwere leaguers seen in Gloucester.

SATAN AND HIS BURIAL-PLACE

Satan appears to have troubled the early settlers in America almost asgrievously as he did the German students. He came in many shapes to manypeople, and sometimes he met his match. Did he not try to stop old PeterStuyvesant from rowing through Hell Gate one moonlight night, and did notthat tough old soldier put something at his shoulder that Satan thoughtmust be his wooden leg? But it wasn't a leg: it was a gun, loaded with asilver bullet that had been charged home with prayer. Peter fired and themissile whistled off to Ward's Island, where three boys found itafterward and swapped it for double handfuls of doughnuts and bulls'eyes. Incidentally it passed between the devil's ribs and the fiendexploded with a yell and a smell, the latter of sulphur, to Peter'sblended satisfaction and alarm. And did not the same spirit of evilplague the old women of Massachusetts Bay and craze the French andSpaniards in the South? At Hog Rock, west of Milford, Connecticut, hebroke up a pleasant diversion:

"Once four young men upon ye rock
Sate down at chuffle board to play
When ye Deuill appearde in shape of a hogg
And frightend ym so they scampered away
And left Old Nick to finish ye play."

One of the first buildings to be put up in Ipswich, Massachusetts, was achurch built on a ledge above the river, and in that church Satan triedto conceal himself for purposes of mischief. For this act he was hurledfrom the steeple-top by some unseen instrument of righteousness with suchforce that his hoofmark was stamped into a solid stone near by. This didnot deter him from mounting to the ridge-pole and assuming a defiant air,with folded arms, when Whitefield began to preach, but when thatclergyman's tremendous voice was loosed below him he bounced into the airin terror and disappeared.

The Shakers report that in the waning of the eighteenth century theychased the evil one through the coverts of Mount Sinai, Massachusetts,and just before dawn of a summer morning they caught and killed andburied him. Shakers are spiritualists, and they believe their numbers tohave been augmented by distinguished dead, among whom they already numberWashington, Lafayette, Napoleon, Tamerlane, and Pocahontas. The two firstnamed of these posthumous communists are still seen by members of thefaith who pass Satan's grave at night, for they sit astride of whitehorses and watch the burial spot, lest the enemy of man arise and beginanew his career of trouble. Some members of the brotherhood say that thislegend typifies a burial of evil tendencies in the hearts of those whohunted the fiend, but it has passed down among others as a circ*mstance.The Shakers have many mystic records, transmitted verbally to the presentdisciples of "Mother Ann," but seldom told to scoffers "in the world," asthose are called who live without their pure and peaceful communes. Amongthese records is that of the appearance of John the Baptist in themeeting-house at Mount Lebanon, New York, one Sunday, clothed in lightand leading the sacred dance of the worshippers, by which they signifythe shaking out of all carnal things from the heart.

PETER RUGG, THE MISSING MAN

The idea of long wandering as a penalty, symbolized in "The WanderingJew," "The Flying Dutchman," and the character of Kundry, in "Parsifal,"has application in the legend of Peter Rugg. This strange man, who livedin Middle Street, Boston, with his wife and daughter, was esteemed, as aperson of probity and good manners except in his swearing fits, for hewas subject to outbursts of passion, when he would kick his way throughdoors instead of opening them, bite tenpenny nails in two, and curse hiswig off In the autumn of 1770 he visited Concord, with his little girl,and on the way home was overtaken by a violent storm. He took shelterwith a friend at Menotomy, who urged him to stay all night, for the rainwas falling heavier every moment; but Rugg would not be stayed, andseeing that there was no hope of a dry journey back to town he roared afearful oath and cried, "Let the storm increase. I will see home to-nightin spite of it, or may I never see home!" With that he tossed the childinto the open chaise, leaped in after her, lashed his horse, and was off.

Several nights afterward, while Rugg's neighbors were out with lanternstrying to discover the cause of a heavy jarring that had begun to disturbthem in bad weather, the excitable gentleman, who had not been seen sincehis Concord visit, came whirling along the pavement in his carriage, hisdaughter beside him, his black horse plunging on in spite of his effortsto stop him. The lanterns that for a moment twinkled in Peter's faceshowed him as a wet and weary man, with eyes turned up longingly at thewindows where his wife awaited him; then he was gone, and the groundtrembled as with an earthquake, while the rain fell more heavily.

Mrs. Rugg died within a twelvemonth, and Peter never reached home, butfrom all parts of New England came stories of a man and child drivingrapidly along the highways, never stopping except to inquire the way toBoston. Half of the time the man would be headed in a direction oppositeto the one he seemed to want to follow, and when set right would cry thathe was being deceived, and was sometimes heard to mutter, "No hometo-night." In Hartford, Providence, Newburyport, and among the NewHampshire hills the anxious face of the man became known, and he wasreferred to as "the stormbreeder," for so surely as he passed there wouldbe rain, wind, lightning, thunder, and darkness within the hour.

Some years ago a man in a Connecticut town stopped this hurryingtraveller, who said, in reply to a question, "I have lost the road toBoston. My name is Peter Rugg." Then Rugg's disappearance half a centurybefore was cited by those who had long memories, and people began to lookaskant at Peter and gave him generous road room when they met him. Thetoll-taker on Charlestown bridge declared that he had been annoyed andalarmed by a prodigious tramping of hoofs and rattling of wheels thatseemed to pass toward Boston before his very face, yet he could seenothing. He took courage one night to plant himself in the middle of thebridge with a three-legged stool, and when the sound approached he dimlysaw a large black horse driven by a weary looking man with a child besidehim. The stool was flung at the horse's head, but passed through theanimal as through smoke and skipped across the floor of the bridge. Thusmuch the toll-collector said, but when asked if Rugg had appeared againhe made no reply.

THE LOSS OF WEETAMOO

Winnepurkit, sagamore of the coast settlements between Nahant and CapeAnn, had married Weetamoo, daughter of Passaconaway, king of thePennacooks, and had taken her to his home. Their honeymoon was happy, butold ties are strong, and after a little time the bride felt a longing tosee her people again. When she made known this wish the husband not onlyconsented to her visit, but gave her a guard of his most trusty hunterswho saw her safe in her father's lodge (near the site of Concord, NewHampshire), and returned directly. Presently came a messenger fromPassaconaway, informing his son-in-law that Weetamoo had finished hervisit and wished again to be with her husband, to whom he looked for anescort to guide her through the wilderness. Winnepurkit felt that hisdignity as a chief was slighted by this last request, and he replied thatas he had supplied her with a guard for the outward journey it was herfather's place to send her back, "for it stood not with Winnepurkit'sreputation either to make himself or his men so servile as to fetch heragain."

Passaconaway returned a sharp answer that irritated Winnepurkit stillmore, and he was told by the young sagamore that he might send hisdaughter or keep her, for she would never be sent for. In this unhappystrife for precedent, which has been repeated on later occasions byprinces and society persons, the young wife seemed to be fated as anunwilling sacrifice; but summoning spirit to leave her father's wigwamshe launched a canoe on the Merrimack, hoping to make her way along thatwatery highway to her husband's domain. It was winter, and the stream wasfull of floating ice; at the best of times it was not easy to keep afrail vessel of bark in the current away from the rapids, and a wanderinghunter reported that a canoe had come down the river guided by a woman,that it had swung against the Amoskeag rocks, where Manchester standsnow, and a few moments later was in a quieter reach of water, broken andempty. No more was seen of Weetamoo.

THE FATAL FORGET-ME-NOT

Three miles out from the Nahant shore, Massachusetts, rises Egg Rock, adome of granite topped by a light-house. In the last century theforget-me-nots that grew in a little marsh at its summit were muchesteemed, for it was reported that if a girl should receive one of theselittle flowers from her lover the two would be faithful to each otherthrough all their married life. It was before a temporary separation thata certain young couple strolled together on the Nahant cliffs. The manwas to sail for Italy next day, to urge parental consent to their union.As he looked dreamily into the sea the legend of the forget-me-not cameinto his mind, and in a playful tone he offered to gather a bunch as amemento. Unthinkingly the girl consented. He ran down the cliff to hisboat, pushed out, and headed toward the rock, but a fisherman shoutedthat a gale was rising and the tide was coming in; indeed, the horizonwas whitening and the rote was growing plain.

Alice had heard the cry of warning and would have called him back, butshe was forsaken by the power of speech, and watched, with pale face andstraining eyes, the boat beating smartly across the surges. It was seento reach Egg Rock, and after a lapse came dancing toward the shore again;but the tide, was now swirling in rapidly, the waves were running high,and the wind freshened as the sun sank. At times the boat was out ofsight in the hollowed water, and as it neared Nahant it becameunmanageable. Apparently it had filled with water and the tiller-rope hadbroken. Nothing could be done by the spectators who had gathered on therocks, except to shout directions that were futile, even if they could beheard. At last the boat was lifted by a breaker and hurled against a massof granite at the very feet of the man's mistress. When the body wasrecovered next day, a bunch of forget-me-not was clasped in the rigidhand.

THE OLD MILL AT SOMERVILLE

The "old powder-house," as the round stone tower is called that stands ona gravel ridge in Somerville, Massachusetts, is so named because at theoutbreak of the Revolutionary War it was used temporarily as a magazine;but long before that it was a wind-mill. Here in the old days two loversheld their tryst: a sturdy and honest young farmer of the neighborhoodand the daughter of a man whose wealth puffed him with purse-pride. Itwas the plebeian state of the farmer that made him look at him with anunfavorable countenance, and when it was whispered to him that the youngpeople were meeting each other almost every evening at the mill, heresolved to surprise them there and humiliate, if he did not punish them.From the shadow of the door they saw his approach, and, yielding to thegirl's imploring, the lover secreted himself while she climbed to theloft. The flutter of her dress caught the old man's eye and he hastened,panting, into the mill. For some moments he groped about, for his eyeshad not grown used to the darkness of the place, and hearing his mutteredoaths, the girl crept backward from the stair.

She was beginning to hope that she had not been seen, when her footcaught in a loose board and she stumbled, but in her fall she threw outher hand to save herself and found a rope within her grasp. Directly thather weight had been applied to it there was a whir and a clank. The cordhad set the great fans in motion. At the same moment a fall was heard,then a cry, passing from anger into anguish. She rushed down the stair,the lover appeared from his hiding-place at the same moment, and togetherthey dragged the old man to his feet. At the moment when the wind hadstarted the sails he had been standing on one of the mill-stones and thesudden jerk had thrown him down. His arm caught between the grindingsurfaces and had been crushed to pulp. He was carried home and tenderlynursed, but he did not live long; yet before he died he was made to seethe folly of his course, and he consented to the marriage that it hadcost him so dear to try to prevent. Before she could summon heart to fixthe wedding-day the girl passed many months of grief and repentance, andfor the rest of her life she avoided the old mill. There was good reasonfor doing so, people said, for on windy nights the spirit of the old manused to haunt the place, using such profanity that it became visible inthe form of blue lights, dancing and exploding about the building.

EDWARD RANDOLPH'S PORTRAIT

Nothing is left of Province House, the old home of the royal governors,in Boston, but the gilded Indian that served as its weatherco*ck and aimedhis arrow at the winds from the cupola. The house itself was swept awaylong ago in the so-called march of improvement. In one of its rooms hunga picture so dark that when Lieutenant-Governor Hutchinson went to livethere hardly anybody could say what it represented. There were hints thatit was a portrait of the devil, painted at a witch-meeting near Salem,and that on the eve of disasters in the province a dreadful face hadglared from the canvas. Shirley had seen it on the night of the fall ofTiconderoga, and servants had gone shuddering from the room, certain thatthey had caught the glance of a malignant eye.

It was known to the governors, however, that the portrait, if not that ofthe arch fiend, was that of one who in the popular mind was none the lessa devil: Edward Randolph, the traitor, who had repealed the firstprovincial charter and deprived the colonists of their liberties. Underthe curse of the people he grew pale and pinched and ugly, his face atlast becoming so hateful that men were unwilling to look at it. Then itwas that he sat for his portrait. Threescore or odd years afterward,Hutchinson sat in the hall wondering vaguely if coming events wouldconsign him to the obloquy that had fallen on his predecessor, for at hisbidding a fleet had come into the harbor with three regiments of redcoats on board, despatched from Halifax to overawe the city. The comingof the selectmen to protest against quartering these troops on the peopleand the substitution of martial for civic law, interrupted his reverie,and a warm debate arose. At last the governor seized his pen impatiently,and cried, "The king is my master and England is my home. Upheld by them,I defy the rabble."

He was about to sign the order for bringing in the troops when a curtainthat had hung before the picture was drawn aside. Hutchinson stared atthe canvas in amazement, then muttered, "It is Randolph's spirit! Itwears the look of hell." The picture was seen to be that of a man inantique garb, with a despairing, hunted, yet evil expression in the face,and seemed to stare at Hutchinson.

"It is a warning," said one of the company.

Hutchinson recovered himself with an effort and turned away. "It is atrick," he cried; and bending over the paper he fixed his name, as if indesperate haste. Then he trembled, turned white, and wiped a sweat fromhis brow. The selectmen departed in silence but in anger, and those whosaw Hutchinson on the streets next day affirmed that the portrait hadstepped out of its canvas and stood at his side through the night.Afterward, as he lay on his death-bed, he cried that the blood of theBoston massacre was filling his throat, and as his soul passed from himhis face, in its agony and rage, was the face of Edward Randolph.

LADY ELEANORE'S MANTLE

Lady Eleanore Rochcliffe, being orphaned, was admitted to the family ofher distant relative, Governor Shute, of Massachusetts Bay, and came toAmerica to take her home with him. She arrived at the gates of ProvinceHouse, in Boston, in the governor's splendid coach, with outriders andguards, and as the governor went to receive her, a pale young man, withtangled hair, sprang from the crowd and fell in the dust at her feet,offering himself as a footstool for her to tread upon. Her proud facelighted with a smile of scorn, and she put out her hand to stay thegovernor, who was in the act of striking the fellow with his cane.

"Do not strike him," she said. "When men seek to be trampled, it is afavor they deserve."

For a moment she bore her weight on the prostrate form, "emblem ofaristocracy trampling on human sympathies and the kindred of nature," andas she stood there the bell on South Church began to toll for a funeralthat was passing at the moment. The crowd started; some looked annoyed;Lady Eleanore remained calm and walked in stately fashion up the passageon the arm of His Excellency. "Who was that insolent fellow?" was askedof Dr. Clarke, the governor's physician.

"Gervase Helwyse," replied the doctor; "a youth of no fortune, but ofgood mind until he met this lady in London, when he fell in love withher, and her pride and scorn have crazed him."

A few nights after a ball was given in honor of the governor's ward, andProvince House was filled with the elect of the city. Commanding infigure, beautiful in face, richly dressed and jewelled, the Lady Eleanorewas the admired of the whole assembly, and the women were especiallycurious to see her mantle, for a rumor went out that it had been made bya dying girl, and had the magic power of giving new beauty to the wearerevery time it was put on. While the guests were taking refreshment, ayoung man stole into the room with a silver goblet, and this he offeredon his knee to Lady Eleanore. As she looked down she recognized the faceof Helwyse.

"Drink of this sacramental wine," he said, eagerly, "and pass it amongthe guests."

"Perhaps it is poisoned," whispered a man, and in another moment theliquor was overturned, and Helwyse was roughly dragged away.

"Pray, gentlemen, do not hurt my poor admirer," said the lady, in a toneof languor and condescension that was unusual to her. Breaking from hiscaptives, Helwyse ran back and begged her to cast her mantle into thefire. She replied by throwing a fold of it above her head and smiling asshe said, "Farewell. Remember me as you see me now."

Helwyse shook his head sadly and submitted to be led away. The wearinessin Eleanore's manner increased; a flush was burning on her cheek; herlaugh had grown infrequent. Dr. Clarke whispered something in thegovernor's ear that made that gentleman start and look alarmed. It wasannounced that an unforeseen circ*mstance made it necessary to close thefestival at once, and the company went home. A few days after the citywas thrown into a panic by an outbreak of small-pox, a disease that inthose times could not be prevented nor often cured, and that gathered itsvictims by thousands. Graves were dug in rows, and every night the earthwas piled hastily on fresh corpses. Before all infected houses hung a redflag of warning, and Province House was the first to show it, for theplague had come to town in Lady Eleanore's mantle. The people cursed herpride and pointed to the flags as her triumphal banners. The pestilencewas at its height when Gervase Helwyse appeared in Province House. Therewere none to stay him now, and he climbed the stairs, peering from roomto room, until he entered a darkened chamber, where something stirredfeebly under a silken coverlet and a faint voice begged for water.Helwyse tore apart the curtains and exclaimed, "Fie! What does such athing as you in Lady Eleanore's apartment?"

The figure on the bed tried to hide its hideous face. "Do not look onme," it cried. "I am cursed for my pride that I wrapped about me as amantle. You are avenged. I am Eleanore Rochcliffe."

The lunatic stared for a moment, then the house echoed with his laughter.The deadly mantle lay on a chair. He snatched it up, and waving also thered flag of the pestilence ran into the street. In a short time an effigywrapped in the mantle was borne to Province House and set on fire by amob. From that hour the pest abated and soon disappeared, though gravesand scars made a bitter memory of it for many a year. Unhappiest of allwas the disfigured creature who wandered amid the shadows of ProvinceHouse, never showing her face, unloved, avoided, lonely.

HOWE'S MASQUERADE

During the siege of Boston Sir William Howe undertook to show hiscontempt for the raw fellows who were disrespectfully tossingcannon-balls at him from the batteries in Cambridge and South Boston, bygiving a masquerade. It was a brilliant affair, the belles and blades ofthe loyalist set being present, some in the garb of their ancestors, forthe past is ever more picturesque than the present, and a few roistererscaricaturing the American generals in ragged clothes, false noses, andabsurd wigs. At the height of the merriment a sound of a dirge echoingthrough the streets caused the dance to stop. The funeral music pausedbefore the doors of Province House, where the dance was going on, andthey were flung open. Muffled drums marked time for a company that beganto file down the great stair from the floor above the ball-room: dark menin steeple-hats and pointed beards, with Bibles, swords, and scrolls, wholooked sternly at the guests and descended to the street.

Colonel Joliffe, a Whig, whose age and infirmity had prevented him fromjoining Washington, and whose courtesy and intelligence had made himrespected by his foes, acted as chorus: "These I take to be the Puritangovernors of Massachusetts: Endicott, Winthrop, Vane, Dudley, Haynes,Bellingham, Leverett, Bradstreet." Then came a rude soldier, mailed,begirt with arms: the tyrant Andros; a brown-faced man with a sailor'sgait: Sir William Phipps; a courtier wigged and jewelled: Earl Bellomont;the crafty, well-mannered Dudley; the twinkling, red-nosed Shute; theponderous Burnet; the gouty Belcher; Shirley, Pownall, Bernard,Hutchinson; then a soldier, whose co*cked hat he held before his face."'Tis the shape of Gage!" cried an officer, turning pale. The lights weredull and an uncomfortable silence had fallen on the company. Last, came atall man muffled in a military cloak, and as he paused on the landing theguests looked from him to their host in amazement, for it was the figureof Howe himself. The governor's patience was at an end, for this was apart of the masquerade that had not been looked for. He fiercely cried toJoliffe, "There is a plot in this. Your head has stood too long on atraitor's shoulders."

"Make haste to cut it off, then," was the reply, "for the power of SirWilliam Howe and of the king, his master, is at an end. These shadows aremourners at his funeral. Look! The last of the governors."

Howe rushed with drawn sword on the figure of himself, when it turned andlooked at him. The blade clanged to the floor and Howe fell back with agasp of horror, for the face was his own. Hand nor voice was raised tostay the double-goer as it mournfully passed on. At the threshold itstamped its foot and shook its fists in air; then the door closed.Mingled with the strains of the funeral march, as it died along the emptystreets, came the tolling of the bell on South Church steeple, strikingthe hour of midnight. The festivities were at an end and, oppressed by anameless fear, the spectators of this strange pageant made ready fordeparture; but before they left the booming of cannon at the southwardannounced that Washington had advanced. The glories of Province Housewere over. When the last of the royal governors left it he paused on thethreshold, beat his foot on the stone, and flung up his hands in anattitude of grief and rage.

OLD ESTHER DUDLEY

Boston had surrendered. Washington was advancing from the heights wherehe had trained his guns on the British works, and Sir William Howelingered at the door of Province House,—last of the royal governors whowould stand there,—and cursed and waved his hands and beat his heel onthe step, as if he were crushing rebellion by that act. The sound broughtan old woman to his side. "Esther Dudley!" he exclaimed. "Why are you notgone?"

"I shall never leave. As housekeeper for the governors and pensioner ofthe king, this has been my home; the only home I know. Go back, but sendmore troops. I will keep the house till you return."

"Grant that I may return," he cried. "Since you will stay, take this bagof guineas and keep this key until a governor shall demand it."

Then, with fierce and moody brow, the governor went forth, and the fadedeyes of Esther Dudley saw him nevermore. When the soldiers of therepublic cast about for quarters in Boston town, they spared the officialmansion to this old woman. Her bridling toryism and assumption of oldstate amused them and did no harm; indeed, her loyalty was half admired;beside, nobody took the pride in the place that she did, or would keep itin better order. That she sometimes had a half-dozen of unrepentantcodgers in to dinner, and that they were suspected of drinking healths toGeorge III. in crusted port, was a fact to blink. Rumor had it that notall her guests were flesh and blood, but that she had an antique mirroracross which ancient occupants of the house would pass in shadowyprocession at her command, and that she was wont to have the Shirleys,Olivers, Hutchinsons, and Dudleys out of their graves to hold receptionsthere; so a touch of dread may have mingled in the feeling that kept thepopulace aloof.

Living thus by herself, refusing to hear of rebel victories, construingthe bonfires, drumming, hurrahs, and bell-ringing to signify freshtriumphs for England, she drifted farther and farther out of her time andexisted in the shadows of the past. She lighted the windows for theking's birthday, and often from the cupola watched for a British fleet,heeding not the people below, who, as they saw her withered face,repeated the prophecy, with a laugh "When the golden Indian on ProvinceHouse shall shoot his arrow and the co*ck on South Church spire shallcrow, look for a royal governor again." So, when it was bandied about thestreets that the governor was coming, she took it in no wise strange, butdressed herself in silk and hoops, with store of ancient jewels, and madeready to receive him. In truth, there was a function, for already a manof stately mien, and richly dressed, was advancing through the court,with a staff of men in wigs and laced coats behind him, and a company oftroops at a little distance. Esther Dudley flung the door wide anddropping on her knees held forth the key with the cry, "Thank heaven forthis hour! God save the king!"

The governor put off his hat and helped the woman to her feet. "A strangeprayer," said he; "yet we will echo it to this effect: For the good ofthe realm that still owns him to be its ruler, God save King George."

Esther Dudley stared wildly. That face she remembered now,—theproscribed rebel, John Hanco*ck; governor, not by royal grant, but by thepeople's will.

"Have I welcomed a traitor? Then let me die."

"Alas! Mistress Dudley, the world has changed for you in these lateryears. America has no king." He offered her his arm, and she clung to itfor a moment, then, sinking down, the great key, that she so long hadtreasured, clanked to the floor.

"I have been faithful unto death," she gasped. "God save the king!"

The people uncovered, for she was dead.

"At her tomb," said Hanco*ck, "we will bid farewell forever to the past. Anew day has come for us. In its broad light we will press onward."

THE LOSS OF JACOB HURD

Jacob Hurd, stern witch-harrier of Ipswich, can abide nothing out of theordinary course of things, whether it be flight on a broomstick or thewrong adding of figures; so his son gives him trouble, for he is animaginative boy, who walks alone, talking to the birds, making rhymes,picking flowers, and dreaming. That he will never be a farmer, mechanic,or tradesman is as good as certain, and one day when the child runs inwith a story of a golden horse, with tail and mane of silver, on which hehas ridden over land and sea, climbing mountains and swimming rivers, heturns pale with fright lest the boy be bewitched; then, as the awfulnessof the invention becomes manifest, he cries, "Thou knowest thou artlying," and strikes the little fellow.

The boy staggers into his mother's arms, and that night falls into afever, in which he raves of his horse and the places he will see, whileJacob sits by his side, too sore in heart for words, and he never leavesthe cot for food or sleep till the fever is burned out. Just before hecloses his eyes the child looks about him and says that he hears thehorse pawing in the road, and, either for dust or cloud or sun gleam, itseems for an instant as if the horse were there. The boy gives a cry ofjoy, then sinks upon his pillow, lifeless.

Some time after this Jacob sets off one morning, while the stars are out,to see three witches hanged, but at evening his horse comes flying up theroad, splashed with blood and foam, and the neighbors know from that ofJacob's death, for he is lying by the wayside with an Indian arrow in hisheart and an axemark on his head. The wife runs to the door, and, thoughshe shakes with fear at its approach, she sees that in the sunset glowthe horse's sides have a shine like gold, and its mane and tail aresilver white. Now the animal is before the house, but the woman does notfaint or cry at the blood splash on the saddle, for—is it the dust-cloudthat takes that shape?—she sees on its back a boy with a shining face,who throws a kiss at her,—her Paul. He, little poet, lives in spirit,and has found happiness.

THE HOBOMAK

Such was the Indian name of the site of Westboro, Massachusetts, and theneighboring pond was Hochom*ocko. The camp of the red men near the shorewas full of bustle one day, for their belle, Iano, was to marry the youngchief, Sassacus. The feast was spread and all were ready to partake ofit, when it was found that the bride was missing. One girl had seen hersteal into the wood with a roguish smile on her lip, and knew that sheintended to play hide-and-seek with Sassacus before she should beproclaimed a wife, but the day wore on and she did not come. Among thosewho were late in reaching camp was Wequoash, who brought a panther inthat he had slain on Boston Hill, and he bragged about his skill, asusual. There had been a time when he was a rival of the chief for thehand of Iano, and he showed surprise and concern at her continuedabsence. The search went on for two days, and, at the end of that time,the girl's body was taken from the lake.

At the funeral none groaned so piteously as Wequoash. Yet Sassacus felthis loss so keenly that he fell into a sickness next day, and none wasfound so constant in his ministrations as Wequoash; but all to no avail,for within a week Sassacus, too, was dead. As the strongest and bravestremaining in the tribe, Wequoash became heir to his honors by election.

A year later he sat moodily by the lakeside, when a flame burst up fromthe water, and a canoe floated toward him that a mysterious agencyimpelled him to enter. The boat sped toward the flame, that, at hisapproach, assumed Iano's form. He heard the water gurgle as he passedover the spot where the shape had glimmered, but there was no other soundor check. Next year this thing occurred again, and then the spirit spoke:"Only once more."

Yet a third time his fate took him to the spot, and as the hour came onhe called his people to him: "This," said he, "is my death-day. I havedone evil, and the time comes none too soon. Sassacus was your chief. Ienvied him his happiness, and gave him poison when I nursed him. Worsethan that, I saw Iano in her canoe on her wedding-day. She had refused myhand. I entered my canoe and chased her over the water, in pretendedsport, but in the middle of the lake I upset her birch and she wasdrowned. See! she comes!"

For, as he spoke, the light danced up again, and the boat came,self-impelled, to the strand. Wequoash entered it, and with head bentdown was hurried away. Those on the shore saw the flame condense to awoman's shape, and a voice issued from it: "It is my hour!" A blindingbolt of lightning fell, and at the appalling roar of thunder all hidtheir faces. When they looked up, boat and flame had vanished. Whenever,afterward, an Indian rowed across the place where the murderer had sunk,he dropped a stone, and the monument that grew in that way can be seen onthe pond floor to this day.

BERKSHIRE TORIES

The tories of Berkshire, Massachusetts, were men who had been endeared tothe king by holding office under warrant from that sacred personage. Theyhave been gently dealt with by historians, but that is "overstrainedmagnanimity which concentrates its charities and praises for defeatedchampions of the wrong, and reserves its censures for triumphantdefenders of the right." While the following incidents have been so wellavouched that they deserve to stand as history, their picturesquenessjustifies renewed acquaintance.

Among the loyalists was Gideon Smith, of Stockbridge, who had helpedBritish prisoners to escape, and had otherwise made himself so obnoxiousthat he was forced for a time to withdraw and pass a season of penitenceand meditation in a cavern near Lenox, that is called the Tories' Glen.Here he lay for weeks, none but his wife knowing where he was, but at hisrequest she walked out every day with her children, leading them past hiscave, where he fed on their faces with hungry eyes. They prattled on,never dreaming that their father was but a few feet from them. Smithsurvived the war and lived to be on good terms with his old foes.

In Lenox lived a Tory, one of those respectable buffers to whom wealthand family had given immunity in the early years of the war, but whosorely tried the temper of his neighbors by damning everything Americanfrom Washington downward. At last they could endure his abuse no longer;his example had affected other Anglomaniacs, and a committee waited onhim to tell him that he could either swear allegiance to the colonies orbe hanged. He said he would be hanged if he would swear, or words to thateffect, and hanged he was, on a ready-made gallows in the street. He waslet down shortly, "brought around" with rum, and the oath was offeredagain. He refused it. This had not been looked for. It had been taken forgranted that he would abjure his fealty to the king at the firsttightening of the cord. A conference was held, and it was declared thatretreat would be undignified and unsafe, so the Tory was swung up again,this time with a yank that seemed to "mean business." He hung for sometime, and when lowered gave no sign of life. There was some show of alarmat this, for nobody wanted to kill the old fellow, and every effort wasmade to restore consciousness. At last the lungs heaved, the purple fadedfrom his cheek, his eyes opened, and he gasped, "I'll swear." With ashout of joy the company hurried him to the tavern, seated him before thefire, and put a glass of punch in his hand. He drank the punch toWashington's health, and after a time was heard to remark to himself,"It's a hard way to make Whigs, but it'll do it."

Nathan Jackson, of Tyringham, was another Yankee who had seen fit to takearms against his countrymen, and when captured he was charged withtreason and remanded for trial. The jail, in Great Barrington, was solittle used in those days of sturdy virtue that it had become a mereshed, fit to hold nobody, and Jackson, after being locked into it, mighthave walked out whenever he felt disposed; but escape, he thought, wouldhave been a confession of the wrongness of Tory principles, or of a fearto stand trial. He found life so monotonous, however, that he asked thesheriff to let him go out to work during the day, promising to sleep inhis cell, and such was his reputation for honesty that his request wasgranted without a demur, the prisoner returning every night to be lockedup. When the time approached for the court to meet in Springfield heavyharvesting had begun, and, as there was no other case from BerkshireCounty to present, the sheriff grumbled at the bother of taking hisprisoner across fifty miles of rough country, but Jackson said that hewould make it all right by going alone. The sheriff was glad to bereleased from this duty, so off went the Tory to give himself up and betried for his life. On the way he was overtaken by Mr. Edwards, of theExecutive Council, then about to meet in Boston, and without telling hisown name or office, he learned the extraordinary errand of this lonelypedestrian. Jackson was tried, admitted the charges against him, and wassentenced to death. While he awaited execution of the law upon him, thecouncil in Boston received petitions for clemency, and Mr. Edwards askedif there was none in favor of Nathan Jackson. There was none. Mr. Edwardsrelated the circ*mstance of his meeting with the condemned man, and amurmur of surprise and admiration went around the room. A despatch wassent to Springfield. When it reached there the prison door was flung openand Jackson walked forth free.

THE REVENGE OF JOSIAH BREEZE

Two thousand Cape Cod fishermen had gone to join the colonial army, andin their absence the British ships had run in shore to land crews onmischievous errands. No man, woman, or child on the Cape but hated thetroops and sailors of King George, and would do anything to work themharm. When the Somerset was wrecked off Truro, in 1778, the crew werehelped ashore, 'tis true, but they were straightway marched to prison,and it was thought that no other frigate would venture near the shiftingdunes where she had laid her skeleton, as many a good ship had donebefore and has done since. It was November, and ugly weather was shuttingin, when a three-decker, that had been tacking off shore and that flewthe red flag, was seen to yaw wildly while reefing sail and drift towardland with a broken tiller. No warning signal was raised on the bluffs;not a hand was stirred to rescue. Those who saw the accident watched withsullen satisfaction the on-coming of the vessel, nor did they cease tolook for disaster when the ship anchored and stowed sail.

Ezekiel and Josiah Breeze, father and son, stood at the door of theircottage and watched her peril until three lights twinkling faintlythrough the gray of driving snow were all that showed where the enemylay, straining at her cables and tossing on a wrathful sea. They stoodlong in silence, but at last the boy exclaimed, "I'm going to the ship."

"If you stir from here, you're no son of mine," said Ezekiel.

"But she's in danger, dad."

"As she oughter be. By mornin' she'll be strewed along the shore and nota spar to mark where she's a-swingin' now."

"And the men?"

"It's a jedgment, boy."

The lad remembered how the sailors of the Ajax had come ashore to burnthe homes of peaceful fishermen and farmers; how women had been insulted;how his friends and mates had been cut down at Long Island with Britishlead and steel; how, when he ran to warn away a red-faced fellow that wasrobbing his garden, the man had struck him on the shoulder with acutlass. He had sworn then to be revenged. But to let a host go down todeath and never lift a helping hand—was that a fair revenge? "I've gotto go, dad," he burst forth. "Tomorrow morning there'll be five hundredfaces turned up on the beach, covered with ice and staring at the sky,and five hundred mothers in England will wonder when they're goin' to seethose faces again. If ever they looked at me the sight of 'em would nevergo out of my eyes. I'd be harnted by 'em, awake and asleep. And to-morrowis Thanksgiving. I've got to go, dad, and I will." So speaking, he rushedaway and was swallowed in the gloom.

The man stared after him; then, with a revulsion of feeling, he cried,"You're right, 'Siah. I'll go with you." But had he called in tones ofthunder he would not have been heard in the roar of the wind and crash ofthe surf. As he reached the shore he saw faintly on the phosphorescentfoam a something that climbed a hill of water; it was lost over its crestand reappeared on the wave beyond; it showed for a moment on the thirdwave, then it vanished in the night. "Josiah!" It was a long, querulouscry. No answer. In half an hour a thing rode by the watcher on the sandsand fell with a crash beside him—a boat bottom up: his son's.

Next day broke clear, with new snow on the ground. In his house atProvincetown, Captain Breeze was astir betimes, for his son Ezekiel, hisgrandson Josiah, and all other relatives who were not at the front withWashington were coming for the family reunion. Plump turkeys were readyfor the roasting, great loaves of bread and cake stood beside the oven,redoubtable pies of pumpkin and apple filled the air with maddeningodors. The people gathered and chattered around his cheery fire of thedamage that the storm had done, when Ezekiel stumbled in, his brown facehaggard, his lips working, and a tremor in his hands. He said, "Josiah!"in a thick voice, then leaned his arms against the chimney and pressedhis face upon them. Among fishermen whose lives are in daily peril theunderstanding of misfortune is quick, and the old man put his hand on theshoulder of his son and bent his head. The day of joy was become a day ofgloom. As the news went out, the house began to fill with sympathizingfriends, and there was talking in low voices through the rooms, when acry of surprise was heard outside. A ship, cased in tons of ice, wasforging up the harbor, her decks swarming with blue jackets, some of whomwere beating off the frozen masses from lower spars and rigging. Shefollowed the channel so steadily, it was plain to be seen that a wisehand was at her helm; her anchor ran out and she swung on the tide. "TheAjax, as I'm a sinner!" exclaimed a sailor on shore. A boat put off fromher, and people angrily collected at the wharf, with talk of getting outtheir guns, when a boyish figure arose in the stern, and was greeted witha shout of surprise and welcome.

The boat touched the beach, Josiah Breeze leaped out of it, and inanother minute his father had him in a bear's embrace, making no attemptto stop the tears that welled out of his eyes. An officer had followedJosiah on shore, and going to the group he said, "That boy is one to beproud of. He put out in a sea that few men could face, to save an enemy'sship and pilot it into the harbor. I could do no less than bring himback." There was praise and laughter and clasping of hands, and when theThanksgiving dinner was placed, smoking, on the board, the commander ofH. M. S. Ajax was among the jolliest of the guests at Captain Breeze'stable.

THE MAY-POLE OF MERRYMOUNT

The people of Merrymount—unsanctified in the eyes of their Puritanneighbors, for were they not Episcopals, who had pancakes at Shrovetideand wassail at Christmas?—were dancing about their May-pole one summerevening, for they tried to make it May throughout the year. Some weremasked like animals, and all were tricked with flowers and ribbons.Within their circle, sharing in song and jest, were the lord and lady ofthe revels, and an English clergyman waiting to join the pair in wedlock.Life, they sang, should be all jollity: away with care and duty; leavewisdom to the weak and old, and sanctity for fools. Watching the sportfrom a neighboring wood stood a band of frowning Puritans, and as the sunset they stalked forth and broke through the circle. All was dismay. Thebells, the laughter, the song were silent, and some who had tastedPuritan wrath before shrewdly smelled the stocks. A Puritan of ironface—it was Endicott, who had cut the cross from the flag ofEngland—warning aside the "priest of Baal," proceeded to hack the poledown with his sword. A few swinging blows, and down it sank, with itsribbons and flowers.

"So shall fall the pride of vain people; so shall come to grief thepreachers of false religion," quoth he. "Truss those fellows to the treesand give them half a dozen of blows apiece as token that we brook noungodly conduct and hostility to our liberties. And you, king and queenof the May, have you no better things to think about than fiddling anddancing? How if I punish you both?"

"Had I the power I'd punish you for saying it," answered the swain; "but,as I have not, I am compelled to ask that the girl go unharmed."

"Will you have it so, or will you share your lover's punishment?" asked
Endicott.

"I will take all upon myself," said the woman.

The face of the governor softened. "Let the young fellow's hair be cut,in pumpkin-shell fashion," he commanded; "then bring them to me butgently."

He was obeyed, and as the couple came before him, hand in hand, he took achain of roses from the fallen pole and cast it about their necks. And sothey were married. Love had softened rigor and all were better for theassertion of a common humanity. But the May-pole of Merrymount was neverset up again. There were no more games and plays and dances, nor singingof worldly music. The town went to ruin, the merrymakers were scattered,and the gray sobriety of religion and toil fell on Pilgrim land again.

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER

When Charles River was lined with groves and marshes there lived in acabin, near Brighton, Massachusetts, an ill-fed rascal named Tom Walker.There was but one in the commonwealth who was more penurious, and thatwas his wife. They squabbled over the spending of a penny and eachgrudged food to the other. One day as Tom walked through the pine woodnear his place, by habit watching the ground—for even there a farthingmight be discovered—he prodded his stick into a skull, cloven deep by anIndian tomahawk. He kicked it, to shake the dirt off, when a gruff voicespake: "What are you doing in my grounds?" A swarthy fellow, with theface of a charcoal burner, sat on a stump, and Tom wondered that he hadnot seen him as he approached.

He replied, "Your grounds! They belong to Deacon Peabody."

"Deacon Peabody be damned!" cried the black fellow; "as I think he willbe, anyhow, if he does not look after his own sins a little sharper and alittle less curiously after his neighbors'. Look, if you want to see howhe is faring," and, pointing to a tree, he called Tom to notice that thedeacon's name was written on the bark and that it was rotten at the core.To his surprise, Tom found that nearly every tree had the name of someprominent man cut upon it.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I go by different names in different places," replied the dark one. "Insome countries I am the black miner; in some the wild huntsman; here I amthe black woodman. I am the patron of slave dealers and master of Salemwitches."

"I think you are the devil," blurted Tom.

"At your service," replied his majesty.

Now, Tom, having lived long with Mrs. Walker, had no fear of the devil,and he stopped to have a talk with him. The devil remarked, in a carelesstone, that Captain Kidd had buried his treasure in that wood, under hismajesty's charge, and that whoever wished could find and keep it bymaking the usual concession. This Tom declined. He told his wife aboutit, however, and she was angry with him for not having closed the bargainat once, declaring that if he had not courage enough to add this treasureto their possessions she would not hesitate to do it. Tom showed nodisposition to check her. If she got the money he would try to get ashare of it, and if the devil took away his helpmate—well, there werethings that he had made his mind to endure, when he had to. True enough,the woman started for the wood before sundown, with her spoons in herapron. When Tom discovered that the spoons were gone he, too, set off,for he wanted those back, anyway; but he did not overtake his wife. Anapron was found in a tree containing a dried liver and a withered heart,and near that place the earth had been trampled and strewn with handfulsof coarse hair that reminded Tom of the man that he had met in the woods."Egad!" he muttered, "Old Nick must have had a tough time with her." Halfin gratitude and half in curiosity, Tom waited to speak to the dark man,and was next day rewarded by seeing that personage come through the woodwith an axe, whistling carelessly. Tom at once approached him on thesubject of the buried treasure—not the vanished wife, for her he nolonger regarded as a treasure.

After some haggling the devil proposed that Tom should start a loanoffice in Boston and use Kidd's money in exacting usury. This suited Tom,who promised to screw four per cent. a month out of the unfortunates whomight ask his aid, and he was seen to start for town with a bag which hisneighbors thought to hold his crop of starveling turnips, but which wasreally a king's ransom in gold and jewels—the earnings of Captain Kiddin long years of honest piracy. It was in Governor Belcher's time, andcash was scarce. Merchants and professional men as well as the thriftlesswent to Tom for money, and, as he always had it, his business grew untilhe seemed to have a mortgage on half the men in Boston who were richenough to be in debt. He even went so far as to move into a new house, toride in his own carriage, and to eat enough to keep body and soultogether, for he did not want to give up his soul to the one who wouldclaim it just yet.

The most singular proof of his thrift—showing that he wanted to savesoul and money both—was shown in his joining the church and becoming aprayerful Christian. He kept a Bible in his pocket and another on hisdesk, resolved to be prepared if a certain gentleman should call. Heburied his old horse feet uppermost, for he was taught that onresurrection day the world would be turned upside down, and he wasresolved, if his enemy appeared, to give him a run for it. While employedone afternoon in the congenial task of foreclosing a mortgage hiscreditor begged for another day to raise the money. Tom was irritable onaccount of the hot weather and talked to him as a good man of the churchought not to do.

"You have made so much money out of me," wailed the victim of Tom'sphilanthropies.

"Now, the devil take me if I have made a farthing!" exclaimed Tom.

At that instant there were three knocks at the door, and, stepping out tosee who was there, the money lender found himself in presence of hisfate. His little Bible was in a coat on a nail, and the bigger one was onhis desk. He was without defence. The evil one caught him up like achild, had him on the back of his snorting steed in no time, and givingthe beast a cut he flew like the wind in the teeth of a rising stormtoward the marshes of Brighton. As he reached there a lightning flashdescended into the wood and set it on fire. At the same moment Tom'shouse was discovered to be in flames. When his effects were examinednothing was found in his strong boxes but cinders and shavings.

THE GRAY CHAMPION

It befell Sir Edmund Andros to make himself the most hated of thegovernors sent to represent the king in New England. A spirit ofindependence, born of a free soil, was already moving in the people'shearts, and the harsh edicts of this officer, as well as the oppressivemeasures of his master, brought him into continual conflict with thepeople. He it was who went to Hartford to demand the surrender of theliberties of that colony. The lights were blown out and the patent ofthose liberties was hurried away from under his nose and hidden from hisreach in a hollow of the Charter Oak.

In Boston, too, he could call no American his friend, and it was therethat he met one of the first checks to his arrogance. It was an Aprilevening in 1689, and there was an unusual stir in the streets. Peoplewere talking in low tones, and one caught such phrases as, "If the Princeof Orange is successful, this Andros will lose his head." "Our pastorsare to be burned alive in King Street." "The pope has ordered Andros tocelebrate the eve of St. Bartholomew in Boston: we are to be killed.""Our old Governor Bradstreet is in town, and Andros fears him." Whiletalk was running in this excited strain the sound of a drum was heardcoming through Cornhill. Now was seen a file of soldiers with guns onshoulder, matches twinkling in the falling twilight, and behind them, onhorseback, Andros and his councillors, including the priest of King'sChapel, all wearing crucifixes at their throats, all flushed with wine,all looking down with indifference at the people in their dark cloaks andbroadbrimmed hats, who looked back at them with suspicion and hate. Thesoldiers trod the streets like men unused to giving way, and the crowdfell back, pressed against the buildings. Groans and hisses were heard,and a voice sent up this cry, "Lord of Hosts, provide a champion for thypeople!"

Ere the echo of that call had ceased there came from the other end of thestreet, stepping as in time to the drum, an aged man, in cloak andsteeple hat, with heavy sword at his thigh. His port was that of a king,and his dignity was heightened by a snowy beard that fell to his waist.Taking the middle of the way he marched on until he was but a few pacesfrom the advancing column. None knew him and he seemed to recognize noneamong the crowd. As he drew himself to his height, it seemed in the duskas if he were of no mortal mould. His eye blazed, he thrust his staffbefore him, and in a voice of invincible command cried, "Halt!"

Half because it was habit to obey the word, half because they were cowedby the majestic presence, the guard stood still and the drum wassilenced. Andros spurred forward, but even he made a pause when he sawthe staff levelled at his breast. "Forward!" he blustered. "Trample thedotard into the street. How dare you stop the king's governor?"

"I have stayed the march of a king himself," was the answer. "The kingyou serve no longer sits on the throne of England. To-morrow you will bea prisoner. Back, lest you reach the scaffold!"

A moment of hesitation on Andros's part encouraged the people to presscloser, and many of them took no pains to hide the swords and pistolsthat were girt upon them. The groans and hisses sounded louder. "Downwith Andros! Death to tyrants! A curse on King James!" came from amongthe throng, and some of them stooped as if to tear up the pavings.Doubtful, yet overawed, the governor wheeled about and gloomily marchedback through the streets where he had ridden so arrogantly. In truth, hisnext night was spent in prison, for James had fled from England, andWilliam held the throne. All eyes being on the retreating company, thechampion of the people was not seen to depart, but when they turned topraise and thank him he had vanished, and there were those who said thathe had melted into twilight.

The incident had passed into legend, and fourscore years had followed it,when the soldiers of another king of England marched down State Street,and fired on the people of Boston who were gathered below the old StateHouse. Again it was said that the form of a tall, white-bearded man inantique garb was seen in that street, warning back the troops andencouraging the people to resist them. On the little field of Lexingtonin early dawn, and at the breastwork on Bunker Hill, where farmers workedby lantern-light, this dark form was seen—the spirit of New England. Andit is told that whenever any foreign foe or domestic oppressor shall darethe temper of the people, in the van of the resisting army shall be foundthis champion.

THE FOREST SMITHY

Early in this century a man named Ainsley appeared at Holyoke,Massachusetts, and set up a forge in a wood at the edge of the village,with a two-room cottage to live in. A Yankee peddler once put up at hisplace for shelter from a storm, and as the rain increased with every hourhe begged to remain in the house over night, promising to pay for hisaccommodation in the morning. The blacksmith, who seemed a mild,considerate man, said that he was willing, but that, as the rooms weresmall, it would be well to refer the matter to his wife. As the peddlerentered the house the wife—a weary-looking woman with white hair—seatedherself at once in a thickly-cushioned arm-chair, and, as if loath toleave it, told the peddler that if he would put up with simple fare and anarrow berth he was welcome. After a candle had been lighted the threesat together for some time, talking of crops and trade, when there came arush of hoofs without and a hard-looking man, who had dismounted at thedoor, entered without knocking. The blacksmith turned pale and the wife'sface expressed sore anxiety.

"What brings you here?" asked the smith.

"I must pass the night here," answered the man.

"But, stranger, I can't accommodate you. We have but one spare room, andthat has been taken by the man who is sitting there."

"Then give me a bit to eat."

"Get the stranger something," said the woman to her husband, withoutrising.

"Are you lame, that you don't get it yourself?"

The woman paused; then said, "Husband, you are tired. Sit here and I willwait on the stranger."

The blacksmith took the seat, when the stranger again blustered, "Itwould be courtesy to offer me that chair, tired as I am. Perhaps youdon't know that I am an officer of the law?"

When supper was ready they took their places, the woman drawing up thearm-chair for her own use, but, as the custom was, they all knelt to saygrace, and while their faces were buried in their hands the candle wasblown out. The stranger jumped up and began walking around the room. Whena light could be found he had gone and the cushion had disappeared fromthe chair. "Oh! After all these years!" wailed the woman, and falling onher knees she sobbed like a child, while her husband in vain tried tocomfort her. The peddler, who had already gone to bed, but who had seen apart of this puzzling drama through the open door, knew not what to do,but, feeling some concern for the safety of his own possessions, he drewhis pack into bed with him, and, being tired, fell asleep with the sobsof the woman sounding in his ears.

When he awoke it was broad day and the earth was fresh and bright fromits bath. After dressing he passed into the other room, finding the tablestill set, the chair before it without its cushion, the fire out, andnobody in or about the house. The smithy was deserted, and to his callthere was no response but the chattering of jays in the trees; so,shouldering his pack, he resumed his journey. He opened his pack at afarm-house to repair a clock, when he discovered that his watches weregone, and immediately lodged complaint with the sheriff, but nothing wasever seen again of Ainsley, his wife, or the rough stranger. Who was thethief? What was in the cushion? And what brought the stranger to thehouse?

WAHCONAH FALLS

The pleasant valley of Dalton, in the Berkshire Hills, had been under therule of Miacomo for forty years when a Mohawk dignitary of fifty scalpsand fifty winters came a-wooing his daughter Wahconah. On a June day in1637, as the girl sat beside the cascade that bears her name, twiningflowers in her hair and watching leaves float down the stream, she becameconscious of a pair of eyes bent on her from a neighboring coppice, andarose in some alarm. Finding himself discovered, the owner of the eyes, ahandsome young fellow, stepped forward with a quieting air offriendliness, and exclaimed, "Hail, Bright Star!"

"Hail, brother," answered Wahconah.

"I am Nessacus," said the man, "one of King Philip's soldiers. Nessacusis tired with his flight from the Long Knives (the English), and hispeople faint. Will Bright Star's people shut their lodges against him andhis friends?"

The maiden answered, "My father is absent, in council with the Mohawks,but his wigwams are always open. Follow."

Nessacus gave a signal, and forth from the wood came a sad-eyed,battle-worn troop that mustered about him. Under the girl's lead theywent down to the valley and were hospitably housed. Five days laterMiacomo returned, with him the elderly Mohawk lover, and a priest,Tashmu, of repute a cringing schemer, with whom hunters and soldierscould have nothing in common, and whom they would gladly have put out ofthe way had they not been deterred by superstitious fears. The strangerswere welcomed, though Tashmu looked at them gloomily, and there weregames in their honor, Nessacus usually proving the winner, to Wahconah'sjoy, for she and the young warrior had fallen in love at first sight, andit was not long before he asked her father for her hand. Miacomo favoredthe suit, but the priest advised him, for politic reasons, to give thegirl to the old Mohawk, and thereby cement a tribal friendship that inthose days of English aggression might be needful. The Mohawk had threewives already, but he was determined to add Wahconah to his collection,and he did his best, with threats and flattery, to enforce his suit.Nessacus offered to decide the matter in a duel with his rival, and thechallenge was accepted, but the wily Tashmu discovered in voices of windand thunder, flight of birds and shape of clouds, such omens that thescared Indians unanimously forbade a resort to arms. "Let the GreatSpirit speak," cried Tashmu, and all yielded their consent.

Invoking a ban on any who should follow, Tashmu proclaimed that he wouldpass that night in Wizard's Glen, where, by invocations, he would learnthe divine will. At sunset he stalked forth, but he had not gone far erethe Mohawk joined him, and the twain proceeded to Wahconah Falls. Therewas no time for magical hocus-pocus that night, for both of them toiledsorely in deepening a portion of the stream bed, so that the current ranmore swiftly and freely on that side, and in the morning Tashmu announcedin what way the Great Spirit would show his choice. Assembling the tribeon the river-bank, below a rock that midway split the current, a canoe,with symbols painted on it, was set afloat near the falls. If it passedthe dividing rock on the side where Nessacus waited, he should haveWahconah. If it swerved to the opposite shore, where the Mohawk and hiscounsellor stood, the Great Spirit had chosen the old chief for herhusband. Of course, the Mohawk stood on the deeper side. On came thelittle boat, keeping the centre of the stream. It struck the rock, andall looked eagerly, though Tashmu and the Mohawk could hardly suppress anexultant smile. A little wave struck the canoe: it pivoted against therock and drifted to the feet of Nessacus. A look of blank amazement cameover the faces of the defeated wooer and his friend, while a shout ofgladness went up, that the Great Spirit had decided so well. The youngcouple were wed with rejoicings; the Mohawk trudged homeward, and, to thegeneral satisfaction, Tashmu disappeared with him. Later, when Tashmu wasidentified as the one who had guided Major Talcott's soldiers to thevalley, the priest was caught and slain by Miacomo's men.

KNOCKING AT THE TOMB

Knock, knock, knock! The bell has just gone twelve, and there is theclang again upon the iron door of the tomb. The few people of Lanesborowho are paying the penance of misdeeds or late suppers, by lying awake atthat dread hour, gather their blankets around their shoulders and muttera word of prayer for deliverance against unwholesome visitors of thenight. Why is the old Berkshire town so troubled? Who is it that liesburied in that tomb, with its ornament of Masonic symbols? Why was theheavy iron knocker placed on the door? The question is asked, but no onewill answer it, nor will any say who the woman is that so often visitsthe cemetery at the stroke of midnight and sounds the call into thechamber of the dead. Starlight, moonlight, or storm—it makes nodifference to the woman. There she goes, in her black cloak, seen dim inthe night, except where there are snow and moon together, and there shewaits, her hand on the knocker, for the bell to strike to set up herclangor. Some say that she is crazy, and it is her freak to do thisthing. Is she calling on the corpses to rise and have a dance among thegraves? or has she been asked to call the occupant of that house at agiven hour? Perhaps, weary of life, she is asking for admittance to therest and silence of the tomb. She has long been beneath the sod, thistroubler of dreams. Who knows her secret?

THE WHITE DEER OF ONOTA

Beside quiet Onota, in the Berkshire Hills, dwelt a band of Indians, andwhile they lived here a white deer often came to drink. So rare was theappearance of an animal like this that its visits were held as goodomens, and no hunter of the tribe ever tried to slay it. A prophet of therace had said, "So long as the white doe drinks at Onota, famine shallnot blight the Indian's harvest, nor pestilence come nigh his lodge, norfoeman lay waste his country." And this prophecy held true. That summerwhen the deer came with a fawn as white and graceful as herself, it was ayear of great abundance. On the outbreak of the French and Indian War ayoung officer named Montalbert was despatched to the Berkshire country topersuade the Housatonic Indians to declare hostility to the English, andit was as a guest in the village of Onota that he heard of the whitedeer. Sundry adventurers had made valuable friendships by returning tothe French capital with riches and curiosities from the New World. EvenIndians had been abducted as gifts for royalty, and this young ambassadorresolved that when he returned to his own country the skin of the whitedeer should be one of the trophies that would win him a smile from Louis.

He offered a price for it—a price that would have bought all theirpossessions and miles of the country roundabout, but their deer wassacred, and their refusal to sacrifice it was couched in such indignantterms that he wisely said no more about it in the general hearing. Therewas in the village a drunken fellow, named Wondo, who had come to thatpass when he would almost have sold his soul for liquor, and him theofficer led away and plied with rum until he promised to bring the whitedoe to him. The pretty beast was so familiar with men that she sufferedWondo to catch her and lead her to Montalbert. Making sure that none wasnear, the officer plunged his sword into her side and the innocentcreature fell. The snowy skin, now splashed with red, was quicklystripped off, concealed among the effects in Montalbert's outfit, and heset out for Canada; but he had not been many days on his road beforeWondo, in an access of misery and repentance, confessed to his share ofthe crime that had been done and was slain on the moment.

With the death of the deer came an end to good fortune. Wars, blights,emigration followed, and in a few years not a wigwam was left standingbeside Onota.

There is a pendant to this legend, incident to the survival of the deer'swhite fawn. An English hunter, visiting the lake with dog and gun, wassurprised to see on its southern bank a white doe. The animal bent todrink and at the same moment the hunter put his gun to his shoulder.Suddenly a howl was heard, so loud, so long, that the woods echoed it,and the deer, taking alarm, fled like the wind. The howl came from thedog, and, as that animal usually showed sagacity in the presence of game,the hunter was seized with a fear that its form was occupied, for thetime, by a hag who lived alone in the "north woods," and who was reputedto have appeared in many shapes—for this was not so long after witchtimes that their influence was forgotten.

Drawing his ramrod, the man gave his dog such a beating that the poorcreature had something worth howling for, because it might be the witchthat he was thrashing. Then running to the shanty of the suspected womanhe flung open her door and demanded to see her back, for, if she hadreally changed her shape, every blow that he had given to the dog wouldhave been scored on her skin. When he had made his meaning clear, thecrone laid hold on the implement that served her for horse at night, andwith the wooden end of it rained blows on him so rapidly that, if the doghad had half the meanness in his nature that some people have, thespectacle would have warmed his heart, for it was a prompt and severerevenge for his sufferings. And to the last the hunter could not decidewhether the beating that he received was prompted by indignation orvengeance.

WIZARD'S GLEN

Four miles from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, among the Berkshire Hills, isa wild valley, noted for its echoes, that for a century and more has beencalled Wizard's Glen. Here the Indian priests performed theirincantations, and on the red-stained Devil's Altar, it was said, theyoffered human sacrifice to Hobomocko and his demons of the wood. InBerkshire's early days a hunter, John Chamberlain, of Dalton, who hadkilled a deer and was carrying it home on his shoulders, was overtaken onthe hills by a storm and took shelter from it in a cavernous recess inWizard's Glen. In spite of his fatigue he was unable to sleep, and whilelying on the earth with open eyes he was amazed to see the wood bendapart before him, disclosing a long aisle that was mysteriously lightedand that contained hundreds of capering forms. As his eyes grewaccustomed to the faint light he made out tails and cloven feet on thedancing figures; and one tall form with wings, around whose head a wreathof lightning glittered, and who received the deference of the rest, hesurmised to be the devil himself. It was such a night and such a place asSatan and his imps commonly chose for high festivals.

As he lay watching them through the sheeted rain a tall and paintedIndian leaped on Devil's Altar, fresh scalps dangling round his body infestoons, and his eyes blazing with fierce command. In a briefincantation he summoned the shadow hordes around him. They came, withtorches that burned blue, and went around and around the rock singing aharsh chant, until, at a sign, an Indian girl was dragged in and flung onthe block of sacrifice. The figures rushed toward her with extended armsand weapons, and the terrified girl gave one cry that rang in thehunter's ears all his life after. The wizard raised his axe: the devilsand vampires gathered to drink the blood and clutch the escaping soul,when in a lightning flash the girl's despairing glance fell on the faceof Chamberlain. That look touched his manhood, and drawing forth hisBible he held it toward the rabble while he cried aloud the name of God.There was a crash of thunder. The light faded, the demons vanished, thestorm swept past, and peace settled on the hills.

BALANCED ROCK

Balanced Rock, or Rolling Rock, near Pittsfield, Massachusetts, is a massof limestone that was deposited where it stands by the great continentalglacier during the ice age, and it weighs four hundred and eighty tons(estimated) in spite of its centuries of weathering. Here one of theAtotarhos, kings of the Six Nations, had his camp. He was a fierce man,who ate and drank from bowls made of the skulls of enemies, and who, whenhe received messages and petitions, wreathed himself from head to footwith poison snakes. The son of this ferocious being inherited none of hiswar-like tendencies; indeed, the lad was almost feminine in appearance,and on succeeding to power he applied himself to the cultivation ofpeaceful arts. Later historians have uttered a suspicion that he was anatural son of Count Frontenac, but that does not suit with this legend.

The young Atotarho stood near Balanced Rock watching a number of big boysplay duff. In this game one stone is placed upon another and the players,standing as far from it as they fancy they can throw, attempt to knock itout of place with other stones. The silence of Atotarho and his slender,girlish look called forth rude remarks from the boys, who did not knowhim, and who dared him to test his skill. The young chief came forward,and as he did so the jeers and laughter changed to cries of astonishmentand fear, for at each step he grew in size until he towered above them, agiant. Then they knew him, and fell down in dread, but he took norevenge. Catching up great bowlders he tossed them around as easily as ifthey had been beechnuts, and at last, lifting the balanced rock, heplaced it lightly where it stands to-day, gave them a caution against illmanners and hasty judgments, and resumed his slender form. For many yearsafter, the old men of the tribe repeated this story and its lesson fromthe top of Atotarho's duff.

SHONKEEK-MOONKEEK

This is the Mohegan name of the pretty lake in the Berkshires now calledPontoosuc. Shonkeek was a boy, Moonkeek a girl, and they were cousins whogrew up as children commonly do, whether in house or wigwam: they roamedthe woods and hills together, filled their baskets with flowers andberries, and fell in love. But the marriage of cousins was forbidden inthe Mohegan polity, and when they reached an age in which they foundcompanionship most delightful their rambles were interdicted and theywere even told to avoid each other. This had the usual effect, and theymet on islands in the lake at frequent intervals, to the torment of oneNockawando, who wished to wed the girl himself, and who reported herconduct to her parents.

The lovers agreed, after this, to fly to an Eastern tribe into which theywould ask to be adopted, but they were pledged, if aught interfered withtheir escape, to meet beneath the lake. Nockawando interfered. On thenext night, as the unsuspecting Shonkeek was paddling over to the islandwhere the maid awaited him, the jealous rival, rowing softly in his wake,sent an arrow into his back, and Shonkeek, without a cry, pitchedheadlong into the water. Yet, to the eyes of Nockawando, he appeared tokeep his seat and urge his canoe forward. The girl saw the boat approach:it sped, now, like an eagle's flight. One look, as it passed the rock;one glance at the murderer, crouching in his birchen vessel, and with herlover's name on her lips she leaped into her own canoe and pushed outfrom shore. Nockawando heard her raise the death-song and rowed forwardas rapidly as he could, but near the middle of the lake his arm fellpalsied.

The song had ended and the night had become strangely, horribly still.Not a chirp of cricket, not a lap of wave, not a rustle of leaf.Motionless the girl awaited, for his boat was still moving by the impetusof his last stroke of the paddle. The evening star was shining low on thehorizon, and as her figure loomed in the darkness the star shone throughat the point where her eye had looked forth. It was no human creaturethat sat there. Then came the dead man's boat. The two shadows rowednoiselessly together, and as they disappeared in the mist that was nowsettling on the landscape, an unearthly laugh rang over the lake; thenall was still. When Nockawando reached the camp that night he was araving maniac. The Indians never found the bodies of the pair, but theybelieved that while water remains in Pontoosuc its surface will be vexedby these journeys of the dead.

THE SALEM ALCHEMIST

In 1720 there lived in a turreted house at North and Essex Streets, inSalem, a silent, dark-visaged man,—a reputed chemist. He gatheredsimples in the fields, and parcels and bottles came and went between himand learned doctors in Boston; but report went around that it was notdrugs alone that he worked with, nor medicines for passing ailments thathe distilled. The watchman, drowsily pacing the streets in the smallhours, saw his shadow move athwart the furnace glare in his tower, andother shadows seemed at the moment to flit about it—shadows that couldbe thrown by no tangible form, yet that had a grotesque likeness to thehuman kind. A clink of hammers and a hiss of steam were sometimes heard,and his neighbors devoutly hoped that if he secured the secret of thephilosopher's stone or the universal solvent, it would be honestly comeby.

But it was neither gold nor the perilous strong water that he wanted. Itwas life: the elixir that would dispel the chill and decrepitude of age,that would bring back the youthful sparkle to the eye and set the pulsesbounding. He explored the surrounding wilderness day after day; thejuices of its trees and plants he compounded, night after night, longwithout avail. Not until after a thousand failures did he conceive thathe had secured the ingredients but they were many, they were perishable,they must be distilled within five days, for fermentation and decay wouldset in if he delayed longer. Gathering the herbs and piling his floorwith fuel, he began his work, alone; the furnace glowed, the retortsbubbled, and through their long throats trickled drops—golden, ruddy,brown, and crystal—that would be combined into that precious draught.

And none too soon, for under the strain of anxiety he seemed to be agingfast. He took no sleep, except while sitting upright in his chair, for,should he yield entirely to nature's appeal, his fire would die and hiswork be spoiled. With heavy eyes and aching head he watched his furnaceand listened to the constant drip, drip of the precious liquor. It wasthe fourth day. He had knelt to stir his fire to more active burning. Itsbrightness made him blink, its warmth was grateful, and he reclinedbefore it, with elbow on the floor and head resting on his hand. Howcheerily the logs hummed and crackled, yet how drowsily—how slow thehours were—how dull the watch! Lower, lower sank the head, and heaviergrew the eyes. At last he lay full length on the floor, and the longsleep of exhaustion had begun.

He was awakened by the sound of a bell. "The church bell!" he cried,starting up. "And people going through the streets to meeting. How isthis? The sun is in the east! My God! I have been asleep! The furnace iscold. The elixir!" He hastily blended the essences that he had made,though one or two ingredients were still lacking, and drank them off."Faugh!" he exclaimed. "Still unfinished-perhaps spoiled. I must beginagain." Taking his hat and coat he uttered a weary sigh and was about toopen the door when his cheek blenched with pain, sight seemed to leavehim, the cry for help that rose to his lips was stifled in a groan ofanguish, a groping gesture brought a shelf of retorts and bottles to thefloor, and he fell writhing among their fragments. The elixir of life,unfinished, was an elixir of death.

ELIZA WHARTON

Under the name of Eliza Wharton for a brief time lived a woman whose namewas said to be Elizabeth Whitman. Little is known of her, and it isthought that she had gone among strangers to conceal disgrace. She diedwithout telling her story. In 1788 she arrived at the Bell Tavern,Danvers, in company with a man, who, after seeing her properly bestowed,drove away and never returned. A graceful, beautiful, well-bred woman,with face overcast by a tender melancholy, she kept indoors with herbooks, her sewing, and a guitar, avoiding the gossip of the idle. Shesaid that her husband was absent on a journey, and a letter addressed to"Mrs. Eliza Wharton" was to be seen on her table when she receivedcallers. Once a stranger paused at her door and read the name thereon. Ashe passed on the woman groaned, "I am undone!" One good woman, seeing herneed of care and defiant of village prattling, took her to her home, andthere, after giving birth to a dead child, she passed away. Among hereffects were letters full of pathetic appeal, and some verses, closingthus:

"O thou for whose dear sake I bear
A doom so dreadful, so severe,
May happy fates thy footsteps guide
And o'er thy peaceful home preside.
Nor let Eliza's early tomb
Infect thee with its baleful gloom."

A stone was raised above her grave, by whom it is not known, and thisinscription was engraved thereon: "This humble stone, in memory ofElizabeth Whitman, is inscribed by her weeping friends, to whom sheendeared herself by uncommon tenderness and affection. Endowed withsuperior genius and acquirements, she was still more endeared by humilityand benevolence. Let candor throw a veil over her frailties, for greatwas her charity for others. She sustained the last painful scene far fromevery friend, and exhibited an example of calm resignation. Her departurewas on the 25th of July, 1788, in the thirty-seventh year of her age, andthe tears of strangers watered her grave."

SALE OF THE SOUTHWICKS

Bitter were the persecutions endured by Quakers at the hands of thePuritans. They were flogged if they were restless in church, and floggedif they did not go to it. Their ears were slit and they were set in thestocks if they preached, and if any tender-hearted person gave them bed,bite, or sup, he, too, was liable to punishment. They were charged withthe awful offence of preaching false doctrine, and no matter how puretheir lives might be, the stern Salemite would concede no good of themwhile their faith was different from his. They even suspected CobblerKeezar of mischief when he declared that his magic lapstone which Agrippahad torn from the tower at Nettesheim—gave him a vision of the time whenmen would be as glad as nature, when the "snuffler of psalms" would singfor joy, when priests and Quakers would talk together kindly, whenpillory and gallows should be gone. Poor Keezar! In ecstasy at thatprospect he flung up his arms, and his lapstone rolled into theMerrimack. The tired mill-girls of Lowell still frequent the spot to seeksome dim vision of future comfort.

In contrast to the tales of habitual tyranny toward the Quakers is thetradition of the Southwicks. Lawrence and Cassandra, of that name, werebanished from Salem, in spite of their blameless lives, for they hadembraced Quakerism. They died within three days of each other on ShelterIsland, but their son and daughter, Daniel and Provided, returned totheir birthplace, and were incessantly fined for not going to church. Atlast, having lost their property through seizures made to satisfy theirfines, the General Court of Boston issued an order for their sale, asslaves, to any Englishman of Virginia or Barbadoes. Edward Butter wasassigned to sell and take them to their master. The day arrived and Salemmarket-place was crowded with a throng of the curious. Provided Southwickmounted the block and Butter began to call for bids. While expatiating onthe aptness of the girl for field or house-service, the master of theBarbadoes ship on which Butter had engaged passage for himself and histwo charges looked into her innocent face, and roared, in noble dudgeon,"If my ship were filled with silver, by God, I'd sink her in harborrather than take away this child!" The multitude experienced a quickchange of feeling and applauded the sentiment. As the judges and officerstrudged away with gloomy faces, Provided Southwick descended from theauction-block, and brother and sister went forth into the town free andunharmed.

THE COURTSHIP OF MYLES STANDISH

Myles Standish, compact, hard-headed little captain of the Puritan guardat Plymouth, never knew the meaning of fear until he went a-courtingPriscilla Mullins—or was she a Molines, as some say? He had fought whitemen and red men and never reeked of danger in the doing it, but hiscourage sank to his boots whenever this demure maiden glanced at him, ashe thought, with approval. Odd, too, for he had been married once, andRose was not so long dead that he had forgotten the ways and likings ofwomen; but he made no progress in his suit, and finally chose John Aldento urge it for him. John—who divides with Mary Chilton the honor ofbeing first to land on Plymouth Rock—was a well-favored lad oftwenty-two. Until he could build a house for himself he shared Standish'scottage and looked up to that worthy as a guardian, but it was a hardtask that was set for him now. He went to goodman Mullins with a slowstep and sober countenance and asked leave to plead his protector'scause. The father gave it, called his daughter in, and left themtogether; then, with noble faith to his mission, the young man begged themaiden's hand for the captain, dwelling on his valor, strength, wisdom,his military greatness, his certainty of promotion, his noble lineage,and all good attributes he could endow him with.

Priscilla kept at her spinning while this harangue went on, but the droneof the wheel did not prevent her noting a sigh and a catch of the breaththat interrupted the discourse now and then. She flushed as she replied,"Why does not Captain Standish come to me himself? If I am worth thewinning I ought to be worth the wooing."

But John Alden seemed not to notice the girl's confusion until, in apause in his eloquence, Priscilla bent her head a little, as if to mend abreak in the flax, and said, "Prithee, John, why don't you speak foryourself?"

Then a great light broke on the understanding of John Alden, and a greatwarmth welled up in his heart, and—they were married. MylesStandish—well, some say that he walked in the wedding procession, whileone narrator holds that the sturdy Roundhead tramped away to the woods,where he sat for a day, hating himself, and that he never forgave hisprotege nor the maiden who took advantage of leap year. However that maybe, the wedding was a happy one, and the Aldens of all America claim Johnand Priscilla for their ancestors.

MOTHER CREWE

Mother Crewe was of evil repute in Plymouth in the last century. It wassaid that she had taken pay for luring a girl into her old farm-house,where a man lay dead of small-pox, with intent to harm her beauty; shewas accused of blighting land and driving ships ashore with spells; inbrief, she was called a witch, and people, even those who affected toignore the craft of wizardry, were content to keep away from her. Whenthe Revolution ended, Southward Howland demanded Dame Crewe's house andacre, claiming under law of entail, though primogeniture had been littleenforced in America, where there was room and to spare for all. ButHowland was stubborn and the woman's house had good situation, so one dayhe rode to her door and summoned her with a tap of his whip.

"What do you here on my land?" said he.

"I live on land that is my own. I cleared it, built my house here, and noother has claim to it."

"Then I lay claim. The place is mine. I shall tear your cabin down on
Friday."

"On Friday they'll dig your grave on Burying Hill. I see the shadowclosing round you. You draw it in with every breath. Quick! Home and makeyour peace!" The hag's withered face was touched with spots of red andher eyes glared in their sunken sockets.

"Bandy no witch words with me, woman. On Friday I will return." And heswung himself into his saddle. As he did so a black cat leaped on MotherCrewe's shoulder and stood there, squalling. The woman listened to itscries as if they were words. Her look of hate deepened. Raising her hand,she cried, "Your day is near its end. Repent!"

"Bah! You have heard what I have said. If on Friday you are notelsewhere, I'll tear the timbers down and bury you in the ruins."

"Enough!" cried the woman, her form straightening, her voice grownshrill. "My curse is on you here and hereafter. Die! Then go down tohell!"

As she said this the cat leaped from her shoulder to the flank of thehorse, spitting and clawing, and the frightened steed set off at afurious pace. As he disappeared in the scrub oaks his master was seenvainly trying to stop him. The evening closed in with fog and chill, andbefore the light waned a man faring homeward came upon the corpse ofSouthward Howland stretched along the ground.

AUNT RACHEL'S CURSE

On a headland near Plymouth lived "Aunt Rachel," a reputed seer, who madea scant livelihood by forecasting the future for such seagoing people ashad crossed her palm. The crew of a certain brig came to see her on theday before sailing, and she reproached one of the lads for keeping badcompany. "Avast, there, granny," interrupted another, who took thechiding to himself. "None of your slack, or I'll put a stopper on yourgab." The old woman sprang erect. Levelling her skinny finger at the man,she screamed, "Moon cursers! You have set false beacons and wrecked shipsfor plunder. It was your fathers and mothers who decoyed a brig to thesesands and left me childless and a widow. He who rides the pale horse beyour guide, and you be of the number who follow him!"

That night old Rachel's house was burned, and she barely escaped with herlife, but when it was time for the brig to sail she took her place amongthe townfolk who were to see it off. The owner of the brig tried toconsole her for the loss of the house. "I need it no longer," sheanswered, "for the narrow house will soon be mine, and you wretchescannot burn that. But you! Who will console you for the loss of yourbrig?"

"My brig is stanch. She has already passed the worst shoal in the bay."

"But she carries a curse. She cannot swim long."

As each successive rock and bar was passed the old woman leaned forward,her hand shaking, her gray locks flying, her eyes starting, her lipsmumbling maledictions, "like an evil spirit, chiding forth the storms asministers of vengeance." The last shoal was passed, the merchant sighedwith relief at seeing the vessel now safely on her course, when the womanuttered a harsh cry, and raised her hand as if to command silence untilsomething happened that she evidently expected. For this the onlookershad not long to wait: the brig halted and trembled—her sails shook inthe wind, her crew were seen trying to free the cutter—then she careenedand sank until only her mast-heads stood out of the water. Most of thecompany ran for boats and lines, and few saw Rachel pitch forward on theearth-dead, with a fierce smile of exultation on her face. The rescuerscame back with all the crew, save one—the man who had challenged the oldwoman and revengefully burned her cabin. Rachel's body was buried whereher house had stood, and the rock—before unknown—where the brig hadbroken long bore the name of Rachel's Curse.

NIX'S MATE

The black, pyramidal beacon, called Nix's Mate, is well known toyachtsmen, sailors, and excursionists in Boston harbor. It rises above ashoal,—all that is left of a fair, green island which long agodisappeared in the sea. In 1636 it had an extent of twelve acres, and onits highest point was a gallows where pirates were hanged in chains. Onenight cries were heard on board of a ship that lay at anchor a little wayoff shore, and when the watch put off, to see what might be amiss, thecaptain, named Nix, was found murdered in his bed. There was no directevidence in the case, and no motive could be assigned for the deed,unless it was the expectancy of promotion on the part of the mate, incase of his commander's death.

It was found, however, that this possibility gave significance to certainacts and sayings of that officer during the voyage, and on circ*mstantialevidence so slight as this he was convicted and sentenced to death. As hewas led to execution he swore that he was not guilty, as he had donebefore, and from the scaffold he cried aloud, "God, show that I aminnocent. Let this island sink and prove to these people that I havenever stained my hands with human blood." Soon after the execution of hissentence it was noticed that the surf was going higher on the shore, thatcertain rocks were no longer uncovered at low tide, and in time theisland wasted away. The colonists looked with awe on this manifestationand confessed that God had shown their wrong.

THE WILD MAN OF CAPE COD

For years after Bellamy's pirate ship was wrecked at Wellfleet, by falsepilotage on the part of one of his captives, a strange-looking man usedto travel up and down the cape, who was believed to be one of the fewsurvivors of that night of storm, and of the hanging that othersunderwent after getting ashore. The pirates had money when the shipstruck; it was found in the pockets of a hundred drowned who were cast onthe beach, as well as among the sands of the cape, for coin was gatheredthere long after. They supposed the stranger had his share, or more, andthat he secreted a quantity of specie near his cabin. After his deathgold was found under his clothing in a girdle. He was often received atthe houses of the fishermen, both because the people were hospitable andbecause they feared harm if they refused to feed or shelter him; but ifhis company grew wearisome he was exorcised by reading aloud a portion ofthe Bible. When he heard the holy words he invariably departed.

And it was said that fiends came to him at night, for in his room,whether he appeared to sleep or wake, there were groans and blasphemy,uncanny words and sounds that stirred the hair of listeners on theirscalps. The unhappy creature cried to be delivered from his tormentersand begged to be spared from seeing a rehearsal of the murders he hadcommitted. For some time he was missed from his haunts, and it wasthought that he had secured a ship and set to sea again; but a travelleron the sands, while passing his cabin in the small hours, had heard amore than usual commotion, and could distinguish the voice of the wildman raised in frantic appeal to somebody, or something; still, knowingthat it was his habit to cry out so, and having misgivings aboutapproaching the house, the traveller only hurried past. A few neighborswent to the lonely cabin and looked through the windows, which, as wellas the doors, were locked on the inside. The wild man lay still and whiteon the floor, with the furniture upset and pieces of gold clutched in hisfingers and scattered about him. There were marks of claws about hisneck.

NEWBURY'S OLD ELM

Among the venerable relics of Newbury few are better known and moreprized than the old elm. It is a stout tree, with a girth of twenty-fourand a half feet, and is said to have been standing since 1713. In thatyear it was planted by Richard Jacques, then a youthful rustic, who had asweetheart, as all rustics have, and adored her as rustics and other menshould do. On one of his visits he stayed uncommonly late. It was nearlyten o'clock when he set off for home. The town had been abed an hour ormore; the night was murky and oppressively still, and corpse-candles weredancing in the graveyard. Witch times had not been so far agone that hefelt comfortable, and, lest some sprite, bogie, troll, or goblin shouldwaylay him, he tore an elm branch from a tree that grew before hissweetheart's house, and flourished it as he walked. He reached homewithout experiencing any of the troubles that a superstitious fancy hadconjured. As he was about to cast the branch away a comforting vision ofhis loved one came into his mind, and he determined to plant the branchat his own door, that in the hours of their separation he might bereminded of her who dwelt beneath the parent tree. He did so. It rootedand grew, and when the youth and maid had long been married, theirchildren and grandchildren sported beneath its branches.

SAMUEL SEWALL'S PROPHECY

The peace of Newbury is deemed to be permanently secured by the prophecyof Samuel Sewall, the young man who married the buxom daughter ofMint-Master John Hull, and received, as wedding portion, her weight infresh-coined pine-tree shillings. He afterward became notorious as one ofthe witchcraft judges. The prophecy has not been countervailed, nor is itlikely to be, whether the conditions are kept or not. It runs in thiswise:

"As long as Plum island shall faithfully keep the commanded Post,Notwithstanding the hectoring words and hard blows of the proud andboisterous ocean; As long as any Salmon or Sturgeon shall swim in thestreams of Merrimack, or any Perch or Pickeril in Crane Pond; As long asthe Sea Fowl shall know the time of their coming, and not neglectseasonably to visit the places of their acquaintance; As long as anyCattel shall be fed with Grass growing in the meadows which doe humblybow themselves before Turkie Hill; As long as any Sheep shall walk uponOld town Hills, and shall from thence look pleasantly down upon the RiverParker and the fruitful Marishes lying beneath; As long as any free andharmless Doves shall find a White Oak or other Tree within the townshipto perch or feed, or build a careless Nest upon, and shall voluntarilypresent themselves to perform the office of Gleaners after BarleyHarvest; As long as Nature shall not grow old and dote, but shallconstantly remember to give the rows of Indian Corn their education byPairs; So long shall Christians be born there and being first made meet,shall from thence be translated to be made partakers of the Saints ofLight."

THE SHRIEKING WOMAN

During the latter part of the seventeenth century a Spanish ship, richlyladen, was beset off Marblehead by English pirates, who killed everyperson on board, at the time of the capture, except a beautiful Englishlady, a passenger on the ship, who was brought ashore at night andbrutally murdered at a ledge of rocks near Oakum Bay. As the fishermenwho lived near were absent in their boats, the women and children, whowere startled from their sleep by her piercing shrieks, dared not attempta rescue. Taking her a little way from shore in their boat, the piratesflung her into the sea, and as she came to the surface and clutched thegunwale they hewed at her hands with cutlasses. She was heard to cry,"Lord, save me! Mercy! O, Lord Jesus, save me!" Next day the people foundher mangled body on the rocks, and, with bitter imprecations at the worsethan beasts that had done this wrong, they prepared it for burial. It wasinterred where it was found, but, although it was committed to the earthwith Christian forms, for one hundred and fifty years the victim's criesand appeals were repeated, on each anniversary of the crime, with suchdistinctness as to affright all who heard them—and most of the citizensof Marblehead claimed to be of that number.

AGNES SURRIAGE

When, in 1742, Sir Henry Frankland, collector of the port of Boston, wentto Marblehead to inquire into the smuggling that was pretty boldlycarried on, he put up at the Fountain Inn. As he entered that hostelry abarefooted girl, of sixteen, who was scrubbing the floor, looked at him.The young man was handsome, well dressed, gallant in bearing, while AgnesSurriage, maid of all work, was of good figure, beautiful face, andmodest demeanor. Sir Henry tossed out a coin, bidding her to buy shoeswith it, and passed to his room. But the image of Agnes rose constantlybefore him. He sought her company, found her of ready intelligence forone unschooled, and shortly after this visit he obtained the consent ofher parents—humble folk—to take this wild flower to the city andcultivate it.

He gave her such an education as the time and place afforded, dressed herwell, and behaved with kindness toward her, while she repaid this carewith the frank bestowal of her heart. The result was not foreseen—notintended—but they became as man and wife without having wedded. Colonialsociety was scandalized, yet the baronet loved the girl sincerely andcould not be persuaded to part from her. Having occasion to visit Englandhe took Agnes with him and introduced her as Lady Frankland, but thenature of their alliance had been made known to his relatives and theyrefused to receive her. The thought of a permanent union with the girlhad not yet presented itself to the young man. An aristocrat could notmarry a commoner. A nobleman might destroy the honor of a girl foramusem*nt, but it was beneath his dignity to make reparation for the act.

Sir Henry was called to Portugal in 1755, and Agnes went with him. Theyarrived inopportunely in one respect, though the sequel showed a blessingin the accident; for while they were sojourning in Lisbon the earthquakeoccurred that laid the city in ruins and killed sixty thousand people.Sir Henry was in his carriage at the time and was buried beneath afalling wall, but Agnes, who had hurried from her lodging at the firstalarm, sped through the rocking streets in search of her lover. She foundhim at last, and, instead of crying or fainting, she set to work to dragaway the stones and timbers that were piled upon him. Had she been adelicate creature, her lover's equal in birth, such as Frankland was usedto dance with at the state balls, she could not have done this, but herdays of service at the inn had given her a strength that received freshaccessions from hope and love. In an hour she had liberated him, and,carrying him to a place of safety, she cherished the spark of life untilhealth returned. The nobleman had received sufficient proof of Agnes'slove and courage. He realized, at last, the superiority of worth tobirth. He gave his name, as he had already given his heart, to her, andtheir married life was happy.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE

Flood, Fluid, or Floyd Ireson (in some chronicles his name is Benjamin)was making for Marblehead in a furious gale, in the autumn of 1808, inthe schooner Betsy. Off Cape Cod he fell in with the schooner Active, ofBeverly, in distress, for she had been disabled in the heavy sea and wason her beam ends, at the mercy of the tempest. The master of the Activehailed Ireson and asked to be taken off, for his vessel could not lastmuch longer, but the Betsy, after a parley, laid her course againhomeward, leaving the exhausted and despairing crew of the sinking vesselto shift as best they might. The Betsy had not been many hours in portbefore it was known that men were in peril in the bay, and two crews ofvolunteers set off instantly to the rescue. But it was too late. TheActive was at the bottom of the sea. The captain and three of his menwere saved, however, and their grave accusation against the Betsy'sskipper was common talk in Marblehead ere many days.

On a moonlight night Flood Ireson was roused by knocking at his door. Onopening it he was seized by a band of his townsmen, silently hustled to adeserted spot, stripped, bound, and coated with tar and feathers. Atbreak of day he was pitched into an old dory and dragged along the roadsuntil the bottom of the boat dropped out, when he was mounted in a cartand the procession continued until Salem was reached. The selectmen ofthat town turned back the company, and for a part of the way home thecart was drawn by a jeering crowd of fishwives. Ireson was released onlywhen nature had been taxed to the limit of endurance. As his bonds werecut he said, quietly, "I thank you for my ride, gentlemen, but you willlive to regret it."

Some of the cooler heads among his fellows have believed the skipperinnocent and throw the blame for the abandonment of the sinking vessel onIreson's mutinous crew. There are others, the universal deniers, whobelieve that the whole thing is fiction. Those people refuse to believein their own grandfathers. Ireson became moody and reckless after thisadventure. He did not seem to think it worth the attempt to clearhimself. At times he seemed trying, by his aggressive acts and bitterspeeches, to tempt some hot-tempered townsman to kill him. He died aftera severe freezing, having been blown to sea—as some think by his ownwill—in a smack.

HEARTBREAK HILL

The name of Heartbreak Hill pertains, in the earliest records of Ipswich,to an eminence in the middle of that town on which there was a largeIndian settlement, called Agawam, before the white men settled there anddrove the inhabitants out. Ere the English colony had been firmly planteda sailor straying ashore came among the simple natives of Agawam, andfinding their ways full of novelty he lived with them for a time. When hefound means to return to England he took with him the love of a maiden ofthe tribe, but the girl herself he left behind, comforting her on hisdeparture with an assurance that before many moons he would return.Months went by and extended into years, and every day the girl climbedHeartbreak Hill to look seaward for some token of her lover. At last aship was seen trying to make harbor, with a furious gale running herclose to shore, where breakers were lashing the rocks and sand. The girlkept her station until the vessel, becoming unmanageable, was hurledagainst the shore and smashed into a thousand pieces. As its timbers wenttossing away on the frothing billows a white, despairing face was liftedto hers for an instant; then it sank and was seen nevermore—her lover'sface. The "dusky Ariadne" wasted fast from that day, and she lies buriedbeside the ledge that was her watch-tower.

HARRY MAIN: THE TREASURE AND THE CATS

Ipswich had a very Old Harry in the person of Harry Main, a dark-souledbeing, who, after a career of piracy, smuggling, blasphemy, anddissipation, became a wrecker, and lured vessels to destruction withfalse lights. For his crimes he was sent, after death, to do penance onIpswich bar, where he had sent many a ship ashore, his doom being totwine ropes of sand, though some believe it was to shovel back the sea.Whenever his rope broke he would roar with rage and anguish, so that hewas heard for miles, whereon the children would run to their tremblingmothers and men would look troubled and shake their heads. After a goodbit of cable had been coiled, Harry had a short respite that he enjoyedon Plum Island, to the terror of the populace. When the tide and a galeare rising together people say, as they catch the sound of moaning fromthe bar, "Old Harry's grumbling again."

Now, Harry Main—to say nothing of Captain Kidd—was believed to haveburied his ill-gotten wealth in Ipswich, and one man dreamed for threesuccessive nights that it had been interred in a mill. Believing that arevelation had been made to him he set off with spade, lantern, andBible, on the first murky night—for he wanted no partner in thediscovery—and found a spot which he recognized as the one that had beenpictured to his sleeping senses. He set to work with alacrity and ashovel, and soon he unearthed a flat stone and an iron bar. He was aboutto pry up the stone when an army of black cats encircled the pit andglared into it with eyes of fire.

The poor man, in an access both of alarm and courage, whirled the barabout his head and shouted "Scat!" The uncanny guards of the treasuredisappeared instanter, and at the same moment the digger found himself upto his middle in icy water that had poured into the hole as he spoke.

The moral is that you should never talk when you are hunting fortreasure. Wet, scared, and disheartened, the man crawled out and madehomeward, carrying with him, as proof of his adventure, a case ofinfluenza and the iron bar. The latter trophy he fashioned into a latch,in which shape it still does service on one of the doors of Ipswich.

THE WESSAGUSCUS HANGING

Among the Puritans who settled in Wessaguscus, now Weymouth,Massachusetts, was a brash young fellow, of remarkable size and strength,who, roaming the woods one day, came on a store of corn concealed in theground, in the fashion of the Indians. As anybody might have done, hefilled his hat from the granary and went his way. When the red man whohad dug the pit came back to it he saw that his cache had been levied on,and as the footprints showed the marauder to be an Englishman he went tothe colonists and demanded justice. The matter could have been settled bygiving a pennyworth of trinkets to the Indian, but, as the moral law hadbeen broken, the Puritans deemed it right that the pilferer shouldsuffer.

They held a court and a proposition was made and seriously consideredthat, as the culprit was young, hardy, and useful to the colony, hisclothes should be stripped off and put on the body of a bedridden weaver,who would be hanged in his stead in sight of the offended savages. Still,it was feared that if they learned the truth about that execution theIndians would learn a harmful lesson in deceit, and it was, therefore,resolved to punish the true offender. He, thinking they were in jest,submitted to be bound, though before doing so he could have "cleaned out"the court-room, and ere he was really aware of the purpose of his judgeshe was kicking at vacancy.

Butler, in "Hudibras," quotes the story, but makes the offence moreserious—

"This precious brother, having slain,
In time of peace, an Indian,
Not out of malice, but mere zeal,
Because he was an infidel,
The mighty Tottipotimoy
Sent to our elders an envoy
Complaining sorely of the breach Of league."

But the Puritans, having considered that the offender was a teacher and acobbler,

"Resolved to spare him; yet, to do
The Indian Hoghan Moghan, too,
Impartial justice, in his stead did
Hang an old weaver that was bed-rid."

The whole circ*mstance is cloudy, and the reader may accept eitherversion that touches his fancy.

THE UNKNOWN CHAMPION

There was that in the very air of the New World that made the Pilgrimsrevolt against priests and kings. The Revolution was long a-breedingbefore shots were fired at Lexington. Stout old Endicott, havingconceived a dislike to the British flag because to his mind the cross wasa relic of popery, paraded his soldiers and with his sword ripped out theoffending emblem in their presence. There was a faint cry of "Treason!"but he answered, "I will avouch the deed before God and man. Beat aflourish, drummer. Shout for the ensign of New England. Pope nor tyranthath part in it now." And a loud huzza of independence went forth.

With this sentiment confirmed among the people, it is not surprising thatthe judges who had condemned a papist king—Charles I.—to the blockshould find welcome in this land. For months at a time they lived incellars and garrets in various parts of New England, their hiding-placeskept secret from the royal sheriffs who were seeking them. For a timethey had shelter in a cave in West Rock, New Haven, and once in that townthey were crouching beneath the bridge that a pursuing party crossed insearch of them. In Ipswich the house is pointed out where they wereconcealed in the cellar, and the superstitious believed that, as apenalty for their regicidal decision, they are doomed to stay there,crying vainly for deliverance.

Philip, the Narragansett chief, had declared war on the people of NewEngland, and was waging it with a persistence and fury that spread terrorthrough the country. It was a struggle against manifest destiny, such asmust needs be repeated whenever civilization comes to dispute a place innew lands with savagery, and which has been continued, more and morefeebly, to our own day. The war was bloody, and for a long time the issuehung in the balance. At last the Indian king was driven westward. TheNipmucks joined him in the Connecticut Valley, and he laid siege to thelonely settlements of Brookfield, Northfield, Deerfield, and Springfield,killing, scalping, and burning without mercy. On the 1st of September,1675, he attacked Hadley while its people were at church, the war-yelpinterrupting a prayer of the pastor. All the men of the congregationsallied out with pikes and guns and engaged the foe, but so closely werethey pressed that a retreat was called, when suddenly there appearedamong them a tall man, of venerable and commanding aspect, clad inleather, and armed with sword and gun.

His hair and beard were long and white, but his eye was dark andresolute, and his voice was strong. "Why sink your hearts?" he cried."Fear ye that God will give you up to yonder heathen dogs? Follow me, andye shall see that this day there is a champion in Israel."

Posting half the force at his command to sustain the fight, he led theothers quickly by a detour to the rear of the Indians, on whom he fellwith such energy that the savages, believing themselves overtaken byreinforcements newly come, fled in confusion. When the victors returnedto the village the unknown champion signed to the company to fall totheir knees while he offered thanks and prayer. Then he was silent for alittle, and when they looked up he was gone.

They believed him to be an angel sent for their deliverance, nor, till hehad gone to his account, did they know that their captain in that crisiswas Colonel William Goffe, one of the regicide judges, who, with hisassociate Whalley, was hiding from the vengeance of the son of the kingthey had rebelled against. After leaving their cave in New Haven, beingin peril from beasts and human hunters, they went up the ConnecticutValley to Hadley, where the clergyman of the place, Rev. John Russell,gave them shelter for fifteen years. Few were aware of their existence,and when Goffe, pale with seclusion from the light, appeared among thepeople near whom he had long been living, it is no wonder that theyregarded him with awe.

Whalley died in the minister's house and was buried in a crypt outside ofthe cellar-wall, while Goffe kept much abroad, stopping in many placesand under various disguises until his death, which occurred soon afterthat of his associate. He was buried in New Haven.

GOODY COLE

Goodwife Eunice Cole, of Hampton, Massachusetts, was so "vehementlysuspected to be a witch" that in 1680 she was thrown into jail with achain on her leg. She had a mumbling habit, which was bad, and a wildlook, which was worse. The death of two calves had been charged to hersorceries, and she was believed to have raised the cyclone that sent aparty of merrymakers to the sea-bottom off the Isles of Shoals, forinsulting her that morning. Some said that she took the shapes of eagles,dogs, and cats, and that she had the aspect of an ape when she wentthrough the mummeries that caused Goody Marston's child to die, yet whileshe was in Ipswich jail a likeness of her was stumping about thegraveyard on the day when they buried the child. For such offences asthat of making bread ferment and give forth evil odors, that housekeeperscould only dispel by prayer, she was several times whipped and ducked bythe constable.

At last she lay under sentence of death, for Anna Dalton declared thather child had been changed in its cradle and that she hated and fearedthe thing that had been left there. Her husband, Ezra, had pleaded withher in vain. "'Tis no child of mine," she cried. "'Tis an imp. Don't yousee how old and shrewd it is? How wrinkled and ugly? It does not take mymilk: it is sucking my blood and wearing me to skin and bone." Once, asshe sat brooding by the fire, she turned to her husband and said, "Rakethe coals out and put the child in them. Goody Cole will fly fast enoughwhen she hears it screaming, and will come down chimney in the shape ofan owl or a bat, and take the thing away. Then we shall have our littleone back."

Goodman Dalton sighed as he looked into the worn, scowling face of hiswife; then, laying his hands on her head, he prayed to God that she mightbe led out of the shadow and made to love her child again. As he prayed agleam of sunset shone in at the window and made a halo around the face ofthe smiling babe. Mistress Dalton looked at the little thing in doubt;then a glow of recognition came into her eyes, and with a sob of joy shecaught the child to her breast, while Dalton embraced them both, deeplyhappy, for his wife had recovered her reason. In the midst of tears andkisses the woman started with a faint cry: she remembered that a poor oldcreature was about to expiate on the gallows a crime that had never beencommitted. She urged her husband to ride with all speed to justice Sewalland demand that Goody Cole be freed. This the goodman did, arriving atNewbury at ten o'clock at night, when the town had long been abed andasleep. By dint of alarms at the justice's door he brought forth thatworthy in gown and night-cap, and, after the case had been explained tohim, he wrote an order for Mistress Cole's release.

With this paper in his hand Dalton rode at once to Ipswich, and when theco*ck crew in the dawning the victim of that horrible charge walked forth,without her manacles. Yet dark suspicion hung about the beldam to thelast, and she died, as she had lived, alone in the little cabin thatstood near the site of the academy. Even after her demise the villagerscould with difficulty summon courage to enter her cot and give herburial. Her body was tumbled into a pit, hastily dug near her door, and astake was driven through the heart to exorcise the powers of evil thatpossessed her in life.

GENERAL MOULTON AND THE DEVIL

Jonathan Moulton, of Hampton, was a general of consequence in thecolonial wars, but a man not always trusted in other than militarymatters. It was even hinted that his first wife died before her time, forhe quickly found consolation in his bereavement by marrying hercompanion. In the middle of the night the bride was awakened with astart, for she felt a cold hand plucking at the wedding-ring that hadbelonged to the buried Mrs. Moulton, and a voice whispered in her ear,"Give the dead her own." With a scream of terror she leaped out of bed,awaking her husband and causing candles to be brought. The ring was gone.

It was long after this occurrence that the general sat musing at hisfireside on the hardness of life in new countries and the difficulty ofgetting wealth, for old Jonathan was fond of money, and the lack of itdistressed him worse than a conscience. "If only I could have goldenough," he muttered, "I'd sell my soul for it." Whiz! came somethingdown the chimney. The general was dazzled by a burst of sparks, fromwhich stepped forth a lank personage in black velvet with clean rufflesand brave jewels. "Talk quick, general," said the unknown, "for infifteen minutes I must be fifteen miles away, in Portsmouth." And pickingup a live coal in his fingers he looked at his watch by its light. "Come.You know me. Is it a bargain?"

The general was a little slow to recover his wits, but the word "bargain"put him on his mettle, and he began to think of advantageous terms. "Whatproof may there be that you can do your part in the compact?" heinquired. The unknown ran his fingers through his hair and a shower ofguineas jingled on the floor. They were pretty warm, but Moulton, in hiseagerness, fell on hands and knees and gathered them to his breast.

"Give me some liquor," then demanded Satan, for of course he was noother, and filling a tankard with rum he lighted it with the candle,remarked, affably, "To our better acquaintance," and tossed off theblazing dram at a gulp. "I will make you," said he, "the richest man inthe province. Sign this paper and on the first day of every month I willfill your boots with gold; but if you try any tricks with me you willrepent it. For I know you, Jonathan. Sign."

Moulton hesitated. "Humph!" sneered his majesty. "You have put me to allthis trouble for nothing." And he began to gather up the guineas thatMoulton had placed on the table. This was more than the victim of hiswiles could stand. He swallowed a mouthful of rum, seized a pen that washeld out to him, and trembled violently as a paper was placed before him;but when he found that his name was to appear with some of the mostdistinguished in the province his nerves grew steadier and he placed hisautograph among those of the eminent company, with a few crookedembellishments and all the t's crossed. "Good!" exclaimed the devil, andwrapping his cloak about him he stepped into the fire and was up thechimney in a twinkling.

Shrewd Jonathan went out the next day and bought the biggest pair ofjack-boots he could find in Hampton. He hung them on the crane on thelast night of that and all the succeeding months so long as he lived, andon the next morning they brimmed with coins. Moulton rolled in wealth.The neighbors regarded his sudden prosperity with amazement, then withenvy, but afterward with suspicion. All the same, Jonathan was notgetting rich fast enough to suit himself.

When the devil came to make a certain of his periodical payments hepoured guineas down the chimney for half an hour without seeming to fillthe boots. Bushel after bushel of gold he emptied into those spaciousmoney-bags without causing an overflow, and he finally descended to thefireplace to see why. Moulton had cut the soles from the boots and thefloor was knee-deep in money. With a grin at the general's smartness thedevil disappeared, but in a few minutes a smell of sulphur pervaded thepremises and the house burst into flames. Moulton escaped in his shirt,and tore his hair as he saw the fire crawl, serpent-like, over the beams,and fantastic smoke-forms dance in the windows. Then a thought crossedhis mind and he grew calm: his gold, that was hidden in wainscot,cupboard, floor, and chest, would only melt and could be quarried out bythe hundred weight, so that he could be well-to-do again. Before theruins were cool he was delving amid the rubbish, but not an ounce of goldcould he discover. Every bit of his wealth had disappeared. It was notlong after that the general died, and to quiet some rumors of disturbancein the graveyard his coffin was dug up. It was empty.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR

The skeleton of a man wearing a breastplate of brass, a belt made oftubes of the same metal, and lying near some copper arrow-heads, wasexhumed at Fall River, Massachusetts, in 1834. The body had beenartificially embalmed or else preserved by salts in the soil. His armsand armor suggest Phoenician origin, but the skeleton is thought to bethat of a Dane or Norwegian who spent the last winter of his life atNewport. He may have helped to carve the rock at West Newbury, or thebetter-known Dighton rock at Taunton River that is covered withinscriptions which the tides and frosts are fast effacing, and which havebeen construed into a record of Norse exploration and discovery, thoughsome will have it that the inevitable Captain Kidd cut the figures thereto tell of buried treasure. The Indians have a legend of the arrival ofwhite men in a "bird," undoubtedly a ship, from which issued thunder andlightning. A battle ensued when the visitors landed, and the white menwrote the story of it on the rock. Certain scholars of the eighteenthcentury declared that the rock bore an account of the arrival ofPhoenician sailors, blown across the Atlantic and unable or unwilling toreturn. A representation of the pillars of Hercules was thought to beincluded among the sculptures, showing that the castaways were familiarwith the Mediterranean. Only this is known about Dighton Rock, however:that it stood where it does, and as it does, when the English settled inthis neighborhood. The Indians said there were other rocks near it whichbore similar markings until effaced by tides and drifting ice.

Longfellow makes the wraith of the long-buried exile of the armor appearand tell his story: He was a viking who loved the daughter of KingHildebrand, and as royal consent to their union was withheld he made offwith the girl, hotly followed by the king and seventy horsem*n. Theviking reached his vessel first, and hoisting sail continued his flightover the sea, but the chase was soon upon him, and, having no alternativebut to fight or be taken, he swung around before the wind and rammed theside of Hildebrand's galley, crushing in its timbers. The vessel tippedand sank, and every soul on board went with her, while the viking's boatkept on her course, and after a voyage of three weeks put in atNarragansett Bay. The round tower at Newport this impetuous lover builtas a bower for his lady, and there he guarded her from the dangers thatbeset those who are first in savage countries. When the princess died shewas buried in the tower, and the lonely viking, arraying himself in hisarmor, fell on his spear, like Brutus, and expired.

MARTHA'S VINEYARD AND NANTUCKET

There is no such place as Martha's Vineyard, except in geography andcommon speech. It is Martin Wyngaard's Island, and so was named bySkipper Block, an Albany Dutchman. But they would English his name, evenin his own town, for it lingers there in Vineyard Point. BartholomewGosnold was one of the first white visitors here, for he landed in 1602,and lived on the island for a time, collecting a cargo of sassafras andreturning thence to England because he feared the savages.

This scarred and windy spot was the home of the Indian giant, Maushope,who could wade across the sound to the mainland without wetting hisknees, though he once started to build a causeway from Gay Head toCuttyhunk and had laid the rocks where you may now see them, when a crabbit his toe and he gave up the work in disgust. He lived on whales,mostly, and broiled his dinners on fires made at Devil's Den from treesthat he tore up by the roots like weeds. In his tempers he raised miststo perplex sea-wanderers, and for sport he would show lights on Gay Head,though these may have been only the fires he made to cook his supperwith, and of which some beds of lignite are to be found as remains. Heclove No-Man's Land from Gay Head, turned his children into fish, andwhen his wife objected he flung her to Seconnet Point, where she preyedon all who passed before she hardened into a ledge.

It is reported that he found the island by following a bird that had beenstealing children from Cape Cod, as they rolled in the warm sand orpaddled on the edge of the sea. He waded after this winged robber untilhe reached Martha's Vineyard, where he found the bones of all thechildren that had been stolen. Tired with his hunt he sat down to fillhis pipe; but as there was no tobacco he plucked some tons of poke thatgrew thickly and that Indians sometimes used as a substitute for thefragrant weed. His pipe being filled and lighted, its fumes rolled overthe ocean like a mist—in fact, the Indians would say, when a fog wasrising, "Here comes old Maushope's smoke"—and when he finished heemptied his pipe into the sea. Falling on a shallow, the ashes made theisland of Nantucket. The first Indians to reach the latter place were theparents of a babe that had been stolen by an eagle. They followed thebird in their canoe, but arrived too late, for the little bones had beenpicked clean. The Norsem*n rediscovered the island and called itNaukiton. Is Nantucket a corruption of that word, or was that word theresult of a struggle to master the Indian name?

LOVE AND TREASON

The tribes that inhabited Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard before thewhites settled the country were constantly at war, and the people of thewestern island once resolved to surprise those of Nantucket and slay asmany as possible before they could arm or organize for battle. The attackwas to be made before daybreak, at an hour when their intended victimswould be asleep in their wigwams, but on rowing softly to the hostileshore, while the stars were still lingering in the west, the warriorswere surprised at finding the enemy alert and waiting their arrival withbows and spears in hand. To proceed would have been suicidal, and theyreturned to their villages, puzzled and disheartened. Not for some yearsdid they learn how the camp had been apprised, but at the end of thattime, the two tribes being at peace, one of their young men married agirl of Nantucket, with whom he had long been in love, and confessed thaton the night preceding the attack he had stolen to the beach, crossed toNantucket on a neck of sand that then joined the islands, and wasuncovered only at low tide, sought his mistress, warned her of theattack, that she, at least, might not be killed; then, at a mad run, withwaves of the rising tide lapping his feet, he returned to his people, whohad not missed him. He set off with a grave and innocent face in themorning, and was as much surprised as any one when he found the enemy inarms.

THE HEADLESS SKELETON OF SWAMPTOWN

The boggy portion of North Kingston, Rhode Island, known as Swamptown, isof queer repute in its neighborhood, for Hell Hollow, Pork Hill, IndianCorner, and Kettle Hole have their stories of Indian crimes andwitch-meetings. Here the headless figure of a negro boy was seen by abelated traveller on a path that leads over the hills. It was a darknight and the figure was revealed in a blaze of blue light. It swayed toand fro for a time, then rose from the ground with a lurch and shot intospace, leaving a trail of illumination behind it. Here, too, isGoose-Nest Spring, where the witches dance at night. It dries up everywinter and flows through the summer, gushing forth on the same day ofevery year, except once, when a goose took possession of the empty bedand hatched her brood there. That time the water did not flow until shegot away with her progeny.

But the most grewsome story of the place is that of the Indian whoseskull was found by a roadmender. This unsuspecting person took it home,and, as the women would not allow him to carry it into the house, he hungit on a pole outside. Just as the people were starting for bed, therecame a rattling at the door, and, looking out of the windows, they saw askeleton stalking around in quick and angry strides, like those of aperson looking for something. But how could that be when the skeleton hadneither eyes nor a place to carry them? It thrashed its bony armsimpatiently and its ribs rattled like a xylophone. The spectators weretransfixed with fear, all except the culprit, who said, through thewindow, in a matter-of-fact way, "I left your head on the pole at theback door." The skeleton started in that direction, seized the skull,clapped it into the place where a head should have grown on its ownshoulders, and, after shaking its fists in a threatening way at thehouse, disappeared in the darkness. It is said that he acts as a kind ofguard in the neighborhood, to see that none of the other Indians buriedthere shall be disturbed, as he was. His principal lounging place isIndian Corner, where there is a rock from which blood flows when the moonshines—a memento, doubtless, of some tragedy that occurred there intimes before the white men knew the place. There is iron in the soil, andvisitors say that the red color is due to that, and that the spring wouldflow just as freely on dark nights as on bright ones, if any were thereto see it, but the natives, who have given some thought to these matters,know better.

THE CROW AND CAT OF HOPKINSHILL

In a wood near Hopkins Hill, Rhode Island, is a bowlder, four feet indiameter, scored with a peculiar furrow. Witch Rock, as it is called,gained its name two centuries ago, when an old woman abode in a desertedcabin close by and made the forest dreaded. Figures were seen flittingthrough its shadows; articles left out o' nights in neighboringsettlements were missing in the morning, though tramps were unknown;cattle were afflicted with diseases; stones were flung in at windows byunseen hands; crops were blighted by hail and frost; and in stormyweather the old woman was seen to rise out of the woods and stir and pushthe clouds before her with a broom. For a hundred yards around Witch Rockthe ground is still accursed, and any attempt to break it up isunavailing. Nearly a century ago a scoffer named Reynolds declared thathe would run his plough through the enchanted boundary, and the neighborswatched the attempt from a distance.

He started well, but on arriving at the magic circle the plough shied andthe wooden landside—or chip, as it was called—came off. It was replacedand the team started again. In a moment the oxen stood unyoked, while thechip jumped off and whirled away out of sight. On this, most of thepeople edged away in the direction of home, and directly there came fromthe north a crow that perched on a dead tree and cawed. John Hopkins,owner of the land, cried to the bird, "Squawk, you damned old PatJenkins!" and the crow took flight, dropping the chip at Reynolds's feet,at the same moment turning into a beldam with a co*cked hat, who descendedupon the rock. Before the men could reach her she changed into a blackcat and disappeared in the ground. Hunting and digging came to naught,though the pursuers were so earnest and excited that one of them made thefurrow in the rock with a welt from his shovel. After that few peoplecared to go near the place, and it became overgrown with weeds and treesand bushes.

THE OLD STONE MILL

If the round tower at Newport was not Benedict Arnold's wind-mill, andany one or two of several other things, it is probably a relic of theoccupancy of this country by Thorwald and his Norsem*n. After coastingWonderstrands (Cape Cod), in the year 1007, they built a town that isknown to historians—if not in their histories—as Norumbega, the lostcity of New England. It is now fancied that the city stood on the CharlesRiver, near Waltham, Massachusetts, where a monument may be erected, butit is also believed that they reached the neighborhood of Newport, RhodeIsland. After this tower—popularly called the old stone mill-was built,a seer among the Narragansetts had a vision in which he foresaw that whenthe last remnant of the structure had fallen, and not one stone had beenleft on another, the Indian race would vanish from this continent. Thework of its extermination seems, indeed, to have begun with thepossession of the coast by white men, and the fate of the aborigines iseasily read.

ORIGIN OF A NAME

The origin of many curious geographical names has become an object ofmere surmise, and this is the more the pity because they suggest suchpicturesque possibilities. We would like to know, for instance, how BurntCoat and Smutty Nose came by such titles. The conglomerate that strewsthe fields south of Boston is locally known as Roxbury pudding-stone,and, according to Dr. Holmes, the masses are fragments of a pudding, asbig as the State-house dome, that the family of a giant flung about, in afit of temper, and that petrified where it fell. But that would have beencalled pudding-stone, anyway, from its appearance. The circ*mstance thatnamed the reef of Norman's Woe has passed out of record, though it isknown that goodman Norman and his son settled there in the seventeenthcentury. It is Longfellow who has endowed the rock with this legend, forhe depicts a wreck there in the fury of a winter storm in 1680—the wreckof the Hesperus, Richard Norman, master, from which went ashore nextmorning the body of an unknown and beautiful girl, clad in ice and lashedto a broken mast.

But one of the oddest preservations of an apposite in name is found inthe legend of Point Judith, Rhode Island, an innocent double entendre.About two centuries ago a vessel was driving toward the coast in a gale,with rain and mist. The skipper's eyes were old and dim, so he got hisdaughter Judith to stand beside him at the helm, as he steered the vesselover the foaming surges. Presently she cried, "Land, father! I see land!""Where away?" he asked. But he could not see what she described, and theroar of the wind drowned her voice, so he shouted, "Point, Judith!Point!" The girl pointed toward the quarter where she saw the breakers,and the old mariner changed his course and saved his ship from wreck. Onreaching port he told the story of his daughter's readiness, and othercaptains, when they passed the cape in later days, gave to it the name ofPoint Judith.

MICAH ROOD APPLES

In Western Florida they will show roses to you that drop red dew, likeblood, and have been doing so these many years, for they sprang out ofthe graves of women and children who had been cruelly killed by Indians.But there is something queerer still about the Micah Rood—or"Mike"—apples of Franklin, Connecticut, which are sweet, red of skin,snowy of pulp, and have a red spot, like a blood-drop, near the core;hence they are sometimes known as bloody-hearts. Micah Rood was a farmerin Franklin in 1693. Though avaricious he was somewhat lazy, and was moreprone to dream of wealth than to work for it. But people whispered thathe did some hard and sharp work on the night after the peddler came totown—the slender man with a pack filled with jewelry andknickknacks—because on the morning after that visit the peddler wasfound, beneath an apple-tree on Rood farm, with his pack rifled and hisskull split open.

Suspicion pointed at Rood, and, while nothing was proved against him, hebecame gloomy, solitary, and morose, keeping his own counsels morefaithfully than ever—though he never was disposed to take counsel ofother people. If he had expected to profit by the crime he was obviouslydisappointed, for he became poorer than ever, and his farm yielded lessand less. To be sure, he did little work on it. When the apples ripenedon the tree that had spread its branches above the peddler's body, theneighbors wagged their heads and whispered the more, for in the centre ofeach apple was a drop of the peddler's blood: a silent witness andjudgment, they said, and the result of a curse that the dying man hadinvoked against his murderer. Micah Rood died soon after, without sayinganything that his fellow-villagers might be waiting to hear, but his treeis still alive and its strange fruit has been grafted on hundreds oforchards.

A DINNER AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

The Nipmucks were populous at Thompson, Connecticut, where they skilfullytilled the fields, and where their earthworks, on Fort Hill, providedthem with a refuge in case of invasion. Their chief, Quinatisset, had hislodge on the site of the Congregational church in Thompson. They believedthat Chargoggagmanchogagog Pond was paradise—the home of the GreatSpirit and departed souls—and that it would always yield fish to them,as the hills did game. They were fond of fish, and would barter deer-meatand corn for it, occasionally, with the Narragansetts.

Now, these last-named Indians were a waterloving people, and to this daytheir "fishing fire"—a column of pale flame—rises out of Quinebaug Lakeonce in seven years, as those say who have watched beside its watersthrough the night. Knowing their fondness for blue-fish and clams, theNarragansetts asked the Nipmucks to dine with them on one occasion, andthis courtesy was eagerly accepted, the up-country people distinguishingthemselves by valiant trencher deeds; but, alas, that it should be so!they disgraced themselves when, soon after, they invited theNarragansetts to a feast of venison at Killingly, and quarrelled withtheir guests over the dressing of the food. This rumpus grew into abattle in which all but two of the invites were slain. Their hosts buriedthem decently, but grass would never grow above their graves.

This treachery the Great Spirit avenged soon after, when the Nipmucks hadassembled for a powwow, with accessory enjoyments, in the grassy valewhere Mashapaug Lake now reflects the charming landscape, and where,until lately, the remains of a forest could be seen below the surface. Inthe height of the revel the god struck away the foundations of the hills,and as the earth sank, bearing the offending men and women, waters rushedin and filled the chasm, so that every person was drowned, save one goodold woman beneath whose feet the ground held firm. Loon Island, where shestood, remains in sight to-day.

THE NEW HAVEN STORM SHIP

In 1647 the New Haven colonists, who even at that early day exhibited theenterprise that has been a distinguishing feature of the Yankee, sent aship to Ireland to try to develop a commerce, their trading posts on theDelaware having been broken up by the Swedes. When their agent, CaptainLamberton, sailed—in January—the harbor was so beset with ice that atrack had to be cut through the floes to open water, five miles distant.She had, moreover, to be dragged out stern foremost—an ill omen, thesailors thought—and as she swung before the wind a passing drift of fogconcealed her, for a moment, from the gaze of those on shore, who, fromthis, foretold things of evil. Though large and new, the ship was so"walty"—inclined to roll—that the captain set off with misgiving, andas she moved away the crew heard this solemn and disheartening invocationfrom a clergyman on the wharf:—"Lord, if it be thy pleasure to burythese, our friends, in the bottom of the sea, take them; they are thine:save them."

Winter passed; so did spring; still the ship came not; but one afternoonin June, just as a rain had passed, some children cried, "There's a braveship!" for, flying up the harbor, with all sail set and flaunting colors,was a vessel "the very mould of our ship," the clergyman said.

Strange to tell, she was going flat against the wind; no sailors were onher deck; she did not toss with the fling of the waves; there was noripple at her bow. As she came close to land a single figure appeared onthe quarter, pointing seaward with a cutlass; then suddenly her main-topfell, her masts toppled from their holdings, the dismantled hulk careenedand went down. A cloud dropped from heaven and brooded for a time abovethe place where it had vanished, and when it lifted the surface of thesea was empty and still. The good folk of New Haven believed that thefate of the absent ship had been revealed, at last, for she never cameback and Captain Lamberton was never heard from.

THE WINDAM FROGS

On a cloudy night in July, 1758, the people of Windham, Connecticut, wereawakened by screams and shrill voices. Some sprang up and looked to thepriming of their muskets, for they were sure that the Indians werecoming; others vowed that the voices were those of witches or devils,flying overhead; a few ran into the streets with knives and fire-arms,while others fastened their windows and prayerfully shrank under thebedclothes. A notorious reprobate was heard blubbering for a Bible, and alawyer offered half of all the money that he had made dishonestly to anycharity if his neighbors would guarantee to preserve his life untilmorning.

All night the greatest alarm prevailed. At early dawn an armed partyclimbed the hill to the eastward, and seeing no sign of Indians, or otherinvaders, returned to give comfort to their friends. A contest for officewas waging at that period between two lawyers, Colonel Dyer and Mr.Elderkin, and sundry of the people vowed that they had heard achallenging yell of "Colonel Dyer! Colonel Dyer!" answered by a gutturaldefiance of "Elderkin, too! Elderkin, too!" Next day the reason of it allcame out: A pond having been emptied by drought, the frogs that had livedthere emigrated by common consent to a ditch nearer the town, and onarriving there had apparently fought for its possession, for many laydead on the bank. The night was still and the voices of the contestantssounded clearly into the village, the piping of the smaller beingconstrued into "Colonel Dyer," and the grumble of the bull-frogs into"Elderkin, too." The "frog scare" was a subject of pleasantry directedagainst Windham for years afterward.

THE LAMB OF SACRIFICE

The Revolution was beginning, homes were empty, farms were deserted,industries were checked, and the levies of a foreign army had consumedthe stores of the people. A messenger rode into the Connecticut Valleywith tidings of the distress that was in the coast towns, and begged thefarmer folk to spare some of their cattle and the millers some of theirflour for the relief of Boston. On reaching Windham he was received withgood will by Parson White, who summoned his flock by peal of bell, andfrom the steps of his church urged the needs of his brethren with sucheloquence that by nightfall the messenger had in his charge a flock ofsheep, a herd of cattle, and a load of grain, with which he was to setoff in the morning. The parson's daughter, a shy maid of nine or ten,went to her father, with her pet lamb, and said to him, "I must givethis, too, for there are little children who are crying for bread andmeat."

"No, no," answered the pastor, patting her head and smiling upon her."They do not ask help from babes. Run to bed and you shall play with yourlamb to-morrow."

But in the red of the morning, as he drove his herd through the villagestreet, the messenger turned at the hail of a childish voice, and lookingover a stone wall he saw the little one with her snow-white lamb besideher.

"Wait," she cried, "for my lamb must go to the hungry children of Boston.It is so small, please to carry it for some of the way, and let it havefresh grass and water. It is all I have."

So saying, she kissed the innocent face of her pet, gave it into the armsof the young man, and ran away, her cheeks shining with tears. Foldingthe little creature to his breast, the messenger looked admiringly afterthe girl: he felt a glow of pride and hope for the country whose verychildren responded to the call of patriotism. "Now, God help me, I willcarry this lamb to the city as a sacrifice." So saying, he set his faceto the east and vigorously strode forward.

MOODUS NOISES

The village of Moodus, Connecticut, was troubled with noises. There is noquestion as to that. In fact, Machimoodus, the Indian name of the spot,means Place of Noises. As early as 1700, and for thirty years after,there were crackings and rumblings that were variously compared tofusillades, to thunder, to roaring in the air, to the breaking of rocks,to reports of cannon. A man who was on Mount Tom while the noises wereviolent describes the sound as that of rocks falling into immense cavernsbeneath his feet and striking against cliffs as they fell. Houses shookand people feared.

Rev. Mr. Hosmer, in a letter written to a friend in Boston in 1729, saysthat before white settlers appeared there was a large Indian population,that powwows were frequent, and that the natives "drove a prodigioustrade at worshipping the devil." He adds:—"An old Indian was asked whatwas the reason of the noises in this place, to which he replied that theIndian's god was angry because Englishman's god was come here. Now,whether there be anything diabolical in these things I know not, but thisI know, that God Almighty is to be seen and trembled at in what has beenoften heard among us. Whether it be fire or air distressed in thesubterranean caverns of the earth cannot be known for there is noeruption, no explosion perceptible but by sounds and tremors which aresometimes very fearful and dreadful."

It was finally understood that Haddam witches, who practised black magic,met the Moodus witches, who used white magic, in a cave beneath MountTom, and fought them in the light of a great carbuncle that was fastenedto the roof. The noises recurred in 1888, when houses rattled inwitch-haunted Salem, eight miles away, and the bell on the village church"sung like a tuning-fork." The noises have occurred simultaneously withearthquakes in other parts of the country, and afterward rocks have beenfound moved from their bases and cracks have been discovered in theearth. One sapient editor said that the pearls in the mussels in Salmonand Connecticut Rivers caused the disturbance.

If the witch-fights were continued too long the king of Machimoddi, whosat on a throne of solid sapphire in the cave whence the noises came,raised his wand: then the light of the carbuncle went out, peals ofthunder rolled through the rocky chambers, and the witches rushed intothe air. Dr. Steele, a learned and aged man from England, built acrazy-looking house in a lonely spot on Mount Tom, and was soon as much amystery as the noises, for it was known that he had come to this countryto stop them by magic and to seize the great carbuncle in the cave—if hecould find it. Every window, crack, and keyhole was closed, and nobodywas admitted while he stayed there, but the clang of hammers was heard inhis house all night, sparks shot from his chimney, and strange odors werediffused. When all was ready for his adventure he set forth, his pathmarked by a faint light that moved before him and stopped at the closedentrance to the cavern.

Loud were the Moodus noises that night. The mountain shook and groans andhisses were heard in the air as he pried up the stone that lay across thepit-mouth. When he had lifted it off a light poured from it and streamedinto the heaven like a crimson comet or a spear of the northern aurora.It was the flash of the great carbuncle, and the stars seen through itwere as if dyed in blood. In the morning Steele was gone. He had takenship for England. The gem carried with it an evil fate, for the galleysank in mid-ocean; but, though buried beneath a thousand fathoms ofwater, the red ray of the carbuncle sometimes shoots up from the sea, andthe glow of it strikes fear into the hearts of passing sailors. Longafter, when the booming was heard, the Indians said that the hill wasgiving birth to another beautiful stone.

Such cases are not singular. A phenomenon similar to the Moodus noises,and locally known as "the shooting of Nashoba Hill," occurs at times inthe eminence of that name near East Littleton, Massachusetts. Thestrange, deep rumbling was attributed by the Indians to whirlwinds tryingto escape from caves.

Bald Mountain, North Carolina, was known as Shaking Mountain, for strangesounds and tremors were heard there, and every moonshiner who had hiscabin on that hill joined the church and was diligent in worship until helearned that the trembling was due to the slow cracking and separation ofa great ledge.

At the end of a hot day on Seneca Lake, New York, are sometimes heard the"lake guns," like exploding gas. Two hundred years ago Agayentah, a wiseand honored member of the Seneca tribe, was killed here by alightning-stroke. The same bolt that slew him wrenched a tree from thebank and hurled it into the water, where it was often seen afterward,going about the lake as if driven by unseen currents, and among thewhites it got the name of the Wandering Jew. It is often missing forweeks together, and its reappearances are heralded by the low boomingof—what? The Indians said that the sound was but the echo of Agayentah'svoice, warning them of dangers and summoning them to battle, while theWandering Jew became his messenger.

HADDAM ENCHANTMENTS

When witchcraft went rampant through New England the Connecticut town ofHaddam owned its share of ugly old women, whom it tried to reform bylectures and ducking, instead of killing. It was averred that GoodySo-and-So had a black cat for a familiar, that Dame Thus-and-Thus rode ona broomstick on stormy nights and screeched and gibbered down thefarm-house chimneys, and there were dances of old crones at Devils' HopYard, Witch Woods, Witch Meadows, Giant's Chair, Devil's Footprint, andDragon's Rock. Farmers were especially fearful of a bent old hag in a redhood, who seldom appeared before dusk, but who was apt to be foundcrouched on their door-steps if they reached home late, her mole-coveredcheeks wrinkled with a grin, two yellow fangs projecting between herlips, and a light shining from her eyes that numbed all on whom shelooked. On stormy nights she would drum and rattle at windows, and byfirelight and candle-light her face was seen peering through the panes.

At Chapman Falls, where the attrition of a stream had worn pot-holes inthe rocks, there were meetings of Haddam witches, to the number of adozen. They brewed poisons in those holes, cast spells, and talked inharsh tongues with the arch fiend, who sat on the brink of the ravinewith his tail laid against his shoulder, like a sceptre, and a red glowemanating from his body.

In Devils' Hop Yard was a massive oak that never bears leaves or acorns,for it has been enchanted since the time that one of the witches, in theform of a crow, perched on the topmost branch, looked to the four pointsof the compass, and flew away. That night the leaves fell off, the twigsshrivelled, sap ceased to run, and moss began to beard its skeletonlimbs.

The appearance of witches in the guise of birds was no unusual thing,indeed, and a farmer named Blakesley shot one of them in that form. Hewas hunting in a meadow when a rush of wings was heard and he saw passoverhead a bird with long neck, blue feathers, and feet like scrawnyhands. It uttered a cry so weird, so shrill, so like mocking laughterthat it made him shudder. This bird alighted on a dead tree and he shotat it. With another laughing yell it circled around his head. Three timeshe fired with the same result. Then he resolved to see if it wereuncanny, for nothing evil can withstand silver—except Congress. Havingno bullets of that metal he cut two silver buttons from his shirt andrammed them home with a piece of cloth and a prayer. This time the birdscreamed in terror, and tried, but vainly, to rise from the limb. Hefired. The creature dropped, with a button in its body, and fell on itsright side. At that moment an old woman living in a cabin five milesdistant arose from her spinning-wheel, gasped, and fell on her rightside-dead.

BLOCK ISLAND AND THE PALATINE

Block Island, or Manisees, is an uplift of clayey moorland betweenMontauk and Gay Head. It was for sailors an evil place and "bad medicine"for Indians, for men who had been wrecked there had been likewise robbedand ill treated—though the honest islanders of to-day deny it—while theIndians had been driven from their birthright after hundreds of theirnumber had fallen in its defence. In the winter of 1750-51 the shipPalatine set forth over the seas with thrifty Dutch merchants andemigrants, bound for Philadelphia, with all their goods. A gale delayedthem and kept them beating to and fro on the icy seas, unable to reachland. The captain died—it was thought that he was murdered—and thesailors, a brutal set even for those days, threw off all discipline,seized the stores and arms, and starved the passengers into giving uptheir money.

When those died of hunger whose money had given out—for twenty guilderswere demanded for a cup of water and fifty rix dollars for abiscuit—their bodies were flung into the sea, and when the crew hadsecured all that excited their avarice they took to their boats, leavingship and passengers to their fate. It is consoling to know that thesailors never reached a harbor. The unguided ship, in sight of land, yettossed at the mercy of every wind and tenanted by walking skeletons,struck off Block Island one calm Sunday morning and the wreckers wholived along the shore set out for her. Their first work was to rescue thepassengers; then they returned to strip everything from the hulk that thecrew had left; but after getting her in tow a gale sprang up, and seeingthat she was doomed to be blown off shore, where she might become adangerous obstruction or a derelict, they set her on fire. From the rocksthey watched her drift into misty darkness, but as the flames mounted tothe trucks a scream rang across the whitening sea: a maniac woman hadbeen left on board. The scream was often repeated, each time morefaintly, and the ship passed into the fog and vanished.

A twelvemonth later, on the same evening of the year, the islanders werestartled at the sight of a ship in the offing with flames lapping up hersides and rigging, and smoke clouds rolling off before the wind. Itburned to the water's edge in sight of hundreds. In the winter followingit came again, and was seen, in fact, for years thereafter at regularintervals, by those who would gladly have forgotten the sight of it (oneof the community, an Indian, fell into madness whenever he saw thelight), while those who listened caught the sound of a woman's voiceraised in agony above the roar of fire and water.

Substantially the same story is told of a point on the North Carolinacoast, save that in the latter case the passengers, who were from theBavarian Palatinate, were put to the knife before their goods were taken.The captain and his crew filled their boats with treasure and pulled awayfor land, first firing the ship and committing its ghastly freight to theflames. The ship followed them almost to the beach, ere it fell topieces, as if it were an animate form, bent on vengeance. The pirateslanded, but none profited by the crime, all of them dying poor andforsaken.

THE BUCCANEER

Among the natives of Block Island was a man named Lee. Born in the lastcentury among fishermen and wreckers, he has naturally taken to the seafor a livelihood, and, never having known the influences of education andrefinement, he is rude and imperious in manner. His ship lies in aSpanish port fitting for sea, but not with freight, for, tired ofpeaceful trading, Lee is equipping his vessel as a privateer. A Spanishlady who has just been bereaved of her husband comes to him to ask apassage to America, for she has no suspicion of his intent. Her jewelsand well-filled purse arouse Lee's cupidity, and with pretended sympathyhe accedes to her request, even going so far as to allow Senora'sfavorite horse to be brought aboard.

Hardly is the ship in deep water before the lady's servants are stabbedin their sleep and Lee smashes in the door of her cabin. Realizing hispurpose, and preferring to sacrifice life to honor, she eludes him,climbs the rail, and leaps into the sea, while the ship ploughs on. As apoor revenge for being thus balked of his prey the pirate has thebeautiful white horse flung overboard, the animal shrilling a neigh thatseems to reach to the horizon, and is like nothing ever heard before. Butthese things he affects to forget in dice and drinking. In a dispute overa division of plunder Lee stabs one of his men and tosses him overboard.Soon the rovers come to Block Island, where, under cover of night, theycarry ashore their stealings to hide them in pits and caves, reservingenough gold to buy a welcome from the wreckers, and here they live for ayear, gaming and carousing. Their ship has been reported as a pirate andto baffle search it is set adrift.

One night a ruddy star is seen on the sea-verge and the ruffians leavetheir revelling to look at it, for it is growing into sight fast. Itspeeds toward them and they can now see that it is a ship—theirshipwrapped in flames. It stops off shore, and out of the ocean at itsprow emerges something white that they say at first is a wave-crestrolling upon the sands; but it does not dissolve as breakers do: itrushes on; it scales the bluff it is a milk-white horse, that gallops tothe men, who inly wonder if this is an alcoholic vision, and glares atLee. A spell seems to be laid on him, and, unable to resist it, thebuccaneer mounts the animal. It rushes away, snorting and plunging, tothe highest bluff, whence Lee beholds, in the light of the burning ship,the bodies of all who have been done to death by him, staring into hiseyes through the reddening waves.

At dawn the horse sinks under him and he stands there alone. From thathour even his companions desert him. They fear to share his curse. Hewanders about the island, a broken, miserable man, unwilling to live,afraid to die, refused shelter and friendship, and unable to reach themainland, for no boat will give him passage. After a year of thisexistence the ship returns, the spectre horse rises from the deep andclaims Lee again for a rider. He mounts; the animal speeds away to thecliff, but does not pause at the brink this time: with a sickening jumpand fall he goes into the sea. Spurning the wave-tops in his flight hemakes a circuit of the burning ship, and in the hellish light, that fillsthe air and penetrates to the ocean bottom, the pirate sees again hisvictims looking up with smiles and arms spread to embrace him.

There is a cry of terror as the steed stops short; then a gurgle, andhorse and rider have disappeared. The fire ship vanishes and the night isdark.

ROBERT LOCKWOOD'S FATE

In the winter of 1779, General Putnam was stationed at Reading,Connecticut, with a band of ill-fed, unpaid troops. He was quartered atthe Marvin house, and Mary, daughter of farmer Marvin, won her way to theheart of this rough soldier through the excellence of her dumplings andthe invigorating quality of her flip. He even took her into hisconfidence, and, being in want of a spy in an emergency, he playfullyasked her if she knew any brave fellow who could be trusted to take afalse message into the British lines that would avert an impendingattack. Yes, she knew such an one, and would guarantee that he would takethe message if the fortunes of the colonial army would be helped thereby.Putnam assured her that it would aid the patriot cause, and, farther,that he would reward her; whereat, with a smile and a twinkling eye, thegirl received the missive and left the room.

When daylight had left the sky, Mary slipped out of the house, crossed apasture, entered a ravine, and in a field beyond reached a cattleshelter. On the instant a tall form stepped from the shadows and she sankinto its embrace. There was a kiss, a moment of whispered talk, and thegirl hurriedly asked her lover if he would carry a letter to the Britishheadquarters, near Ridgefield. Of course he would. But he must not readit, and he must on no account say from whom he had it. The young manconsented without a question—that she required it was sufficient; so,thrusting the tiny paper into his hand and bidding him God-speed, shegave him another kiss and they parted—he to go on his errand, she topass the night with the clergyman's daughter at the parsonage. At aboutten o'clock Putnam was disturbed by the tramping of feet and a tall,goodlooking fellow was thrust into his room by a couple of soldiers. Thecaptive had been found inside the lines, they said, in consultation withsome unknown person who had escaped the eye of the sentry in thedarkness. When captured he had put a piece of paper into his mouth andswallowed it. He gave the name of Robert Lockwood, and when Putnamdemanded to know what he had been doing near the camp without a permit hesaid that he was bound by a promise not to tell.

"Are you a patriot?" asked the general.

"I am a royalist. I do not sympathize with rebellion. I have been a manof peace in this war."

Putnam strode about the room, giving vent to his passion in languageneither choice nor gentle, for he had been much troubled by spies andinformers since he had been there. Then, stopping, he said:

"Some one was with you to-night-some of my men. Tell me that traitor'sname and I'll spare your life and hang him before the whole army."

The prisoner turned pale and dropped his head. He would not violate hispromise.

"You are a British spy, and I'll hang you at sunrise!" roared Putnam.

In vain the young man pleaded for time to appeal to Washington. He wasnot a spy, he insisted, and it would be found, perhaps too late, that aterrible mistake had been committed. His words were unheeded: he was ledaway and bound, and as the sun was rising on the next morning thesentence of courtmartial was executed upon him.

At noon Mary returned from the parsonage, her eyes dancing and her mouthdimpling with smiles. Going to Putnam, she said, with a dash ofsauciness, "I have succeeded, general. I found a lad last night to takeyour message. I had to meet him alone, for he is a Tory; so he cannotenter this camp. The poor fellow had no idea that he was doing a servicefor the rebels, for he did not know what was in the letter, and I boundhim not to tell who gave it to him. You see, I punished him for abidingby the king."

The general laughed and gazed at her admiringly.

"You're a brave girl," he said, "and I suppose you've come for yourreward. Well, what is it to be?"

"I want a pass for Robert Lockwood. He is the royalist I spoke of, but hewill not betray you, for he is not a soldier; and—his visits make mevery happy."

"The spy you hanged this morning," whispered an aide in Putnam's ear.
"Give her the pass and say nothing of what has happened."

The general started, changed color, and paused; then he signed the orderwith a dash, placed it in the girl's hand, gravely kissed her, watchedher as she ran lightly from the house, and going to his bedroom closedthe door and remained alone for an hour. From that time he never spoke ofthe affair, but when his troops were ordered away, soon after, he almostblenched as he gave good-by to Mary Marvin, and met her sad, reproachfullook, though to his last day he never learned whether or no she haddiscovered Robert Lockwood's fate.

LOVE AND RUM

Back in the seventeenth century a number of Yankee traders arrived inNaugatuck to barter blankets, beads, buttons, Bibles, and brandy forskins, and there they met chief Toby and his daughter. Toby was not apleasing person, but his daughter was well favored, and one of thetraders told the chief that if he would allow the girl to go to Bostonwith him he would give to him—Toby—a quart of rum. Toby was willingenough. He would give a good deal for rum. But the daughter declined tobe sold off in such a fashion unless—she coyly admitted—she could havehalf of the rum herself. Loth as he was to do so, Toby was brought toagree to this proposition, for he knew that rum was rare and good andgirls were common and perverse, so the gentle forest lily took her mug ofliquor and tossed it off. Now, it is not clear whether she wished tonerve herself for the deed that followed or whether the deed was a resultof the tonic, but she made off from the paternal wigwam and was presentlyseen on the ledge of Squaw Rock, locally known also as High Rock, fromwhich in another moment she had fallen. Toby had pursued her, and onfinding her dead he vented a howl of grief and anger and flung the nowempty rum-jug after her. A huge bowlder arose from the earth where itstruck, and there it remains—a monument to the girl and a warning toTobies.

Another version of the story is that the girl sprang from the rock toescape the pursuit of a lover who was hateful to her, and who had heralmost in his grasp when she made the fatal leap. In the crevice half-wayup the cliff her spirit has often been seen looking regretfully into therich valley that was her home, and on the 20th of March and 20th ofSeptember, in every year, it is imposed on her to take the form of aseven-headed snake, the large centre head adorned with a splendidcarbuncle. Many have tried to capture the snake and secure this preciousstone, for an old prophecy promises wealth to whoever shall wrest it fromthe serpent. But thus far the people of Connecticut have found morewealth in clocks and tobacco than in snakes and carbuncles.

End of Project Gutenberg's Tales Of Puritan Land, by Charles M. Skinner