Produced by Annie R. McGuire [Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE] Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved. * * * * * PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, APRIL 21, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY. VOL. XVII.--NO. 860. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR. * * * * * [Illustration] THE BATTLE OF BRICK CHURCH. BY L. A. TEREBEL. What the Lincoln Cadets called their "armory" was a large low hall in the basement of the Brick Church. Here they drilled three times a week during the winter and spring; and here they kept their brightly polished guns in racks ranged along the wall; and here their drums and bugles were stacked in a pyramid in one corner; and old Tom, the janitor, was their "armorer." On the walls, in polished oak frames, hung photographs of groups of officers that had commanded the cadets in years past, and one picture of the entire battalion of sixty boys drawn up in parade formation in the park; and over the door, in a gold frame, was a fine steel engraving of Abraham Lincoln that had been presented to the corps by Mr. Dunworthy, the president of the Board of Trustees of the Brick Church, and the chief patron of the cadets. Opposite the door, at the other end of the room, was a closet with glass doors, in which the battalion's colors and the stars and stripes and the markers' flags were kept securely locked at all times when not in use. The first sergeants had not yet called upon their men to fall in, and the cadets were standing about the hall in groups, pulling on their white gloves and arranging their belts, for they intended to make a brave show that night because Mr. Dunworthy was coming in later to review the battalion. It was early, however, and Mr. Dunworthy need not be expected until after the meeting of the Trustees, which was being held in the vestry-room upstairs. "Perhaps he won't come, anyway," said Captain Tom Taylor, who commanded Company A. "Why not?" asked Adjutant Dale, as he struggled with his gold aigulets. "His men have been on strike for pretty near a week now, and Mr. Dunworthy has been obliged to stay at the mills until all hours," continued Taylor. "And I saw in the papers to-day the men were beginning to get ugly," put in a diminutive Lieutenant in short trousers. "The police had to be called to clear the yard in front of the mills." "I wish those Poles would stay in Poland," remarked the Adjutant; but just then there was a blast from the bugle, and a great stamping of feet and scattering of groups put an end to further discussion of the strike at Roland and Dunworthy's mills. For those who are not so well informed as the cadets, however, it may be well to state that the trouble at the iron-mills was wholly restricted to the Polish element among the workmen. Most of these fellows were hard characters, employed at the furnaces and in the puddling shops. In all, they numbered about one hundred and fifty. Few of them could speak English, all were ignorant, and a majority had seen the inside of the town jail. But as they were the only class of men that the mill-owners could obtain to do that class of work, they had to be employed. The difficulty which had resulted in the present strike was of long standing. The men had made certain demands, and these demands, after a brief delay, had been granted. And the Poles, thinking then that any request of theirs should be acceded to, immediately asked for further benefits, and when these were refused they left their work. Some of the worst threw stones, and one of the stones hit the superintendent. Three men were arrested and locked up in the jail. This seemed to make the Poles very angry, and they became so demonstrative that, as the Lieutenant had said, the police had to be called in to drive them out of the yard in front of Mr. Dunworthy's office. All these occurrences made it necessary for Mr. Dunworthy to remain late at the mills, and consequently he was forced to send a note to the church saying that he would be unable to be present at the trustees' meeting that evening. Old Tom, the janitor, was sent down stairs to inform the cadets. Old Tom had served in the cavalry during the war, and he wore a decoration on his breast for gallantry at Vicksburg. So when he entered the drill-room he stood very erect, and marched up to Major Jack Downing, a tall, good-looking young man, and saluted in proper military style, then waited for permission to speak. When he announced that Mr. Dunworthy was not coming, there was an audible hum of disappointment in the ranks. "Never mind," said Major Downing, quickly; "we will go on with the parade just as if he were here." Old Tom saluted and withdrew. He went up stairs and stood on the front steps of the church, looking up at the clear starlit April sky. Presently, however, his reveries were interrupted by the sound of many feet and a sort of distant humming noise, and looking down the avenue, he saw a crowd of men approaching. He thought at first it was a body of street-cleaners or some other gang of night-workmen; but as they came nearer he recognized them as Poles, iron-workers from the mills. There must have been a hundred or more, and half of them carried bludgeons. They did not pass by the church, as old Tom had thought they would, but, seeing him standing there, they paused, and one bearded fellow, who spoke English fairly well, asked, "Is this the Brick Church?" "Yes," answered the janitor, curtly. "Is Dunworthy inside?" "Mr. Dunworthy is not here to-night," continued old Tom. The crowd grumbled. "Come off!" shouted another. "We know he's here; he's at a meeting. "He is not," replied the janitor: and seeing that the men were gradually crowding in from the sidewalk through the iron gates, old Tom went down to them, and said: "See here, you fellows, I tell you Mr. Dunworthy is not here, and you have got to get out. You are disturbing the meeting." "Ah-h-h-h!" shouted the crowd, like an angry sea; and a piece of sod, torn up from the grass-plot in front of the church, knocked off the janitor's hat. This angered the old cavalryman, and he gave the men nearest to him a vigorous shove, and tried to close the gates. He was unwise in this, for the Poles seized him, and soon there was a general fight, in which old Tom was the target for every Polander's fist and foot. Of course it is not to be expected that all this could have happened without attracting the attention of the gentlemen in the vestry room and of the boys in the armory. Several of the officers had run to the top of the stairs as soon as they heard the approach of the Poles, and when they reported to the Major, the latter at once ordered "Fix bayonets!" and drew his men up in column of twos facing the staircase. He had barely completed this formation, during which two of the trustees had urged the boys not to show themselves upstairs, when the Adjutant shouted from the doorway, "Come on, fellows; they're killing old Tom!" There was a swaying in the ranks, as if the impulse of all had been to rush; but Jack Downing shouted: "Steady! Company A, forward, double time, march!" Captain Taylor repeated the order sharply, and leaped in the van of his men, reaching the top of the staircase just in time to see half a dozen stones and bricks fly through the church doors. He could hear Jack Downing below shouting orders to the other two companies. Taylor called to his men to form fours, and marched them straight down the steps toward the gateway. The other cadets followed close behind up the narrow staircase, and the Major sent one company to the left of Taylor's rear, and one to the right, so as to attack the strikers in three parallel columns. The appearance of uniforms and bayonets from the church was a big surprise to the Polanders. They were so startled that they fell back to the middle of the street, leaving poor old Tom almost senseless on the sidewalk. Two non-commissioned officers of C Company helped him to his feet, and led him back into the vestry-room, where a corpulent old gentleman was telephoning madly for the police. But in the mean time there were lively times in the street. The Poles, partly recovered from their surprise, snarled like animals, and spoke hard words in their own hard language, and many of them threw sticks and stones at the cadets. Jack Downing got his forces out into the street, where there was room to manoeuvre, and formed a sort of wedge of bayonets with which he charged straight into the centre of the crowd. The iron-workers fell back like sheep, and as soon as he had the mob divided the young strategist wheeled one company against one section, and another company against the other section, and kept Company A in front of the church as a sort of reserve. The Poles only threw two volleys of stones, and were then apparently so surprised at the advance of the cadets that they did not notice these were merely boys and only half their number. But they did notice that their opponents were disciplined, and that they carried shining bayonets pointing straight out in front of them; and when they saw a phalanx of these coming down the street they turned about and ran. The Lincoln Cadets did not pursue. They halted on the street corners and formed skirmish-lines. But even this was unnecessary, for as they did so they heard the gongs of the patrol wagons, and soon a score of policemen were in the neighborhood of the church--and not a Pole in sight! The young Major drew his three companies up into battalion formation on the sidewalk then, and one of the trustees stood on the steps of the church and made what the Adjutant afterward characterized as a "regular spread-eagle, star-spangled-banner, Fourth-of-July speech." He ended by inviting the battalion to a near-by restaurant, where he ordered served for them just exactly the kind of an evening feast they would have ordered if they had had the doing of it themselves. Old Tom (with a black eye) sat at the head of the table, and after the cakes and the ice-cream had been slaughtered even worse than the Poles, he told stories of his own fighting days, and as he closed he said he had seen many battles, but none he cared more to remember than the "Battle of Brick Church." A PLUCKY YOUNG TENDERFOOT. BY PAUL HULL. Harry Brown had the cowboy fever, and this is the way that the disease originated. During the early spring Harry's uncle had been a guest with the Brown family for several weeks, during which time the boy had been regaled with stories of wild Western life and adventure until his dreams suggested a panorama of prairie-land, cowboys, a whole menagerie of savage animals, and an endless procession of gayly bedecked and hideously painted Indians galloping furiously across the plains. Uncle Joel had taken a great fancy to his sister's child, and having a boy of his own about the same age, he proposed to the somewhat startled parents to carry the lad away with him for the summer, and give him an outing on his ranch, where he would have the companionship of his sixteen-year-old cousin Frank, whom he had placed at school in Chicago for the winter, and for whom he intended to call when on his way back to Wyoming. After considerable pleading and argument, Harry's mother at length allowed herself to be almost persuaded that if he went he would not be converted into a long-haired, swaggering, pistol-shooting citizen, and that hostile bands of redskins were not in the habit of lying in ambush around the ranch for the purpose of scalping its inmates several times a day; so at last she hesitatingly added her consent to that of her husband's. During the remaining week of Uncle Joel's stay in New York the poor man was subjected by the anxious mother to such a running fire of cross-questioning, and so made to feel the awful responsibility that he was incurring by taking Harry away from his comfortable home, where he was tenderly cared for, to place him among strangers and savage beasts and wild and uncouth cowboys, as well as blood-thirsty Indians, that he would have gladly gone back on his contract, even if it was calculated to cost him a dozen of his best steers. The time set for the departure arrived, and, being a Saturday, Harry was escorted to the depot by a large delegation of his school-mates, who gazed enviously at their companion striding along at the side of his rich cowboy uncle, who had been elevated into a hero in their minds by reason of the startling tales of Indian adventure in which, according to his nephew's account, he had been a most prominent actor. It is safe to say that Harry's imagination was responsible for the gaudy coloring of some of the stories, and that the rate at which his uncle was reputed to have cleaned out the red men whenever an uprising took place proved conclusively that the savages were either so thick in Wyoming that they interfered with one another's walking, or that they were wise enough not to go upon the warpath very often--otherwise that territory would have been depopulated of its natives long before. After two days of anticipation, Harry stepped off the train at Chicago to greet a lad whom he had seen on the platform from the car window, and whose resemblance to Uncle Joel permitted no doubt as to his relationship. Frank had been written to some days previous concerning the companion that had been selected for him for the summer, and had been anxious to meet his cousin, so, as he expressed himself to a school-mate, "to size him up and see what stuff he was made out of." For a moment after Uncle Joel had introduced them, in his bluff but kindly way, the boys held back just a trifle, as though measuring one another according to individual standards; then a mutual smile of pleasure and satisfaction lit up their faces, and they shook hands heartily and walked off arm in arm, to the gratification of Mr. Williams, who heard them exchanging confidences and speculating over the coming vacation. The ride from the foot of Lake Michigan to the city of Cheyenne was full of novelty and excitement for the Eastern boy, whose previous travelling had never carried him beyond the limits of the Empire State. On the morning of the day that the train rolled into the capital city of Wyoming, Mr. Williams pointed to a natural and lofty pyramid of rocks situated a few hundred feet away from the track, telling them to take in the situation quickly, as the train would shortly round a curve and hide it from view. Harry asked his uncle if there was a history connected with the scene, and learning that his suspicious were well founded, begged for the story. Mr. Williams began in the orthodox fashion: "A long time ago, when I was a young fellow about twenty-three years of ago, I first came out to this part of the country as a member of a railroad surveying party. One awfully hot August afternoon we had worked our stakes along until we reached the big mass of rock that I pointed out to you a few minutes ago. As there was a promise of a thunder shower, according to the big black clouds soaring up out of the northwest, and as we were all knocked up with the heat, our chief gave orders to unhitch the cattle and to camp under the shade of the rocks. "We had two good guides and Indian-fighters in our outfit, and being in a hostile country, of course they were always on the alert for Indian signs and ambushes. Although we had had several attacks from the hair-lifting individuals, the same had always been made when we were prepared for them, owing to the warning given by our guides. Well, why it was that they were so careless on that day I speak of I cannot say, unless the burning heat of the forenoon had taken away their shrewdness and caution. "As far as the eye could reach in every direction there was nothing but rolling prairie, except right against our backs, where the bare and ragged rocks went up almost straight into the misty, heat-charged atmosphere. As we intended to remain in camp for the remainder of the day and coming night, sentinels were stationed on the four sides of the rock, and the mules and horses were allowed to crop the parched grass in the vicinity as far as their picket-ropes would allow them to wander, it being intended to drive them within the square of wagons before dark, so as to make them secure against a stampede. "About four o'clock the storm came sweeping across the prairie, and for about an hour the thunder rolled and cracked and the lightning flashed as it knows how to do in Wyoming; then when it seemed to be dying away, there came a blinding flash of fire in our faces and the most awful crash I ever heard. It stunned us all for a moment, so that when something came pitching down from the rocks just over our heads and fell with a thud on the sodden grass a few feet away, we imagined it to be a piece of the cliff detached by the last concussion. After that the rain ceased and the sun shone out. Then it was that we discovered the thing in front of us to be a Cheyenne warrior. After the first look there was no use in seeking for signs of life in him, for his face was as black as that of a negro's, and one side of him was horribly burned. It didn't take us long to reason that he had been hidden away among the rocks, spying on us, and that the last lightning bolt had been attracted to him by the steel tomahawk in his belt. Well, after that we pulled out on the open prairie and kept a close watch on that pile of rock for the remainder of the afternoon and night, for we didn't know how many more of the heathen there might be in hiding up there; but nothing further happened, and in the morning we said good-by to it with a big feeling of relief." At Cheyenne, Mr. Williams's foreman and several ranch hands were in waiting with saddle horses for the party. During the two days that the party remained in the city Frank gave Harry some valuable lessons in horsemanship, and after about a week's experience, in which time he became hardened to the saddle, Harry found no greater enjoyment than in galloping about the range on the back of a fiery young horse that his cousin had raised, and which he presented to him "for keeps," as he expressed it. Now Frank Williams was a kind-hearted young fellow, and during the fortnight that he and Harry had been thrown together a mutual affection had grown between them; but Frank was brimming over with mischief, and he conceived a plan for having a laugh at his "tenderfoot relation," as Harry was called by the cowboys. The few Indians who appeared in the vicinity of the ranch belonged to a peaceable tribe of Cheyennes, but when the opportunity came Frank intended for the time being to mentally transform these demoralized and decidedly lazy individuals into the most frenzied and blood-thirsty creatures that his imagination was equal to. The cowboys were taken into the secret, and a mysterious visit was made by one of them to the Indian camp, where the chief, who delighted in the high-sounding title of "Dog-with-two-tails," was pleased to dispose of several feathered head-dresses and a quantity of colored pigments for a suspicious-looking black bottle, which the noble savage patted affectionately and stowed away inside his dirty shirt. Several days after this Frank asked his cousin to take a canter with him to a somewhat remote point of the range where the men were branding the young cattle. As they rode across the undulating prairie, sweet and fresh in the early summer sunshine, Frank explained to his cousin that the Indian outbreaks were always timed to take place when the winter was over. Then he went on to state, with a shade of worry on his face, that although there had been no trouble for some time, it was well to be on guard constantly, for the uprisings generally took place when they were least expected. He kept on in this strain until the branding-place was reached; then Harry became so interested in the round up and sorting of the cattle that he failed to notice several of the cowboys disappearing into the small woods close at hand. After a time the boys started on their ten-mile ride for home, allowing their horses to jog along easily, while Frank profited by the occasion to further dilate concerning the uncertainty of their savage neighbors, and the recklessness of even riding over the range unless prepared for emergencies. They had ridden about two miles, when their ears were suddenly saluted with the most infernal series of yells that ever disgraced the human throat. Looking back in the direction of the sound, the boys saw, not more than a quarter of a mile away, coming down on them at top speed, five savages in full war paint and feathers, brandishing their rifles, while they continued to utter such unearthly screams and howls that Harry afterward admitted that his hair developed a tendency to lift his cap clear of his head. "They've broken out!" yelled Frank. "Spur for home or they'll have our scalps!" The next instant the two boys were frantically driving their heels into the sides of the speeding horses, while behind them the Indians redoubled their yells and swept furiously along in pursuit. All of a sudden Harry saw Frank's horse, which was a little in advance, step in a hole, pitch on his knees, and send its rider flying out of the saddle. Harry reined up by the side of his cousin, but Frank never moved or responded to the excited appeal for him to jump up and get on behind. What was to be done? Back there, only an eighth of a mile away, the redskins were tearing along on their trail, and here, helpless and unconscious, lay his companion. "I'll never leave him for those fiends to butcher," muttered Harry, pale with fear, but with his teeth set hard and a look of determination on his youthful face. Then he unslung his gun, dismounted from his horse, brought the piece to his shoulder, ran his eye along the barrel until the head of one of the Indians was in line, and pulled the trigger. [Illustration: THE REPULSE OF THE PRACTICAL JOKERS.] With the report the savages turned their horses and took the back trail, and were soon out of sight. "The miserable cowards," thought Harry, "to run away from a boy!" "Harry," said a very shamefaced lad sitting on the ground a few feet away, and rubbing a big lump on the back of his head, "you can put up your gun; there's no danger. I tried to play a joke on you, and the joke came on me. I'm glad that you only had bird-shot in that gun of yours, because you might have killed one of father's cowboys. But I say, Harry, dear old fellow, it was awfully brave of you to stand by me when I was knocked silly by that tumble, and I appreciate it just as much as though it was all real work instead of a joke; and--and--oh! I say Harry, old fellow, don't say anything about it, and if any one ever dares to call you a tenderfoot again when I'm around, why, I'll brand him with the jolliest, biggest iron that we've got on the ranch!" DRILLING A GREAT ARMY IN WINTER. The effectiveness of any of the great European standing armies depends, above all things, upon their being able and ready to take the field at a moment's notice. This theory is taught in most of the military schools abroad, and it is an excellent one; but there are many and almost insurmountable difficulties to overcome in putting it into practice. Still, in order to reach the highest efficiency, troops are trained to manoeuvre in all weather and at all seasons, especially in France and Germany and Russia. The Russians, having more winter weather, perhaps, than the other nations of Europe, were the first to recognize the value and importance of drills on snow and ice, and have trained their armies to take the field in the depth of winter. Germany has followed this example, and during the winter months the various corps of her vast army carried on mock warfare in various parts of the empire. Extreme cold is, of course, a great obstacle to the mobilization of troops. It is not always possible to secure lodgings for soldiers in towns and villages, especially in times of peace, when the necessity is not absolute; and the alternative of sleeping in tents, with the snow lying deep on the ground and the thermometer below zero, seems at first thought impracticable. And yet it has been shown, by the recent manoeuvres of the German troops, that with dire precautions men suffer no ill effects from this exposure. The tents which have been found to be the most useful are very small, and have proved warmer than the larger ones. The temperature inside the canvas is generally about ten degrees higher than outside, to begin with, and rises when occupied by soldiers. The men are also kept warm by having hot coffee served to them at intervals of two hours throughout the night. The chief object, of course, of winter manoeuvres is to accustom soldiers to sleep in tents during severe weather, and to learn to know the conditions which winter campaigning imposes. [Illustration: A MOCK ASSAULT ON A FORT IN WINTER.] A detachment made up of several battalions of Pioneers and Grenadier Guards was sent across country on a long march during one of these manoeuvres, in an attempt to surprise and capture a fortress. The attack was to be made entirely without the aid and support of artillery. The troops arrived before the fortress in the evening, and were immediately ordered to the attack, the plan being to take the place by assault. The bastions and ramparts, of course, were covered with snow, and the water in the moat, if there was any, was frozen hard. They approached as quietly as they could, with the intention of crossing the moat, but before they could get their scaling-ladders into position the garrison had been alarmed by the sentries, and immediately opened fire upon the attacking party. Search-lights were also brought into play to throw their glare into the moat, where the Grenadiers had gathered in order to climb the ramparts. But in spite of this the Guards scaled the inner defences, being protected by the Pioneers, who were drawn up on the other side of the moat, and kept up such a constant fire on the garrison that these troops were unable to prevent the approach of the Grenadiers. As soon as the latter had successfully climbed the ramparts, they in turn opened a hot fire upon the defenders, while the Pioneers crossed the moat behind them. And when the whole attacking force had thus surmounted their greatest obstacle, they made a rush over the inner defences of the fortress and captured it. This is only one of the many kinds of winter manoeuvres that the German troops practise. Sometimes whole army corps are sent to capture a city or to take possession of a line of railroad; and if the snows are so heavy that these roads are impassable, the railway corps of the German army can construct a road made of light steel tracks across country over the ice and the drifts. In this way they keep up communication with their base of supplies. ON THE CELLAR-DOOR. We fellows held a meeting, and Tommy had the floor; Ned Parks was in the chair, sir, on Charley's cellar-door. We'd voted for a lot of things and ruled some others in, When Tommy's mother sent for him, which made no end of din. 'Twas in the middle of his speech, but Tommy had to go, For if your mother sends for you, you haven't half a show. The thing that _we_ complained of was that neither just nor kind Is the way a fellow's mother veers, and dares to "change her mind." Old Tommy said his mother said that he might spend the day A-playing by that cellar-door; then would not let him stay, But thought of errands he must run, and broke our meeting square In two just at the height of fun, and I tell you 'twasn't fair. Grown people have such funny ways. If _we_ should change our mind When we had made a promise, why, they wouldn't be so blind, They'd call it fibbing, if you please, or something worse than that, A small black word of letters three; I've heard them plain and pat. But we left our ruined meeting and went to playing ball, And kicked it well, with might and main, there by Tom's mother's wall; For we couldn't bear to stand around the dreary cellar-door When Tommy's mother changed her mind just when he had the floor. M. E. S. AN "OLD-FIELD" SCHOOL-GIRL.[1] [1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 857. BY MARION HARLAND. CHAPTER V. Every hour of that black Monday cast Flea into deeper darkness. Because she was found wanting in arithmetic she was put, in all her classes, with girls whose ignorance she despised. For two years she had studied the same lessons with Bea, and recited them as well. Yet Bea smiled sweetly down upon her from the head of the "big girls'" bench, and Flea swelled with angry mortification between Lucy Wilson, who could not read to herself without whispering the words, and Emma Jones, whose recitation of, "Vermont is a small _ro_-mantick and pictures-_quee_ State," was one of last session's jokes. At "play-time" Mr. Tayloe went to Greenfield, less than half a mile distant, for a comfortable luncheon. As soon as he was out of sight every tongue was loosened. The boys whooped and raced to and fro; the girls knotted together in groups under the trees and upon the steps to eat their snacks and discuss the incidents of the morning. Flea slipped away unperceived, luncheon-bag in hand, to the welcome cover of the woods. She thought she was glad that nobody stopped or stayed her. Really the indifference of her mates to what she had endured and what she now suffered pierced her with a new sorrow. "Nobody cares! nobody cares!" she cried aloud, plunging into the forest until the voices of the shouting boys could not be heard. She was alone at last. Casting herself down in the friendly shade, she let all the waves of wounded feeling, the billows of wounded pride, go over her head. Up to this morning she had been a happy child, making much of her few and simple pleasures. She liked everybody she knew in her small world, and loved nearly everybody. She had never been guilty of a wilful unkindness; hatred and revenge were unknown passions. The unpleasant smile that curved the schoolmaster's lips so far upward as partly to close his eyes would have straightened into a laugh of genuine amusement had he watched, from behind the tree-boles, the look that settled upon the face, blotched with weeping when, by-and-by, the girl sat up, her knees drawn up to her chin, her arms gripping her legs. She had cried her eyes dry. She believed that she could never cry again--certainly not in that man's presence. No! not if he were to beat her to death! "If he ever strikes me I will _kill_ him!" she muttered, her lips curling back from the locked teeth. "It would be as right as father's killing that snake. I hope I shall have a chance to pay him back some day. I am in his power now, but a time may come! A time may come!" She was genuinely miserable, yet she could not help being melodramatic. She was still living in her story, but the complexion of the story was changed. Yesterday she would not have harmed the meanest thing that lived. This morning to make and to see others happy was the purest joy she knew. Her heart seemed to this dreadful day to have been a placid pool, clear because it had never been stirred up from the bottom. This man--the first creature she had ever hated--had brought to the top such mire and dirt as she had never dreamed were there. By-and-by she ate her luncheon. She was only a child, and with childhood the sharpest edge of the sharpest grief is soon dulled. When her hunger was somewhat appeased she became critical of the remnants of her "snack." "Cold batter-bread!" turning it over with the tips of her fingers. "I wonder who mother thinks cares for _cold_ batter-bread?" Batter-bread is a mixture of Indian meal, milk, and eggs beaten light and baked in a mould. When hot and fresh it is puffy and delicious. In cooling it becomes heavy and sticky. Flea's misery was settling into crossness, very much after the fashion of the bread. She took one bite out of the solid chunk, and tossed the rest as far as she could send it over the bushes. It was aimed at the creek that flowed a dozen yards away, but fell short and landed in the sand. Flea could see it lying there while she crunched a crisp ginger-cake with teeth that snapped pettishly upon it. "I'll tell mother not to put cold batter-bread into my snack to-morrow," she resolved. At the thought a home picture arose in her mind. Of her mother, with tired eyes and wrinkled forehead, the baby tugging at her skirts and whining to be taken up, while the busy housewife stood at the dining-room table, cutting ham and buttering bread, and selecting the nicest ginger-cakes for her daughters' midday meal. She had forgotten nothing, not even the clean napkin, although Calley was teasing her on one side and baby on the other, and Dee was asking everybody where he could have put his slate, and Chaney was waiting, a wooden bread-tray on her hip, for "Mistis to give out dinner." Flea concluded that she had a good mother. If she did scold sometimes, she had reason enough for it, and Flea at least, whatever might be said of the other children, richly deserved all the fault-finding she got at home. Her mother had said to herself when she cut and buttered that slice of batter-bread, "How my hungry little girl will enjoy this at play-time!" And the ungrateful little wretch had thrown it away. The Flea Grigsby who ten minutes ago was planning revenge and even murder got up meekly, crept under the hazel and sweet-gum bushes, picked up the despised chunk, carried it back to her seat at the foot of a hickory-tree, and proceeded to eat it. Every mouthful went against palate and stomach. The butter had soaked into it and left it clammy. The sand stuck to it, and Flea could not brush it quite clean. The gritty morsels set her teeth on edge, and reminded her of stories she had read of penances done for sins committed--hair-cloth shirts, and peas in one's shoes, and floggings upon the naked shoulders, and all that. The stories helped her to persevere until the last crumb was swallowed. The task was further lightened by meditation upon her mother's many sterling virtues. For instance, how she took especial pains to give the children who went to school something to eat that was a little better than the children left at home would have. She said "studying was hungry work." In reality Mrs. Grigsby had said, "stedyin' is mighty hongry work." Flea would not think of that or other peculiarities that had sometimes made her ashamed of her mother. Her mother was not to blame that her parents had not sent her to school for as many years as she meant to send her children. At this point of her musings something bitter and burning arose in the girl's softened heart. "Poor mother!" she muttered. "Wouldn't she be mad if she knew what has happened to-day? As for father, he'd be ready to mash him like he did the moccasin." The rule quoted as "a good law" by Major Duncombe, never to tell tales out of school, was one of the first lessons learned by every boy and girl of that school. Traditions of awful floggings administered by former teachers for violations of the rule were familiar to all. A large majority of parents were in the league with the schoolmasters in this matter. Many fathers not only refused to listen to their children's complaints, but punished them for bringing them. Boys actually carried for weeks the marks of the whip, and took pains to hide them from their parents lest they might be obliged to tell how they got them. A tell-tale was despised everywhere. To tell tales out of school branded boy or girl as for a disgraceful crime. If Flea had battles to fight, she must fight them single-handed. The authority of the Old Field schoolmaster was what she had learned in Olney's geography to call "absolute despotism." "He's worse than Turkey and China," she said, drawing the strings of her "snack-bag" viciously tight. "He's meaner and crueler than a satrap--or--a _Mameluke_!" The sound of voices and laughter broke in upon her gloomy reverie. Peeping between the overhanging boughs she saw what made her crouch lower in her covert. The creek was wide, and at this season shallow at this point. When swollen by winter and spring rains it was so deep and swift that a bridge had been built over it high above the present level. Coming from the direction of Greenfield, two women and a man had just reached the bridge. They were Miss Emily and Miss Eliza Duncombe, and Mr. Tayloe. He was on his way back to school, and the young ladies had walked part of the way with him. The party stopped on the bridge and leaned over the railing. "If Miss Emily had seen him this morning, she wouldn't let him stand so close to her," reflected Flea. "She'd sooner push him into the water." Miss Emily had no present intention of doing anything of the sort. She seemed upon the best possible terms with her brothers' teacher. He had a gun upon his shoulder. The woods were full of game, and he might knock over a bird or "an old hare" in his walks back and forth to the school-house. In the noon stillness Flea could hear what Miss Emily's high-pitched voice was saying: "I tell you I _can_ shoot beautifully. Just let me try." And in answer to something he said: "I _dare_ you to hit that stump in the water over yonder. The stump with the _red_ leaves on it." Mr. Tayloe raised the gun and fired. The leaves flew in every direction, and the shot pattered in the water. Miss Emily clapped her hands and screamed with delight; there was a confused chatter for a moment, all three talking together, while Mr. Tayloe reloaded the gun and handed it to the young lady. [Illustration: WITH A CRY SHE COULD NOT QUITE STIFLE, SHE RUSHED AWAY INTO THE WOODS.] "She ain't aiming it right," thought Flea, regretfully, as Miss Emily raised the short fowling-piece awkwardly but boldly to her shoulder, and laid her cheek down upon the stock. There was a report, and a rain of bird-shot fell, not in the water this time, but upon the clump of bushy shrubs in which Flea was hiding, and she felt a sharp cut across her cheek. With a cry she could not quite stifle she rushed away into the woods, too much frightened to do anything but fly from the chance of a second shot. She did not hear the shout of laughter from the bridge. "You peppered a pig that time, Miss Emily," said the teacher to the unskilful sportswoman. "You did not come within fifty feet of the stump. It's lucky the pig was so far off. I heard him squeal as he scampered into the woods. So you did hit something after all. That's a good one!" He went off into another fit of laughter. The blood was oozing from the cut when Flea stopped running, and she put up her hand to feel how much she was hurt. It was a mere scratch, for the shot was light and almost spent by the time it reached her. Her fright over, her spirits arose with a bound. A happy thought had entered her ever-active brain. Major Duncombe had no patience with carelessness in the use of firearms. She had seen him angry but once in her life, and that was when one of his boys pointed an empty gun at his brother. The father had laid his riding-whip smartly about the boy's shoulders, and forbidden him to touch a gun again for a month. "I would cowhide any man who aimed even a broomstick at me," he said. "'Gun' and 'fun' should never go together except in a rhyme." Miss Emily would be scolded by her father and made fun of by everybody else, and feel dreadfully besides if anybody ever found out what she had done. Flea would lock up the secret in the recesses of her own heart, as any other heroine would, for the sake of the beloved object. She hoped the scratch would leave a scar--just a tiny thread of a scar--that would not disfigure her, and would always be a token of how much she loved her dear, dear _Miss_ Emily. "It would be a badge of merit--an honorable scar!" she said, aloud. "I am glad, _glad_ it happened!" A quarter-mile from the school-house, the hill on which it stood fell away abruptly in a bank out of which a clear little spring ran through a pipe into a trough below. There Flea paused to wash her face and hands, and to rinse the handkerchief she had used to stanch the blood. She even took pains to make herself look more tidy than usual, wetting her "Shetland-pony" forelock, and combing it back with the round comb which she wore for the first time that day. Then she smoothed her apron, and swinging her luncheon-bag around and around as she went, she tripped blithely up the slope into the clearing that made the play-ground. At the same instant the figure of the teacher came into view from the opposite quarter, and there was a rush and a scuffle among boys and girls to get into the school-room before he arrived. Thus it happened that nobody noticed the raw scratch crossing Flea's left cheek, about an inch below the eye, until the dictionary class was called up to recite. Much attention was paid in the Old Field school to spelling and definition, the text-book being Walker's Dictionary. Two columns of words and definitions under the head of A were assigned to the class of five girls and six boys, who had been busy studying the lesson ever since the beginning of the afternoon session. For no reason except that it pleased him to put down in every way the girl to whom he had taken a dislike, Mr. Tayloe placed Flea Grigsby at the foot of the row ranged in front of his chair. The scholars stood while reciting, their hands close to their sides, their chins level, and shoulders back. When a word was misspelled, or a wrong definition given, it was passed down the line until somebody supplied the proper spelling and meaning, and went above those who had failed. Flea mounted steadily and rapidly in this exercise, spelling being one of her strong points. She was the fourth from the head of the class when the word "adolescence" was given out. The first one who tried it put in two d's, the second left out the first c, the third spelled the word right, but had forgotten the meaning. Flea instinctively cast her eyes down, and tried with all her generous might not to look elated as the trial in which she knew she would succeed drew nearer and nearer. "Felicia Grigsby!" said the teacher. "Ado--" "Instead of staring that ink-spot out of countenance, suppose you have the politeness to look at me when I speak to you." He broke off to stare at her. "What have you been doing to your face?" Flea put her hand up to her wounded check, and felt that it was wet. The water had checked the bleeding for a while, but now specks of blood, like tiny beads, were starting out along the line of the cut. Her blush at the discovery looked to the master like the confusion of guilt. "Can't you speak?" he said, roughly. "You are usually over-ready with your tongue. With whom have you been fighting, _now_?" A titter from the school behind her made Flea color yet more deeply. "With nobody," she answered, in a low tone. "My face got scratched in the woods." "Got scratched? That does pretty well for the crack scholar of the county, who is going to make us all proud of her some day. Why don't you say what scratched you?" Flea was mute; not with alarm, although she would not have been surprised had he hurled the dictionary at her head. She had seen that done to a girl by a former teacher. The book had knocked the girl down. In falling she had cut her head against the corner of a bench, and lain quite still for a minute before she could get up. Flea recollected it all in a flash, yet without being afraid. Her eyes, fixed upon the teacher, were bright, her lips were compressed. No torture should force from her what might grieve and annoy Miss Emily. Stories from _Fox's Book of Martyrs_ and _Tales of the Covenanters_, and a Sunday-school book, _The Lives of the Saints_, which she read last summer, thronged her mind. It was grand to be a heroine to save one she loved. It was sublime to be a martyr. Who was it who had written of somebody who "played the man in the fire"? Mr. Tayloe's eyes faded almost white, the glow of metal seven times heated, that gave him an ominous look. The scholars ceased tittering and held their breaths. He took out his watch. Flea noticed that it was gold and very handsome, and was fastened to a heavy gold chain of curious workmanship, like the scales of a fish. There were initials on the back of the watch. She wondered if it had been his father's, and was left to him as the oldest son. "I will give you exactly three minutes, Felicia Grigsby, to say, 'Mr. Tayloe, a thorn scratched my face as I came through the woods.' Obstinacy is what I will not stand." In the deathlike hush of the room the ticking of the watch in his hand was painfully audible to the scholars of the back benches. Each tick seemed to go in one of Flea's ears and out at the other, trailing a red-hot wire with it. She could not stop counting them, try though she might. There was no thought of yielding in her mind, but she was getting faint with suspenseful dread. Never until now had she openly defied lawful authority. What was going to happen? "Three!" said the teacher, returning the watch to his pocket. "Are you ready to do as you are told?" Flea swept her dry lips with her tongue, and swallowed hard. "I can't say what you want
{'title': "Harper's Round Table, April 21, 1896 by Various", 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}