k 4 . ‘VrI/ «v " u . V i ‘3 1. i i l 'i I l l A 1., . raw. ‘ ffi;«t\\\\ , .._- fl.--*A\_ - Ill: HMMWMMIHW» UllllllllllllIllIllllllHlllllllllllllllllllll till! wmwmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmv illlllllllllllllllllllHHillilHHlHllHHlHlllllI" Vol. XIV. Publication Office. 98 William 8t.I New York. THE ROUND OF PLAY. BY \V. B JERROLD. The horse and cart are put away; The wooden back has run its course: The tail and mane have gone astray Of our abandoned rocking-horse. \t'e'fifet bought the kite-the bran-new 1 e; A bright-red sun is on its breast; We pay out string to any height, And hold it tugging to the West. It drops—as falls the sundown wind: “'e wind the string about the stick. Now woe to him who lags behind, Whether it be “'ill or Dick. Our coach is ready for the start: Our leaders chew the wooden bit:— May they as bravely bear their part, Nor by a heavier arm be hit. Go, babies, with your kites and tops— Late partners in our pots of honey: “'e leave our cress and mustard crops Aside. And mark us ride our pony! We ride into the real world: Go—with the tart-man shilly—shally: Know that our childhood’s flag is furled: “'e'vle done with that campaign called 4‘ a i"! Shut the playground gates behind us, With rough men we have to reckon: Soon the startled world shall find us Place—where Fame and Cupid beckon. Lagging crowds shall fail and stumble, YVhile we issue stern commands: Fame, with look abash‘d and humble, Shall drop her laurel in our hands. Pass! baubles of the full—grown man: Ye stars of valox'——\vi'caths of laurel! Hot-blooded youth, pass to the van— Then over shares of glory quarrel. The riband warms the brave man's breast; The laurel heats the scholar‘s brow:— But time cools both—and peace and rest Are all the playthings I crave now— Save grandchild prattling at my knee, Beginning the old round once more. " I'll buy the horse and cart for thee, I‘Ve’ll mend the broken battledore; And if my hands can steady be, I’ll wind the string, and wind it tight— And through my spectacles may see The bright red sun upon the kite. “And then—but no, my flaxen boy; Then comes the pony saddled new— And prides the play—and maid's the toy:— My head shall be beneath the dew. Perhaps about that time you'll say To some young chum: ‘Grand—dad I knew—— A gentleman who fought his. way.’ And be it so, my lad, with you." lie flutter \_ . "How far back was it. Daniel, that thou sawest these rad-coats of whom thou hast spoken 1'" R DARE-DEATH DAN’S DASH. A REVOLUTIONAR Y ROMANCE. 5 Y ( 2 B. LEWJs'. ' ’ CHAPTER 1. WELL DEFENDED. “ What ails thee, Daniel? Why run- ning at this break-neck pace, as if thou hadst seen a ghost or a Britisher?" “ I don’t want to tell! ” “Daniel, thou knowest that it would pain me to proceed to extreme measures, but I hope thou realizest the necessity of answering my inquiry without unnec- essary delay. If thou dost not, I shall proceed to make thee! " “ There's a pile of soldiers coming up the road on horses! When I get rich, I’m going to have a jacket braided with yellow, and a horse, and a sword and spurs, and I'm going to gallop over everybody, and jingle my spurs and wave my sword.” It was in the summer of the year of our Lord 1780. Lord Cornwallis and his army of red-coats were creeping down through North Carolina, and General Tarleton, his rough-and—ready cavalry leader, was scouting along the base of the Alleghenies in search of Major Will- iams’ Mountain Militia. There had been five dreary, bitter years of war, but this was the first inva- sion of that neighborhood by British forces. De Kalb and Gates had been de- feated in the State, and most of their commands taken prisoners; detachments of British were advancing up the Savan— nah, Saluda and Santee rivers, driving the Americans before them; Washington was calling out the militia of Virginia and North Carolina, and the Tories, North and South, thought they could see the end of the war and the re-establish- ment of the king’s rule throughout the Colonies. It was a period of anxiety, doubt, and distress for all patriotic hearts, and thou- A ‘.~ for which they had so long and man- fully battled. Just beyond where the two speakers stood was a stout log-cabin, the home of Parson Warner. He was a stout, active man, in the prime of life, slow of speech, a pleasant face, and almost a hermit in his everyday life. He had come among the mountaineers several years before the breaking out of the war, his simple Quaker manners readily at- tracting their esteem and friendship, and he had acted as the pastor of the little church up the base of the mountain, nursed the sick, prayed with the dying, and advised with the distressed, until “Parson Warner " was a familiar name for a score of miles up and down the base. Although strongly sympathizing with Washington and his cause, the Par- son had not taken up arms, but had urged enlistments, in defiance of his creed, and had willingly acted as a scout or messenger when he could forward in- formation of value. The mountaineers, hardy, patriotic fel- lows, had turned out to a man, leaving the Parson almost alone. Sometimes, broken up as guerrilla bands, they were out of sight of their mountain homes for weeks, and again, consolidated as a regiment, they swept along the mountain base and cleared away the bands of Tories and detachments of British sol- diers which had come to burn, murder, and destroy. Of these bold mountain- eers, Murray, the English historian, says in his “ History of the United States ”: “ The borderers, who roved along the sides of the Alleghany were, if possible, ruder and bolder than the boys of the Green Mountain. They rode on light, fleet horses, carrying only their rifle, a blanket, and knapsack. Food was pro- sands were ready to give up the cause, Pfilfiflfl'Sflfllfl; PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY. II I; l / IIII [I’lr/ll I //////l ///l cured by the gun, or, on its occasional failure, from a small herd of cattle driven before them. At night the earth was their bed, the sky their canopy. They thus moved with a swiftness which no ordinary troops could rival.” The advance of Lord Cornwallis into North Carolina had driven these border- ers back from the southern line of the State, and they were gathering along the base of the mountain to defend their homes. From the main army, thirty or forty miles to the east, Cornwallis had dispatched Tarleton to scout along the base of the mountain, with private in- structions to apply the torch to every farm—house and cabin whose inmates, were suspected of disloyalty to the king. The person addressed by the Parson as Daniel was a young man of twenty, known to the mountaineers as “ Crazy Dan.” He was a harmless, good-natured lunatic, except when hard pressed, and many a night, when the cold wind whistled over the mountain, or the rain fell, had he been given the safe shelter 5of the Parson’s cabin. He knew that war existed, but he was unfit for a re- cruit, and had been left behind to run of errands and do odd jobs for the fam- ilies of those flghting at the front. He was making for the Parson's cabin when encountered by the Quaker, who saw from the boy's actions that he had made some important discovery. The approach of the British raiders had been antici- i pated, and the Parson was a little nerv— , ous as he recommenced his questioning. “How far back was it, Daniel, that . Warner’s heart brave and stout. As the thou sawest these red-coats of whom i two men approached he called from a thou hast spoken? ” “ Back there where the other road crosses,” replied Dan. “ Did they evince a disposition to come this way? ” The question was too much for the boy, and he made no reply. “ I had forgotten for the moment that thy brain was weak," continued the Par— son, “and I will put it in another form. “ Didst thou see—~" The Parson heard the jingling of spurs and sabers down the road, and he paused in his query. The two stood where they commanded a view of the road for half a mile above, and directly they caught sight of a score of British cavalry trot- ting toward them. The Parson saw at once that they would pass his cabin if they came on, and be seized the boy's hand and said: “ There is some need of haste at this moment, my son. It is my belief that we should reach the cabin without un— necessary delav. and as we run, Daniel, l " surrender of all inside. Ests ‘ sit“ E a. § 3 I think it wisdom to inform thee that there may be need of burning some pow- der to drive them away. I shall depend upon thee to aid me if it so be that I am called upon to use weapons instead of words to convince these horsemen of the necessity of. attending to their own worldly affairs! " The young man carried a light rifle in his hand, and the Parson, as a protection against wild animals, and as a means of furnishing his table, had a trusty rifle and a good musket hanging to books under his cabin roof. They reached the cabin after a short run, and the door was made fast, the heavy shutters bolted over the windows, and the wooden plugs taken from the loop—holes, which the Parson had pre— pared only a few days before. “Thou mayest place the powder, the slugs, the bullets, and the other stuff on the table,” said the Parson, as he fin- ished barricading the cabin. “ If I should be called upon to fire, thou mayest be called upon to load! ” The lunatic placed the powder-horns on the table, emptied out bullets and slugs, took off the covers of the cap— boxes, and waited further orders. The Parson, with his eye to one of the loop- holes, presently caught sight of the sol- diers. They raised a shout as they came in sight of the lone cabin, and two of the men leaped off their horses to burn it while the others sat in their sad- dles. There were a full score of them, but the cabin was strong, and Parson loop-hole: “Thou hadst better go back! " The men paused at hearing a voice from the but they supposed to be de- serted, but after a moment advanced straight to the door and demanded the ” Thou wouldst gain nothing by my surrender,” replied the Parson; “ while thou wilt gain much by pursuing thy ride and minding thy business. Again I advise thee to pass on! " “ Open this door or we'll kick it in! " shouted one of the soldiers. “I advise thee not to injure thy feet by kicking,” replied the Parson. “The door is stout, and it will not come down or be opened.” “ Open, or we’ll burn the house down! " called the other soldier, gathering a handful of dry twigs to make a torch. “ If thou attemptst to fire my house, I shall make use of powder and ball to prevent!” called the Parson. Copyrighted I896. By Beadle and Adams. The horses were left in the road in charge of two soldiers, and the balance of the troop crowded around the house, excited at the prospect of smoking out a patriot. The soldier‘s torch was ablaze and he was approaching the cabin, when the Parson called out: “My friend, if thou touchest fire to this cabin, thy companions will be called upon to mourn thy demise!’ “Smoke him out! Roast the old chap alive! " called out the soldiers. The man advanced with the torch, but had not reached the cabin when a flash of fire leaped from a port-hole, and he fell to the ground, shot through the head. “Daniel, thou mayest reload this, if thou pleasest,” said the Parson, handing over the empty rifle and receiving an- other. CHAPTER II. LOYAL TO KING GEORGE. Five or six miles to the east of Parson Warner's cabin was a broad, well-kept farm, and a comfortable, old—fashioned farmhouse. Everybody along the moun- tain knew the place as “The Graham Farm,” and everybody for miles around knew Stephen Graham and pretty Mollie, his daughter. The farmer was a cold, calculating man, rich, austere, and he valued friend- ship as worth so much in pounds, shil- lings and pence. People knew him, but did not esteem him, while Mollie was universally respected by the old, and reverenced by the young. Nature could hardly have played a more eccentric freak than when it gave her, the daugh- ter of such a man, a happy, handsome face and a warm, generous heart. Peo- ple often complained that Stephen Gra- ham was haughty, avaricious, and none too honest in his dealings, but it was never said that he did not love his daugh- ter; that would have been an untruth. His only child, keen and intelligent, lov- ing and sympathetic, humoring his whims and obedient to his slightest wish, how could he help to look upon her kindly? Besides, there were times when the father, cold and unmovable as he seemed, sat down by himself and went back over the past. When the dead years came back he saw in them the patient, loving face of his dead wife, who had been a true helpmeet to him. Dying, she had held up to him the infant form of the daugh- ter, and said: “Stephen, I charge you to be a father to her—a kind, tender father. There is a hereafter, and at the Bar of God I shall call you to answer if you have not done well by my child! ” The country folks could say many other things and have truth on their side, but they could not charge him with being a bad parent. He had never mar- ried again; a relative came across the ocean to care for his house, and the house and its inmates had been well cared for. There had never been harsh, rancorous words between Graham and his neigh- bors until the mother-country forced the Colonies into rebellion and then sought to conquer them. His voice was raised in defense of every action of King George, and though there were hundreds in Carolina who thought and spoke as he did, he was alone in his own neigh- borhood. The mountaineers, to a man, were loud in their praises of the Colonial insurgents, and when the time came for something more weighty than words, they were ready with their rifles. The first year of the war had not drawn to a close before half his neighbors were with Washington. Stephen Graham was too old to march or ride, but he was not too old to glory in the name of Tory, to feel that the country should be rid of all who did not think as he did, and to open his heart and give to King George’s cause when- ever asked to contribute. There were times when his patriotic neighbors felt like forcing him to be silent, and like revenging on him for exulting over the death of some acquaintance who had fall- en at the front while battling for the Patriot cause, but the thought of Mollie always restrained their hands. He was her father, say what be pleased, and thus he was safe. The Jim front of war had never passed along the mountain's base, and there were weeks at a time when father and daughter would have forgotten that war existed, but for the sight of an occasional courier or a call from a Tory. When the war broke out, Mollie Gra- ham was a lassie of sixteen. and without a lover. The father must have known that all the young men of the neighbor— hood admired her, but had he caught a “ spark ” in his parlor it would have been ill for the young man. He. expected to see her married, after a time; but he shut his teeth together hard when he whis- pered to himself that she should never marry any one along the mountain, or in the colonies, for that matter. She, his only child, must make a good match. He had a respectable name, if not a titled one, thousands of wealth, and when Mollie was eighteen or nineteen he would dispose of his property and return to England to find her a husband. A a; i n g. g 0 ‘L .f. 4'... ... ‘ J; i .‘ _t‘ . A.