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PENNSYLVANIA 
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 By henry W. shoemaker, 
 
 Author of Pennsylvania Mountain 
 Verses and President of the Daily 
 Record, Bradford, Pa. 
 
 Copyrighted 
 
 By Henry W. Shoemakbb, 
 
 1903. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY 
 
 BRADFORD RECORD PUBLISHING COMPANY, 
 
 BRADFORD, PA. 
 
h^Xl-L'i,\C' 
 
 TO MY WIFE 
 The fairest flower of the 
 Pennsylvania Mountains. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 P OUR years ago, in 1903, I published a small volume 
 of stories and legends called "Wild Life in Western 
 Pennsylvania," which ran through two small editions. 
 After all the copies had been exhausted I continued to 
 receive requests for the books, and these have by this 
 time reached such a number that I feel justified in bring- 
 ing out this new collection of stories. In this book will 
 be found the majority of sketches contained in the earlier 
 work, together with a number of new stories which ap- 
 peared in the "Reporter" of Centre Hall, Pa., the 
 "Herald" of Jersey Shore, Pa., and the "Record" of 
 Bradford, Pa. I wish to thank the good friends who 
 showed such interest in my previous book and hope that 
 this new volume will meet with the same kindly re- 
 ception. 
 
 Henry W. Shoemaker. 
 "Kresheim," Convent, N. J., November 3, 1907. 
 
WHY THE STEINER HOUSE PATIENT 
 PULLED THROUGH. 
 
 M 'CARGO was a traveling man. He traveled out 
 of Pittsburg for a hat and cap house, and there- 
 fore ought to know something of the world. His terri- 
 tory comprised mostly the small towns, and his easy 
 manners and good looks made him welcome wherever 
 he was on his rounds. He was unmarried, about 30 
 years of age, and in 1895, a year or two before the time 
 of this story, he had shaved off his mustache to keep up 
 with the new style. 
 
 It was evening when he got in the hack at the rail- 
 road station in Robertsburg to take the two and one- 
 half mile ride over to Youngmanstown, which was a 
 large place, although not on a railroad. For a wonder 
 he had not been feeling well and the bumps with which 
 the bad springs accentuated the rocky road, made him 
 feel decidedly uncomfortable. The lights were lit when 
 the 'bus pulled up in front of the Steiner House, and the 
 traveling man and two lumber jobbers got out. 
 
 The Steiner House, which was run by old Tommy 
 Mertz, had been built during the golden age of Young- 
 manstown, 50 years before, w'hen it was a stopping point 
 for the stage lines that ran along the valley and across 
 the mountains previous to the building of the railroad. 
 It was still the headquarters for bark peelers on their 
 way to and from the woods, farmers on their way to 
 vendues, and, of course, the traveling men or "drum- 
 mers." 
 
 The hotel was of a design well known at that time. 
 It had a series of three porches, one on a level with the 
 street, the others above. Additions had been put on 
 
 7 
 
8 THE STEINER HOUSE PATIENT. 
 
 about every twenty years, with the result that there were 
 rooms of all sizes, high ceilings and low ceilings and 
 stairways and corridors innumerable. 
 
 McCargo, in response to the proprietor's query of 
 "supper," said he had eaten and asked to be shown to 
 his room. A boy, with cataracts on his eyes, who was 
 carrying his grip, groped the way up stairs and unlocked 
 the door of room i8, in the oldest part of the house. 
 Originally it had been an enormous room, running from 
 the front to the back of the house, but it had been di- 
 vided into two rooms by a partition made of a lot of 
 door frames, fastened together with the knobs and locks 
 still on them. The partition looked more like a hallway 
 in a many-roomed apartment house in a big city than 
 the dividing wall between two bed chambers in a coun- 
 try hotel. The furniture consisted of a wooden bed, 
 which was painted green with red flower designs, and 
 a wash stand and chair. There was blue paper but not 
 a picture on the wall. In one corner were a couple of 
 iron hooks for clothing. The house had been so added 
 to that there was only one window left in this room, 
 and it looked out on the stable yard, now used as a stor- 
 age ground for bark wagons. 
 
 McCargo felt pretty sick and did not notice his 
 surroundings, yet he could not get to sleep. He tossed 
 about and by the feeble light from the window repeat- 
 edly looked at his watch. He laid on his face in a 
 frantic effort to coax sleep, but it did not work. In the 
 stillness he thoug'ht hej heard someone moving in the 
 room — he turned around and distinctly saw a figure. He 
 called out, "Who's that?" 
 
 There was an answer, but too low to understand, so 
 that he concluded it must be a woman. In another sec- 
 ond he was sure it was, as the light of a candle suddenly 
 
THE STEINER HOUSE PATIENT. 9 
 
 flared up in the hand of a very pretty young girl 
 dressed in black. Sick as he was the visitant was not 
 unwelcome to him, and he nodded that she could come 
 nearer. This she did, and bent over him, caught his 
 hand, felt his pulse, stroked his brow and readjusted the 
 bed clothes. She continued her ministrations but he was 
 too sick to make any inquiries, until the faint streaks of 
 dawn filtered in over the roofs through the window. 
 Then the candle went out. He rolled over on his face 
 again — she was gone! He fell asleep and when he 
 awoke was completely muddled as to whether his late 
 visitor had been a ghost or a boarder from an adjoining- 
 room, so he decided to keep quiet about the whole oc- 
 currence. 
 
 The proprietor missed him at breakfast, as he was 
 known as an early riser, and went up to his room. The 
 door was locked on the inside, and as he shook it the 
 brass tag on the big key rattled. 
 
 McCargo without a word threw himself out of bed 
 and opened the door. His appearance frightened the 
 proprietor, to whom he told what a sick man he was, but 
 with manly caution let drop no hint about his lady 
 friend. 
 
 "I will get Doc Swope right away," said the pro- 
 prietor, as he went down stairs. 
 
 The doctor came. "That's a very sick man," he. 
 whispered to the proprietor's wife, who came with him 
 to the sick room. He found a high fever, with other 
 symptoms pointing to typhoid. He returned several 
 times during the day and when night fell he decided the 
 patient was too ill to be left alone. There was not a 
 trained nurse in town, but there was a colored woman, 
 the wife of the hostler at the St. Elmo hotel, down the 
 street, who nursed occasionally, but she was away in 
 
10 THE STEINER HOUSE PATIENT. 
 
 an adjoining village with a case, though expected back 
 the next day. One of the waiter girls said she would 
 attend to him during the night, but she fell asleep in 
 the kitchen before she even got to his room. 
 
 He was asleep for a minute — or perhaps it was an 
 hour — someone rolled him over in bed, he looked up, 
 and there was his fair visitor again. This time he had 
 a good look at her. She couldn't be over 20 years of age, 
 was above the middle height, slender and well formed. 
 Her face was oval, her hair and eyes were the darkest 
 shade of brown, her complexion was pale while her ex- 
 pression, which was intelligent and kindly, emanated 
 chiefly from her lips, which were thin and curved, but 
 firm. He would have given a thousand years in para- 
 dise for just one kiss on those beautifully curved lips. 
 
 He was too sick to talk to her, but was pleased to 
 see her. Again he wondered who she was; now he was 
 certain she wasn't a ghost, but when she vanished sud- 
 denly at daylight he was sure he was going to die from 
 delirium. 
 
 The morning dawned brightly. The doctor, the 
 proprietor, the proprietor's wife, the waiter girls and 
 even Joe Levine, the storekeeper, who had heard of his 
 illness, visited him and tried to make his condition 
 easier. 
 
 The colored woman came that nig'ht, a big woman 
 with a black face and big black hands, was all that he 
 could remember about her. Her presence worried him, 
 as he feared that she would keep away his pretty visi- 
 tor. The colored woman had a rocking chair brought in 
 and eventually she fell asleep in it. The young girl 
 came in; this time she talked a little to him, but put her 
 fingers to her lips when he asked who she was. The 
 
THE STEINER HOUSE PATIENT. ir 
 
 next day came and went much as before. He was no 
 better, and with another night came more sleep for the 
 big colored nurse. 
 
 When the young girl reappeared, McCargo, who 
 had been saving his strength, made bold to demand her 
 name. This time she gave it — "Elsie Eyer," she told 
 him. "You have acted well, otherwise I'd never come 
 again. You will pull through all right." 
 
 Evidently she had talked too much, for she faded 
 into nothing before his eyes before the last sentence 
 was concluded. The next night, however, she came 
 again, but her outline was less distinct. 
 
 "I can't talk tonight," she faintly whispered. But 
 with another night she seemed all right, so he asked her 
 whence she came. 
 
 "I don't belong here," she said. "You can under- 
 stand." He did. Whether it was imagination or not, 
 Elsie Eyer was a ghost. She came every night, loving 
 and tender in her attentions. He was always better in 
 the morning, but worse at nig'htfall — the doctor and an- 
 other physician from Bellefonte couldn't understand why. 
 
 At last one night when she was with him he took 
 her by the hand, which was the prettiest and whitest 
 he had ever held, and told her he would like to die then 
 and there, and marry her in the Spirit land. 
 
 "No," she said. "I can't marry; you must get 
 well." 
 
 The next day he was worse and the doctors about 
 gave him up ; an aunt and uncle, his only relatives, were 
 telegraphed for in Pittsburg. 
 
 That night he again demanded of her why she 
 would not marry him — w'hy he should get well. 
 
12 THE STEINER HOUSE PATIENT. 
 
 "I cannot tell you." 
 
 Please, for heaven's sake, do, I must, know," 
 moaned the delirious traveling man. 
 
 "I hate to, but I will," she replied. 
 
 He tossed over in bed and saw before him a tall, 
 powerful figure of a young man, 25 years of age, dressed 
 in woodsman's garb. His shoes were laced up over his 
 trousers to the knees and he wore a flannel shirt of army 
 blue with brass buttons. His black hair was worn in a 
 top knot and parted at both sides, and brushed down 
 over his ears, while his upper lip was adorned with a 
 very small mustache. His features were large and full 
 of character, and his face was sallow and deeply fur- 
 rowed. 
 
 "This is Mr. Packer Devling," she said. "We left 
 here together, I think it was from small pox. I nursed 
 him. It was in January, 1879. There are no marriages 
 with us, but we are together forever — you must get well, 
 there is no use for you to die." 
 
 McCargo uttered a cry. The dozing negress awoke. 
 He was shaking all over. She thought his end had come 
 and called for the landlord. 
 
 ■They were all mistaken. In the morning he was 
 better. The noon train which connected with the west 
 brought his aunt and uncle. For the first time he ex- 
 pressed a strong desire to get well. His aunt sat up with 
 him at night and he steadily improved. 
 
 "He has successfully passed the crisis," said the 
 doctors. Eventually he was able to get out and go home. 
 
 "I don't think that room is haunted after all," said 
 the proprietor, "else that feller, when he was so crazy 
 with the fever, would have seen her." 
 
THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK. 
 
 IN the first quarter of the Eighteenth Century several 
 bands of French trappers found their way from the 
 trading posts on Lake Erie to the Elk branch of the 
 Sinnemahoning. They followed this stream to the main 
 run, where some of them went out the Bennett branch 
 toward Benezet, while another party of five built a 
 camp and stockade on a high point at the great bend 
 west of what is now Round Island Station. The camp, 
 which was christened Grande Pointe, and even the sub- 
 sequent history of these French pioneers has faded into 
 oblivion, although to this day the foundations can be 
 located in the pine forest which has since grown up on 
 the scene of this ancient fortification. 
 
 The French policy with the Indians was to frater- 
 nize and be honorable in all dealings with them, and for 
 this reason their trading and trapping enterprises were 
 eminently successful. 
 
 However, some few of the young bucks resented the 
 intrusion of the whites, especially after the building of 
 the Grande Pointe camp, which seemed to insure their 
 permanent residence in the locality. But the squaws and 
 less warlike of the braves, who bartered furs for hith- 
 erto undreamed of fineries and satisfying stimulants, 
 were glad of their presence in the neighborhood. 
 
 Of all the hostile braves, none cherished a more 
 bitter and uncompromising hate than did the tall, spare, 
 young soothsayer, whose name translated is equivalent 
 to Two-Pines. 
 
 He was a medicine man by descent, and in his fre- 
 quent visions he saw nothing but frightful omens of 
 his people's annihilation at the hands of the palefaced 
 
 13 
 
14 THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK. 
 
 strangers. Still, the greed for bargain and luxury was 
 too strong in the majority of the tribe to give but a pass- 
 ing thought to predictions that at another time would 
 have been instantly heeded. They turned away, shaking 
 their heads, when on festal days he mounted the Altar 
 Rock for devotions, where sacrifices were offered, and 
 commune with the spirits held, and on whose narrow 
 ledge an Indian was supposed to bear a charmed life 
 and be for the time invulnerable to poisoned arrows or 
 javelins. 
 
 Altar Rock, which modern writers call Pulpit Rock, 
 Chimney Rock, Steeple Rock and Nelson's Rock, is one 
 of the most remarkable natural wonders in the State of 
 Pennsylvania. Its diameter in no part being over ten 
 feet, it rises like a graceful column to a height of sixty 
 feet, where it is surmounted by a flat slab whose di- 
 mensions are approximately ten by twelve. The entire 
 cliff is composed of brownstone, and is undulated and 
 fluted by the action of water in past ages. On top of 
 the flat slab stands a living white pine, forty feet tall, 
 whose gnarled roots clutch at the rocks in a grim effort 
 to hold its place against the onslaught of the elements. 
 
 There is no earth on the Altar Rock from which 
 the tree can gain sustenance, but it grows healthy and 
 green in its barren home. Until ten years ago there 
 was a second white pine, the exact counterpart of its 
 mate, growing on the rock, but it was struck by light- 
 ning, lifted bodily from the roots and hurled into the 
 valley below. 
 
 It was one bright September morning, after Two- 
 Pines, the soothsayer, had spent the night on top of 
 Altar Rock in meditation and prayer, that he heard the 
 crack of a gun fired somewhere near the Sinnemahoning 
 A few minutes later he came face to face with a French- 
 
THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK. 15 
 
 man, Pierre Le Bo, dragging the carcass of a bull elk 
 to the river's edge, to sink it until he might have time 
 to prepare it for eating. Two-Pines' anger was thor- 
 oughly aroused. To see this intruder killing the beasts 
 of the forest, which belonged, in his idea, to the Indian 
 race, was too much for him, and he struck the French- 
 man a terrific blow on the head with a stone mallet, 
 crushing his skull and causing instant death. Then he 
 reclimbed to his retreat on Altar Rock, and prayed rap- 
 turously for the gift of strength to annihilate the white 
 beings who defiled the valley of the Sinnemahoning. 
 
 It was in this attitude of prayer that he heard foot- 
 steps and whispering voices in the woods beneath. 
 Nearer and nearer they came, until through the leaves 
 he beheld, to his satisfaction, the forms of four French 
 trappers, heavily armed. Two-Pines arose and stood 
 erect, in the dignity of his Titan stature, and with arms 
 folded across his breast, seemed to defy the avengers 
 to slay him on his immortal pedestal, where poisoned 
 arrows and javelins had less eflfect than drops of sum- 
 mer rain. 
 
 A little Frenchman named Lafitte, leaned his heavy 
 gun upon a snag, took careful aim and fired at the de- 
 fiant warrior. There was a loud report, and when the 
 foul-smelling smoke had cleared, the dead body of Two- 
 Pines lay upon the Altar Rock. 
 
 An hour later the Frenchmen abandoned Grande 
 Pointe with its valuable stores, and started down stream 
 in canoes. That night the camp was looted and burned 
 by the Indians and whether the trappers succeeded in 
 reaching a friendly refuge or were murdered on the way 
 has never yet been fully ascertained. But from the flat 
 top of Altar Rock two little pines sprouted slender and 
 
i6 THE STORY OF ALTAR ROCK. 
 
 straight, with long silky needles. Taller and taller they 
 grew, until, side by side, with their smooth barked 
 trunks and shapely tangle of dark green foliage, they 
 resembled the figure of an Indian youth, the slain but 
 defiant Two-Pines. 
 
THE SPOOK OF SPOOK HILL. 
 
 MUCH was added to the air of mystery and romance 
 which has always surrounded the steep, oak- 
 covered knoll near Pine Station, Clinton County, when 
 in i860, some workmen in digging a cut for the Phila 
 delphia & Erie railroad, unearthed the foundation of an 
 ancient stockade and blockhouse. 
 
 From that time to the present, the antiquarians 
 and local historians have wrangled over the name and 
 traditions of this fort, some declaring it to be the ruins 
 of Fort Home, in reality a structure of more recent 
 construction, and columns have been written in the news- 
 papers, but apparently none were aware of the true his- 
 tory or connected this mysterious fort, in any other than 
 a remote way, with the famous headless spook who 
 haunts the spot where the old fort stood, and gave 
 Spook Hill its name. 
 
 From the lips of an ancient citizen of Pine, I heard 
 what he declares to be 'the true tale of Spook Hill and 
 the fortress ; and my informant tells me that his authori- 
 ty is from no less a personage than Peter Pence, the 
 Indian fighter, who in turn heard it from still earlier 
 settlers. 
 
 "One cold night," said the aged citizen of Pine, 
 "Lieutenant Gaston Bushong, of the French trading 
 post 'Numero Sept,' was sitting before the blazing beech- 
 wood fire in the blockhouse, half dozing under the gentle 
 influence of crackling logs. He was the second in 
 command of a chain of posts which extended from Lake 
 Erie east to Shickshinny (Luzerne cpunty) and was 
 noted as a shrewd trader, and a stern but honorable 
 friend of the Indians. 
 
 17 
 
i8 THE SPOOK OF SPOOK HILL. 
 
 At a homemade slab table nearby sat his niece, the 
 beautiful Jacqueline Le Van, who was busily engaged in 
 writing a diary of her experiences in a huge leather- 
 bound copy book. Jacqueline was a girl of much talent, 
 of excellent family, who had left her parents' chateau in 
 the south of France to accompany her uncle to the wilds 
 of Pennsylvania, as she was ambitious to learn enough 
 of life in the new country to compile a book of travels, 
 which it was her dream to publish when she would re- 
 turn to France. 
 
 In a corner lay four sleeping French trappers, in 
 ragged suits of buckskin, and beside the iron-bound door 
 was crouched a spotted one-eyed hound. 
 
 Suddenly the hound jumped up, sniffing the air and 
 barking loudly, while a sound of footsteps could be 
 heard from the outside. Everything became in a state 
 of confusion in the blockhouse. Lieutenant Bushong 
 seized his pistol, the sleeping Frenchmen jumped to their 
 feet and slouched to the gun racks, until a voice from 
 without called 'Bushong! Bushong! ouvrez la porte. 
 C'est Le Brun.' 
 
 Lieutenant Bushong evidently recognized the 
 speaker, for he replaced his pistol on the table and or- 
 dered one of the trappers to unbolt the door. This was 
 done as quickly as possible, and in walked a young man 
 of about twenty-five years, swarthy and bearded, clad 
 in semi-military, semi-backwoodsman's garb. He was 
 followed by four trappers, each carrying three or four 
 guns, the last one dragging a bag of ammunition. 
 
 Lieutenant Bushong was amazed to see the garri- 
 son of post 'Numero Six' at such an hour and so far 
 down the Susquehanna, but before he could express his 
 amazement, Le Brun, the leader of the newcomers, ex- 
 
THE SPOOK OF SPOOK HILL. 19 
 
 claimed, "Excuse our presence here, sir, but an unfor- 
 liunate thing has happened. One of our men killed an 
 Indian medicine man named Two-Pines on yesterday. 
 The redskins are enraged; we fled for our lives." 
 
 "A grave mistake, a grievous blunder," said Lieu- 
 tenant Bushong calmly. "No matter what the provoca- 
 tion, it was contrary to the policy of our company; but 
 since your man has destroyed the life of this Indian, you 
 had better make yourself comfortable here until the 
 matter can be referred to the Council of Chiefs." 
 
 Both parties of trappers were soon exchanging 
 reminiscences. Lieutenant Bushong and Le Brun dis- 
 cussed in undertones the different phases of the unfor- 
 tunate killing. The beautiful Jacqueline Le Van re- 
 sumed her voluminous diary writing, and the blockhouse 
 once more resumed its nightly tranquility. 
 
 Next morning, to make sure, a reconnoissance was 
 taken from the little watch-tower on top of the fort. 
 No Indians were reported in sight, so the whole party 
 spent the day sunning and packing furs to be shipped 
 down the river. About 5 o'clock in the afternoon, Louis 
 Lafitte, a little humpbacked Frenchman, w'ho was said 
 to have slain the medicine man, went out in the stock- 
 ade to chop some wood, but he had scarcely raised his 
 axe before a well-directed bullet, fired evidently by an 
 Indian, pierced his skull and he fell over dead. This 
 meant that the refugees had been followed and a skir- 
 mish was imminent. Lafitte's body was left out Over 
 night, no one caring to run the risk of going after it, 
 but just before daybreak his companions buried him 
 near where he fell. However, the cover of partial dark- 
 ness proved deceptive. Before they could re-enter the 
 blockhouse, the sun rose and Indian sharpshooters com- 
 menced a fusilade, mortally wounding two Frenehmeai. 
 
20 THE SPOOK OF SPOOK HILL. 
 
 Lieutenant Bushong hurried to the watch-tower 
 just in time to see a band of redskins skulking away 
 from a dense grove of pitch pines on the brow of Cable's 
 Ridge, a point of high ground to the northeast of the 
 fort. Quickly he aimed and fired, having the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing a big, burly savage roll over in death 
 agony. Then he summoned the garrison, which beside 
 himself, numbered five men, to man the gunholes in 
 readiness for an attack. Hardly had he given this order 
 when a shower of bullets from the ridge began to rain 
 in on the fort; but the Frenchmen replied gallantly, and 
 for a time honors were even. 
 
 In half an hour the Indians tired of this waste of 
 ammunition, and fifty strong the braves emerged from 
 their thicket and made a wild charge down the hill to 
 the blockhouse, the air resounding with their uncouth 
 yells. Although they fell by the dozens, the remnant 
 with reckless courage attempted to scale the stockade, 
 but as their heads appeared above the top of the fence 
 they were laid low by the unerring bullets of the French- 
 men, and fell over one another shrieking with agony and 
 hatred, not a few times their blood splashing into the 
 faces of the trappers at the gunholes. 
 
 At last, the bravest having been killed, the redskins 
 retreated up the ridge, which sanctuary was only gained 
 by eleven out of the fifty who had so courageously 
 dashed down on the blockhouse but twenty minutes be- 
 fore. 
 
 Lieutenant Bushong then surveyed his men. Two 
 of his five gunners lay dead, shot cleanly through the 
 foreheads when their faces had appeared at the gun- 
 holes. Realizing the inefficiency of his force, he or- 
 dered the survivors to pack the valuables aboard the 
 raft which was moored on the river below the fort, and 
 
THE SPOOK OF SPOOK HILL. 21 
 
 make down stream to the nexl blockhouse, which stood 
 pretty nearly on the present site of Williamsport. The 
 survivors, who were glad of a chance to escape, tied to- 
 gether the most valuable hides, brought out the money 
 from its hiding places, stacked up the guns and before 
 long had loaded them aboard the raft. The time spent 
 in embarking these accoutrements was valuable time 
 wasted, as it gave the Indians a chance to recover them- 
 selves, with the result that before the party was afloat 
 the Indian gun-fire began anew. 
 
 Lieutenant Bushong, LeBrun and Jacqueline seized 
 their firearms and returned the volleys. The lieuten- 
 ant commanded the trappers to make off and down 
 stream, stating that he would protect them until they 
 got out of firing distance, and would follow later in a 
 canoe. 
 
 Thus at the noon hour under a fierce fire, the raft 
 with three Frenchmen, some furs, forty guns, three kegs 
 of powder and a chest of gold pieces, started off, and 
 was soon swirling away with the current. When they 
 were safely in midstream, Lieutenant Bushong, Jacque- 
 line and LeBrun made a dash from the back exit of the 
 blockhouse and down a steep bank to the canoe. Half 
 way an Indian bullet laid low LeBrun, and regardless 
 of their own great danger, the lieutenant and Jacque- 
 line bent over his prostrate form, to ascertain the amount 
 of his injuries. 
 
 Quick as a flash, a young Indian who had crept 
 around from the ridge and lay concealed in some water 
 birches by the river's edge, sprang forward, and unob- 
 served drew Lieutenant Bushong's sword from the 
 scabbard; then he dealt him a terrific blow which sev- 
 ered the gallant officer's head from his shoulders, and 
 in another instant he grasped Jacqueline by the hair and 
 
22 THE SPOOK OF SPOOK HILL. 
 
 dragged her back into the bushes. As he caught her 
 she uttered a piercing scream which was heard by the 
 trappers aboard the raft, now almost to the Pine Creek 
 riffles. In a couple of minutes a crowd of nine or ten 
 redskins emerged from the brush. Their leader, the 
 Chief Susquee, picked up the severed head of the lieu- 
 tenant and danced and waved it about, finally pitching it 
 out into the river, where it dyed the water red as it 
 sunk. 
 
 But even death did not bring peace to the brave 
 spirit of Lieutenant Gaston Bushong, as now the farmer 
 boys who cross this fateful hill at noon, even when the 
 summer sun shines brightest, aver that they see a head- 
 less figure in powder stained regimentals, searching 
 among the tangled saplings, poke berries, alders and 
 grape vines, perhaps for the head he seems never des- 
 tined to find, but which found him an ignoble place in 
 history as the Spook of Spook Hill. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF POSTOFFICE ROCK. 
 
 HOW long must I bear this bondage, is there no 
 chance to ever get away from here?" These 
 were the words that were whispered to herself by a beau- 
 tiful young girl one June day, as she leaned over the 
 edge of a gigantic rock which overlooked the valley a 
 thousand feet below, where the two branches of the Sin- 
 nemahoning come together, and flow off to the east as 
 one. From her looks she was apparently not out of 
 her teens, but her face indicated that she had endured 
 much suffering,. giving her a more expressive and intel- 
 ligent countenance than belonged to most persons of her 
 age and sex. In coloring, she was a brunette, with a 
 perfect oval face. Her prominent eyes were as black as 
 ebony, and her lips were full and sensitive, with the 
 upper lip of Grecian shortness, and her arched nose 
 turned up just a little bit at the end, giving a vivacity to 
 her expression that would never grow old. Her jetty 
 black hair was very profuse, and worn low on her head, 
 while her entire appearance was intensely interesting 
 and attractive. 
 
 As she gazed off at the wonderful panorama be- 
 fore her she could see range after range of pine covered 
 mountains, some running like level rows, while others 
 were cut up into the most fantastic peaks, every geo- 
 metrical figure being represented by their diversity until 
 they faded off into a faint line far away to the north. 
 She could follow the course of the river with her eyes 
 to a point where it coiled itself back of the mountains 
 and disappeared. Everything was still, the very vast- 
 ness of the scene was oppressive! By the river bank 
 she could make out a pair of white herons wading, 
 while smaller birds flew silently from tree to tree. It 
 
 23 
 
24 ROMANCE OF POSTOFFICE ROCK. 
 
 was at that part of the day when the birds and insects 
 seemed to have ceased their songs and nature had lapsed 
 into a state of calm. 
 
 She was not alone. A few yards back of her on 
 a flat, rock, with his back propped against a hemlock, 
 sat an Indian chief, smoking a pipe. He called himself 
 her "husband." His name which to modern readers 
 would be unspellable and unpronounceable had an 
 Enghsh equivalent of "Snowy Owl;" but his appear- 
 ance was not at all in keeping with that appellation. 
 He was six feet tall, very dark, with exaggeratedly 
 aquiline features, and very small, restless yellow eyes. 
 His head was shaved except for the black top knot that 
 bristled or collapsed with his varying moods. A dozen 
 younger Indians were leaning against trees at respectful 
 distances but no word was passed between any of them, 
 and they had seen the wonderful view from the mountain 
 top too often to be affected by it. 
 
 The reader may ask for an explanation of the pres- 
 ence of this fine looking white girl among these hideous 
 savages with whom she appeared to be so uncongenial. 
 She was not with them of her own accord. She was a 
 captive. Her name was Jacqueline Le Van, and her 
 birthplace was in Gavarnie, a yillage up in the moun- 
 tains between France and Spain. Well educated, she 
 came to America as secretary to her uncle who was in 
 charge of a French trading post located in the West 
 Branch valley, where she spent a year very pleasantly 
 studying the birds, animals, insects, flowers, trees and 
 natives of this wild region, besides making herself very 
 useful to everyone at the post, keeping their accounts 
 and writing their letters. 
 
 Owing to a fatal quarrel between some Frenchmen 
 and Indians an attack had been made on the trading post, 
 
ROMANCE OF POSTOFFICE ROCK, 25 
 
 her uncle was killed and she was captured by the sav- 
 ages and taken as a gift to the great chief "Snowy 
 Owl." Of course he was impressed by her beauty and 
 charms and decided upon an instant marriage, There 
 was no such thing as "refusing" him, so they were mar- 
 ried according to the fantastic ceremonial of the tribe. 
 During the intervening three years she had borne him 
 two children, but not wishing to figure as the progenitor 
 of a hybrid race had neglected the infants so that they 
 died. This sowed a feeling of bitter hatred and jeal- 
 ousy in "Snowy Owl" and frequently he had been 
 prompted to kill her, but that he wished to prolong her 
 suffering by captivity. She had planned a hundred 
 ways to escape, but he had her surrounded and watched 
 day and night by the tribesmen, so she had given up 
 such an idea in despair. As she wanted to get back 
 to France and was deeply religious the oft recurring idea 
 of suicide was repugnant to her. 
 
 On this morning she was feeling particularly de- 
 pressed. She had overheard the young Indians discuss- 
 ing an overland journey that was soon to take place, 
 which would keep her further in the wilderness, where 
 escape or rescue would be more difficult than ever. As 
 she leaned over the rocks she thought of the misery of 
 her position, and grew more hopeless every day. She 
 called this great rock the "Postoffice," as from it she 
 could look ofif into the world beyond and wait there for 
 news, which thus far had never come. 
 
 While thus meditating she noticed to her infinite 
 surprise the bow of a canoe appearing around the bend 
 in the river. Hastily she looked back of her ; old "Snowy 
 Owl" was so abstracted by the atmosphere of his pipe 
 that he was practically asleep, while the younger In- 
 dians, imitating the action of their chief, were far over 
 Ithe borderland of dreams. 
 
26 ROMANCE OF POSTOFFICE ROCK. 
 
 Patiently she waited. Nearer and nearer came the 
 canoe. The white herons rose up and flew away into 
 the woods. She could make out there were three men 
 in the canoe. All were young and each one had a gun 
 by his side as they quietly paddled closer and closer. 
 In the front of the boat she could make out the features 
 of one of them. He was evidently their leader. His 
 rough hunting costume showed off to advantage his 
 sinewy form while his red-brown curly hair emerged 
 from under his coon-skin cap. Again she looked around ; 
 the Indians still nodded their heads in sleep. Quick as 
 a flash she was on her feet. It was a desperate chance 
 — life or death. With a nimble spring she was on the 
 top of the rock. She had to act with redoubled haste 
 lest the men below in the boat see her and call to her, 
 thus arousing the Indians, and with rare courage she 
 leaped off into space. Straight down she went. The 
 men in the canoe did not notice her until they heard a 
 crackling of boughs and saw a woman dangling by her 
 tattered skirts in the branches of a big pine tree by the 
 water's edge. They turned their boat inshore and their 
 leader, whose name was Simeon Shaffer, a young hunter 
 from the eastern part of the province, climbed up the 
 tree like a wildcat, and soon had her freed from her 
 predicament. She hastily whispered her story to him 
 and before another moment had elapsed was sitting 
 safely in the canoe on her way down stream. 
 
 Later when old "Snowy Owl" was stung by a bum- 
 ble-bee he awoke. Jacqueline was gone, leaving not a 
 sign of a trail behind her. They surrounded the moun- 
 tain, but no trace of her could be found on its slopes. 
 Among his uncouth curses old "Snowy Owl" wisely re- 
 marked : "That woman must be the devil." 
 
THE FATE OF SIMEON SHAFFER. 
 
 WHERE the McElhattan and Spring Runs come 
 together in a turbulent medley of bubbling rip- 
 ples, and birches and quaking asps thrive where the 
 forests of evergreens once prevailed, there rises a per- 
 pendicular cliff of yellow, uneven stone to the altitude 
 of eight hundred feet. The sides are so steep that the 
 few stunted trees stand out horizontally. On top of the 
 forbidding cliff, which is dubbed by the mountaineers 
 the High Rocks, a grove of pitch pines flourish, which 
 in days gone by sheltered the Indian councils held on this 
 natural fortress. Here it was that the powerful chief, 
 Ho-non-waw, would sit on every clear morning, smok- 
 ing his twisted pipe, and dream of perpetual victories. 
 And here, also, the Indian signal fires blazed forth when 
 the relentless race war was waging between the white 
 man and red. 
 
 In the peaceful lowlands, a couple of miles from 
 the Hig'h Rocks, Simeon Shaffer, a young pioneer, had 
 built a cabin and cleared a few acres of the dark, rich 
 soil. With his beautiful wife and three small children 
 he was perfectly content, and refused to be drawn into 
 the dispute between the settlers and the Aborigines. Fre- 
 quently the Indians came to his cabin door to have 
 their knives sharpened or to buy small lots of ammuni- 
 tion, and he seemed to be living among them on terms 
 of honest peace. In the last days of September young 
 Shaffer would be gone from home a day at a time on 
 hunting expeditions, as he wished to lay in a stock of 
 dried venison for the winter. He always left a loaded 
 gun with his wife in case of an unexpected attack, but 
 there really appeared to be no use for such precautions. 
 
 But one night, when he returned from a success- 
 
 87 
 
28 THE FATE OF SIMEON SHAFFER. 
 
 ful chase, he perceived that the door was wide open 
 and no fire threw out its glow from the hearth. Inside 
 the door lay the body of his wife, shot through the head 
 (with perhaps the very ammunition he had sold the 
 redskins) and scalped. The children were gone, carried 
 off by the cruel savages. The heart-broken pioneer, in 
 the presence of the moon and stars, vowed he would 
 avenge the devastation of his home, and from a peace- 
 ful builder of a homestead he became a merciless enemy 
 of the Indians, joining the Brady brothers in many 
 skirmishes of the most desperate kind. Six months 
 after the death of his wife he had killed eleven Indians, 
 including Sa-lon-ah, son of Chief Ho-non-waw, and his 
 ambition would have no rest until he had slaughtered 
 the great chief himself. From a distance he had seen 
 Ho-non-waw smoking on the High Rocks, but to ap- 
 proach him was no easy matter, as Indian pickets 
 swarmed about the approaches to the mountain. 
 
 He knew that if he shot at one of these scouts 
 whom he might meet on his way to the chief's retreat, 
 it would bring the others to him, so he decided to make 
 the climb unarmed, save for a hunting knife. Stealthily 
 he passed several sentries unnoticed, and onward and up- 
 ward he crawled on the far side of the rocks, until 
 daylight found him on the level bench, where he lay 
 in a thicket of hogberries until the dignified chief strode 
 to his favorite ledge and sat down to smoke his twisted 
 pipe. The time had come! Springing from his con- 
 cealment. Shaffer rushed up behind his foe and gave 
 him a mighty shove. There was a crunching of gravel, 
 a tearing of garments, and as Ho-non-waw fell from 
 the cliff, with diabolical presence of mind he seized the 
 leg of the pioneer, and together they went down, down, 
 eight hundred feet, tumbling over each other, and lit 
 
THE FATE OF SIMEON SHAFFER. 29 
 
 with a crash in the topmost branches of a chestnut tree. 
 The Indians soon discovered their loss, and reverently 
 removed the chieftain's body and gave it burial. But 
 as for Simeon Shaffer, his bones were left to bleach and 
 crumble in the chestnut tree. 
 
THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE. 
 
 IN the days when the West Branch Valley was a track- 
 less wilderness of defiant pines and submissive hem- 
 locks, twenty-five years before the first pioneer had 
 attempted a permanent lodgment beyond Sunbury, a 
 young Pennsylvania Frenchman from Lancaster county, 
 named Malachi Boyer, alone and unaided, pierced the 
 jungle to a point where Bellefonte is now located. The 
 history of his travels has never been written, partly be- 
 cause he had no white companion to observe them, and 
 partly because he himself was unable to write. His very 
 identity would now be forgotten were it not for tradi- 
 tions of the Indians, with whose lives he became strange- 
 ly entangled. 
 
 A short stockily built fellow was Malachi Boyer, 
 with unusually , prominent black eyes, and black hair 
 that hung in ribbon-like strands over his broad, low 
 forehead. Fearless, yet conciliatory, he escaped a thous- 
 and times from Indian cunning ^and treachery, and as 
 the months went by and he penetrated further into the 
 forests he numbered many redskins among his cherished 
 friends. 
 
 Why he explored these boundless wilds he could' 
 not explain, for it was' not in the interest of science, as 
 he scarcely knew of such a thing as geography, and it 
 was not for trading, as he lived by the way. But on 
 he forced his path, ever aloof from his own race, on 
 the alert for the strange scenes which encompassed him 
 day by day. 
 
 One beautiful month of April, there is no one who 
 can tell the exact year, found Malachi Boyer camped on 
 the shores of Spring Creek. Near the Mammoth Spring 
 30 
 
THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE. 31 
 
 was an Indian camp whose occupants maintained a quasi- 
 intercourse with the pale-face stranger. Sometimes old 
 Chief 0-ko-cho would bring gifts of corn to Malachi, 
 who in turn presented the chieftain with a hunting knife 
 of truest steel. And in this way Malachi came to spend 
 more and more of his time about the Indian camps, 
 only keeping his distance at night and during religious 
 ceremonies. 
 
 Old O-ko-cho's chief pride was centered in his seven 
 stalwart sons, Hum-kin, Ho-ko-lin, Too-chin, Os-tin, 
 Chaw-kee-bin, A-ha-kin, Ko-lo-pa-kin, and his Diana- 
 like daughter, Nita-nee. The seven brothers resolved 
 themselves into a guard of honor for their sister, who 
 had many suitors, among whom was the young chief, 
 E-Faw, from the adjoining sub-tribe of the A-caw-ko- 
 taws. . But Nita-nee gently though firmly repulsed her 
 numerous suitors, until such time as her father would 
 give her in marriage to one worthy of her regal blood. 
 
 Thus ran the course of Indian life when Malachi 
 Boyer made his bed of hemlock boughs by the gurgling 
 waters of Spring Creek. And it was the first sight of 
 her, washing a deer skin in the stream, that led him to 
 prolong his stay and ingratiate himself with her father's 
 tribe. 
 
 Few were the words that passed between Malachi 
 and Nita-nee, many the glances, and often did the hand- 
 some pair meet in the mossy ravines near the camp 
 grounds. But this was all clandestine love, for friendly 
 as Indian and white might be in social intercourse, 
 never could a marriage be tolerated, until — there always 
 is a turning point in romance— the black-haired wan- 
 derer and the beautiful Nita-nee resolved to spend their 
 lives together, and one moonless night started for the 
 more habitable east. All nigiit long they threaded their 
 
32 THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE. 
 
 silent way, climbing the mountain ridges, gliding 
 through the velvet soiled hemlock glades, and wading, 
 hand in hand, the splashing, resolute torrents. When 
 morning came they breakfasted on dried meat and 
 huckleberries, and bathed their faces in a mineral spring. 
 Until — there is always a turning point in romance — 
 seven tall, stealthy forms, like animated mountain pines, 
 stepped from the gloom and surrounded the eloping 
 couple. Malachi drew a hunting knife, identical with 
 the one he had given to Chief O-ko-cho, and seizing 
 Nita-nee around the waist, stabbed right and left at his 
 would-be captors. The first stroke pierced Hum-kin'j 
 heart, and uncomplaining he sank down dying. The 
 six remaining brothers, althougb receiving stab wounds, 
 caught Malachi in their combined grasp and disarmed 
 him; then one brother held sobbing Nita-Nee, while the 
 others dragged fighting Malachi across the mountain. 
 That was the last the lovers saw of one another. Below 
 the mountain lay a broad valley, from the center of 
 which rose a circular hillock, and it was to this mound 
 the savage brothers led their victim. As they ap- 
 proached a yawning cavern met their eyes, filled with 
 greenish limestone water. There is a ledge at tlie mouth 
 of the cave, about six feet higher than the water, above 
 which the arched roof rises thirty feet, and it was from 
 here they shoved Malachi Boyer into the tide below. He 
 sank for a moment, but wlien he rose to the surface, 
 commenced to swim. He approached the ledge, but the 
 brothers beat him back, so he turned and made for some 
 dry land in the rear of the cavern. Two of the brothers 
 ran from the entrance over the ridge to watch where 
 there is another small opening, but though Malachi tried 
 his best, in the impenetrable darkness he could not find 
 this or any other avenue of escape. He swam back to 
 
THE LEGEND OF PENN'S CAVE. 33 
 
 the cave's mouth, but the merciless Indians were still 
 on guard. He climbed up again and again, but was re- 
 pulsed, and once more retired to the dry cave. Every 
 day for a week he renewed his efforts to escape, but the 
 brothers were never absent. Hunger became unbearable, 
 his strength gave way but he vowed he would not let 
 the redskins see him die, so forcing himself into one of 
 the furthermost labyrinths, Malachi Boyer breathed his 
 last. 
 
 Two days afterwards the brothers entered the cave 
 and discovered the body. They touched not the coins 
 in his pockets, but weighted him with stones and dropped 
 him into the deepest part of the greenish limestone water. 
 And after these years those who have heard this legend 
 declare that on the still summer nights an unaccountable 
 echo rings through the cave, which sounds like "Nita- 
 nee,' 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE KNOBS. 
 
 A FEW weeks ago, while driving across the Alle- 
 gheny summits from Snowshoe to Karthaus the 
 driver reined his horses on the highest point, to show 
 me, far in the distance, the famous knobs of Clearfield 
 county, three peaks of almost Alpine aspect, which rise 
 pyramid-like above the surrounding ranges. 
 
 I told the driver that I had often seen the Knobs 
 before, and had climbed to the top of the middle and 
 largest one, and that I had spent a night several years 
 since with an old French hermit, now dead, whose cabin 
 stood in a hollow near the mountain's base. 
 
 It was on a walking trip throug'h the Divide region 
 in the days when I was still in college and had plenty 
 of time for idling and investigation, that one August 
 night, just after the sun had set behind the Knobs and 
 the heavy gray dusk was settling down upon the rugged 
 landscape, and cold gusts blew from the mountain 
 gorges, that. I came upon the little cabin by the creek- 
 side, where the hermit resided. 
 
 I found him sitting on a stool by the cabin door, 
 poor old Pierre Bayle, smoking his corncob pipe, his 
 eyes blinking in time to the musical tumbling of the 
 creek over the smooth, black stones. I spoke to the old 
 fellow and started to pass on, as I was on the last lap of 
 my journey, but he asked me what my hurry was in 
 such tones of politeness that I dropped my canteen and 
 stopped to talk with him. 
 
 His conversation led me to believe that, while not 
 a man of education, he possessed more than ordinary 
 intelligence, and a slight accent caused me to inquire if 
 he was not a Frenchman, to which he promptly replied. 
 34 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE KNOBS. 35 
 
 Yes, and more, a Parisian." So when I informed him 
 that I had visited in Paris, could speak a little French, 
 and had been on the Rue Berri, where he said he was 
 born, we became good friends, and talked of Europe 
 and Paris, then switched off to hunting, timber and local 
 politics, until I looked at my watch and discovered that 
 it was 10 o'clock and far too late to reach my destination, 
 so I accepted the old man's cordial invitation to spend 
 the night in his shanty. 
 
 After lighting a smoky little lamp, he led me into 
 the room, where I was struck by an air of old-fashioned 
 neatness and comfort, but especially with one window 
 which faced the rougli mountain height. It was deco- 
 rated by pink silk curtains tied with ribbons, and be- 
 fore it was a gilded wire stand covered with an array of 
 flowers growing in gilded tin cans, gilded earthenware 
 and gilded vases. There were wild violets, geraniums, 
 ginseng, touch-me-not, a rose bush or two — in fact a 
 bewildering profusion of flowers and queer looking 
 plants which gave the window somewhat the aspect of 
 a shrine. I looked through the window, expecting, per- 
 haps, to see a charming vista before me, but there was 
 nothing more to be seen but the rough mountain's pre- 
 cipitous sides, covered with charred logs and whitened 
 chestnut sprouts, a scene typical of lost hopes and un- 
 told desolation. 
 
 I made bold to ask of old Mr. Bayle the meaning 
 of this elaborate window garden, especially when there 
 could be so little sun where it was, and he faltered and 
 tried to explain it away; but seeing my continued in- 
 terest and air of sympathy, he sank into a rickety arm- 
 chair facing the window, and gazing into the now im- 
 penetrable darkness of the night, profound in its awful 
 stillness, he told me the tragic story of his life, wrecked 
 
36 THE HERMIT OF THE KNOBS. 
 
 from sentimental ignorance and mad desire. 
 
 "I was born in Paris, in the Rue Berri," the old 
 hermit began. "It was many, many years ago. I really 
 forget the year. In fact I never lived at all until I was 
 1 8, so everything that went before it is best forgotten. 
 I might be in the French capital still but for a single 
 moment's joy. I was a gun maker by trade and worked 
 in a little shop not far from the fortifications. I earned 
 good pay for one so young, but as I had little schooling 
 had no ambition. One bright May morning I was 
 standing by my forge near the open window, working 
 and singing, watching the breezes sway the blossoms on 
 the horse-chestnut trees, unconcerned and thoughtless, 
 when down the wide Boulevard I saw a splendid car- 
 riage approaching — I can see it yet ; the handsome horses 
 with banged tails; the bewigged coachman and footmen 
 — the silver trappings of the coach — and when it drew 
 near I saw, leaning back on the cushions, the most beau- 
 tiful young woman I had ever seen, or ever will — a 
 perfect brunette, with clear complexion and bright eyes! 
 The other workmen, filled with curiosity, for coaches 
 of this kind seldom passed our way, rushed to the win- 
 dows to admire and marvel and the revolutionists among 
 us to curse and grumble and many asked who she might 
 be, and amid the racket I heard someone say, 'She is 
 the Princess Irene Lafayette de Nemours-Perigord.' I 
 heard no more, but stood transfixed with instant love, 
 rooted to the spot, until after the carriage had passed 
 on its leisurely way. Then the master of the shop shook 
 me violently and asked me where I was. Part of me 
 was at the forge in the gun shop, but the rest of me, 
 the Better Part, I called it, went with the Princess Irene 
 LaFayette de Nemours-Perigord, never to return. 
 
 "After that day I became a poor mechanic, I ne- 
 
THE HERMIT OF THE KNOBS. 37 
 
 glected my work in efiforts to discover the home of the 
 Princess, and when I did learn where the palace was 
 situated, spent my evenings hovering about the neigh- 
 borhood, not in any hope of seeing her, but to know that 
 I was near her. On Sundays and holidays I lurked 
 around the courtyard, hoping to see her again, but in 
 vain, until I was finally chased from the premises by 
 the porter, armed with the bar with which the iron gate 
 was clamped. At last I was discharged from the gun 
 shop and I was not sorry, as I hoped to seek better em- 
 ployment, where I might educate myself to become 
 somebody, I knew not what. So I became a watcher at 
 a bookstall near the Siene, where I read books of all 
 kinds at my leisure; but my Better Part was still wan- 
 dering, and one afternoon, during my day dreams, the 
 stall was robbed and I was again turned loose. I saw 
 a vessel on the river and, gaining the confidence of the 
 captain, became a helper for my passage to the coast 
 and there thought I would make a man of myself and 
 forget my hopeless love by going to America. I worked 
 my way across as a deck-hand, reaching New York just 
 before the Civil War, and served my adopted country 
 in a Zouave regiment. The new country, instead of dim- 
 inishing my love for the beautiful Princess Irene, only 
 aggravated it, and after awhile the officers became dis- 
 gusted and had me mustered out for inefficiency. T 
 took to drink, became a tramp, and my wanderings 
 brought me to Clearfield county, where I met some 
 French people with whom I spent a winter, supporting 
 myself by working in the woods; but when spring came 
 I decided to strike out for the west. The first night I 
 stopped at the house where I now am, then a deserted 
 hunters' camp, in the virgin forest. It was in the month 
 of May, and thoroughly exhausted, I laid down on the 
 
38 THE HERMIT OF THE KNOBS. 
 
 earthen floor, gazing through the window which you 
 admire at the awful blackness of the night. All at once 
 my troubles seemed to vanish, the sun-light, in great 
 golden beams, poured through the broken panes, and I 
 felt myself back at the forge in the gun shop, the birds 
 were singing in the horse chestnuts across the way, a 
 great carriage came lumbering along, drawn by stately 
 bay horses with banged tails, and I could hear the rat- 
 tling of the silver trappings; raising my eyes I beheld 
 the face of the beautiful and long-lost Princess Irene La- 
 Fayette de Nemours-Perigord. The carriage passed on, 
 the sunlight grew dimmer, and I found myself once 
 more lying on the floor of the miserable hut; but I re- 
 solved to stay and every night since, toward the mid- 
 night hour, I take my place in the rocking chair and 
 watch with eager eyes the splendid carriage go by, and 
 feel the presence of my lost love, the beautiful Princess 
 Irene LaFayette de Nemours-Perigord." 
 
PRAIRIE KING. 
 
 PRAIRIE KING, 2 :ii>4, chestnut horse, foaled 1888, 
 by Clay Wilkes; dam, Lottie Patchen, by King 
 Patchen ; consigned by estate of late George A. Burd, of 
 Longstown, Pa." 
 
 This description from the catalogue was read aloud 
 by a spectator at one of the Old Glory sales in Madison 
 Square Garden, New York City, to a friend who sat 
 beside him. The reader was a short, stout, red-faced fel- 
 low named Harvey Albright, who had recently failed in 
 the livery and hotel business in a small New Jersey 
 town. At present he had nothing to do, and with his 
 friend, Zekey Morton, an ex-trotting horse trainer of 
 shady reputation, was attending the big horse sale to 
 pass away the time. Albright was of Pennsylvania 
 Dutch extraction, and Morton was a Yankee, two races 
 which are noted for their love of the trotting horse. 
 
 "There he comes now," said Morton, as the crowd 
 of spectators around the auctioneer's box fell back to 
 allow a sturdily built, dark chestnut horse to be led by 
 them. 
 
 "Pretty good looker for thirteen years. Got a low 
 mark and good breedin'; he's sound, but offul rough 
 lookin'," commented Albright, as he chewed his un- 
 lighted cigar. 
 
 "He'll go cheap, too," replied Morton, his lean fea- 
 tures watching the impending sale with keen interest. 
 
 The auctioneer had begun to talk: "What am I 
 bid for this son of Clay Wilkes and Lottie Patchen? 
 Got a mark of eleven made as a five-year-old at Read- 
 ville," and went on to praise the horse from every con- 
 ceivable point of view. After he had finished there was 
 
 39 
 
40 PRAIRIE KING. 
 
 a pause; several men walking around the horse and ex- 
 amining him, but there were no bidders. At last an 
 old man with a fur cap and white chin whiskers, back 
 in the crowd, yelled, "One hundred dollars." 
 
 "One hundred dollars to start him," chorused the 
 auctioneer. There was another pause and then the auc- 
 tioneer became impatient. 
 
 "Let's go halves and take a fly on him ; he may have 
 some speed left," whispered Morton to Albright. 
 
 "All rig'ht," said his friend. So the New Englander 
 called out, "One hundred and ten." 
 
 "Twenty," said the farmer. 
 
 Then there was another pause and the auctioneer, 
 after following several false leads, was about to sell him 
 to the farmer when Morton called out — 
 
 "Thirty." 
 
 That was the last bid. The auctioneer tried awhile 
 but could arouse no one else, and it was late in the after- 
 noon, so he brought down his hammer — "Sold for one 
 hundred and thirty dollars to the gentleman in the third 
 
 n 
 
 row. 
 
 Albright and Morton quietly left their seats and 
 crossed the track and went to the cashier's box, where 
 they paid for the horse out of two big rolls of small bills. 
 
 "About busted us," remarked Morton, as he folded 
 the yellow receipt. They chased away a colored man 
 who offered to lead their horse "for a dollar" and went 
 down to the stalls in the basement to more closely in- 
 spect their purchase. They found him to be a horse 
 standing about 15:2 hands, of powerful frame, but in 
 such bad condition that it looked as if he had not been 
 
PRAIRIE KING. 41 
 
 properly tended for months, except that he had been 
 freshly clipped for the sale. They exhibited the receipt 
 to the attendant and silently started off with their bar- 
 gain. Out into Fourth avenue they went and turned 
 into 24th street, where they borrowed a runabout and 
 harness from a friend who worked in a sales stable, 
 and in another half hour were driving Prairie King to- 
 ward the Erie ferry. It was on the long drive that 
 followed that the plot was hatched, and the two inac- 
 tive horse sharks suddenly became all alertness and ac- 
 tivity. 
 
 "We'll take him to my brother's farm for the win- 
 ter," said Morton, "and I'll jog him on the road, and 
 in the spring I'll get him ready for the county fairs. 
 We'll start him out under a new name, for he'll never 
 step near to eleven again, and we'll make a thousand 
 clear for each." 
 
 "What'll we call him?" asked Albright— "Joe 
 Wilkes, or Old Glory, or Keystone Boy, or — " 
 
 "Let's call him Freehold, after that town in Jersey," 
 said Morton. "It doesn't sound a bit suspicious like." 
 
 So lie was named Freehold. After he was on the 
 road three days, which was not a long trip considering 
 the number of road houses visited, the party drove up 
 to a comfortable farm house which overlooked the Dela- 
 ware river, that divides New York state from Penn- 
 sylvania. It was the house of Morton's brother and the 
 large family came out to greet him. 
 
 "'Till we got that card this mornin' we hadn't heard 
 tell of you for near on to a year," said brother Isaac, 
 "but we're glad to see you and meet your friend, Mr. 
 Albright. That's quite a likely horse you've got there." 
 
42 PRAIRIE KING. 
 
 After supper Morton explained to his brother that 
 he had come to spend the winter and do his share of the 
 work, and in his spare moments "jog the new horse." 
 Albright hung around for a couple of weeks and then 
 went away, and the next heard from him he was in 
 Portsmouth, Ohio, where he had go'tten a job as bair- 
 tender in a hotel. Zeke Morton though, worked hard, 
 all winter with the old horse and by spring had him in 
 splendid condition. 
 
 "We're ready to st^rt in now," he wrote his friend 
 the first of June, and when a week later Albright ar- 
 rived he was met at the station by the Yankee, driving 
 "Freehold," who looked like a young horse and was so 
 full of go he could hardly be held. 
 
 "We mustn't start him more'n twice this summer," 
 explained Morton, "but that'll do us. He's a sure win- 
 ner in the twenty-four class." 
 
 On the Fourth of July the combination was located 
 at Cochransburg, a large city in one of the southern 
 New York counties. A $300 purse was offered for 2 :24 
 trotters and Freehold was entered. A good many horse- 
 men knew Morton as a trickster, but even they accepted 
 the story of his having developed one of his brother's 
 farm bred horses, and never suspected an imposition. 
 The races drew a big crowd to the fair grounds and bet- 
 ting was brisk. Morton and Albright got together over 
 $400 and played their horse for every cent. Morton 
 did the driving and in the first two heats "made out" 
 for him to act unruly, and he finished among the tail- 
 enders. In the next three heats he did not tease the 
 horse, but let him come through by a roundabout way, 
 beating the country nags in 2:283^, 2:28% and 2:30^^. 
 The two owners collected their winnings, which amount- 
 
PRAIRIE KING. 43 
 
 ed, including the purse, to $1,200, and without celebrat- 
 ing quietly left town by the road the same night. 
 
 On the road both men decided that they had found 
 a very good horse and could win easily in most any 
 company. 
 
 "If I'd a known he had any such speed left, we'd 
 better have started him straight," said Albright. 
 
 "Too late now," said Morton. "In the future I'll 
 drive all the heats to win to avoid risk, and we'll turn 
 over a new leaf and be square since we're in such luck." 
 
 "It's a pity we changed his name," reiterated Al- 
 bright. 
 
 There was a meeting at Spencerville, twenty miles 
 from Cochransburg, the week following, so Freehold 
 was headed there and started in the 2 :2 s class. The 
 owners got some good bets down and Morton drove a 
 clean race in each heat, winning the three easily in 
 2 :28>4, 2 :28>4, 2 12954 . That night Albright and Mor- 
 ton left town a thousand dollars to the good. 
 
 Freehold began to be noticed in the papers, so his 
 owners decided to "lie by" for a time, so they waited 
 until the middle of August and started him in the 2 -.25 
 class at a meeting at Clearwater, N. Y. 
 
 Morton kept to his resolve to be square and had to 
 drive out to win, a big bay gelding from Pensylvania 
 called Red Jacket, pressing him closely in each heat, 
 which Freehold won in 2:26, 2:24^^, 2:23^. The 
 owners cleaned up about $800 besides the $200 purse. 
 Morton was for shipping back to the farm for the win- 
 ter, but Albright dissuaded him, saying, "Now since 
 we're racing square danger is past," and his cupidity 
 knew no bounds. 
 
44 PRAIRIE KING. 
 
 Besides, an enterprising secretary from the big La- 
 bor Day meeting at Derrstown, Pa., had gotten Red 
 Jacket's entry for his 2 123 class, and offered free trans- 
 portation if Albright and Morton would ship their "great 
 green trotter, "Freehold." The horse was shipped and 
 rested until the Labor Day race, "which promised to be 
 a most exciting contest," so the country papers stated. 
 The enterprising secretary worked up a lot of local in- 
 terest and crowds of home sports watched the Pennsyl- 
 vania and York State horses every time they came out 
 to be jogged. 
 
 Labor Day dawned bright and clear and an unusu- 
 ally large crowd was at the track. The feature was the 
 2 123 trot, purse $300, the entries including, so the card 
 read: Freehold, ch. g., Albright & Morton, Hillside, 
 N. Y. Red Jacket, b. g., Elmer Dubs, Lycoming, Pa. 
 Foster Dawson, bl. h., J. C. Smith, Beck's Siding, Pa. 
 Monkey Charlie, r. g., A. White, Carlstadt, N. J. In- 
 dian Girl, ch. m., Oscar Griem, Middle Creek, Pa. ; 
 Bobbie Good, ch. h., T. Burkhardt, Allentown, Pa. Bet- 
 ting was lively and Morton and Albright put a thous- 
 and dollars on the result. Red Jacket's owner had a 
 thousand in the pools also, and swore he'd win the race, 
 even if his horse fell dead in the effort. 
 
 In the grandstand sat a young girl named Mrs. 
 Sebring. She had lately been married and moved to 
 Derrstown from the western part of the state. With her 
 were her husband and her uncle who was spending La- 
 bor Day with them. As the horses were driven past 
 one by one to the starting post for the "big race," there 
 v/as great cheering from the spectators. Indian Girl 
 was owned near Derrstown and came in for most of the 
 applause, while the betting contingent vented their lungs 
 on Red Jacket and Freehold. 
 
PRAIRIE KING. 45 
 
 "That horse looks exactly like our old Prairie 
 King," said Mrs. Sebring, as Freehold jogged by. "He 
 has the same three white feet and pink nose, and dandy 
 mane and tail; we sold him last fall after father died." 
 
 Then she turned to the program and read, "Free- 
 hold, chestnut gelding, Albright & Morton, owners." 
 
 The first heat was exciting from start to finish. 
 Before they had gone an eighth of a mile all but Free- 
 hold and Red Jacket were hopelessly beaten, and the pair 
 raced side by side until the last quarter when Freehold 
 forged ahead and without a touch from the whip or a 
 word won in the fast time of 2 :i9. 
 
 "Trots the same as Prairie King," said Mrs. Se- 
 bring, quietly. "I swear it's him; he had a record of 
 2:11." 
 
 Her uncle overheard these words and said, "Clara, 
 if you are sure that's Prairie King, it's your duty to 
 inform the officials ; it is a serious offense to enter a horse 
 under a different name." 
 
 When the horses came out for the second heat, 
 Mrs. Sebring placed herself by the fence that separated 
 the spectators from the track, to observe more closely. 
 Red Jacket passed by, looking badly after his last race, 
 and soon Freehold emerged, stepping as gaily as if noth- 
 ing had happened. 
 
 "It's Prairie King, it's Prairie King, his name's 
 not Freehold," fairly shouted Mrs. Sebring as he went 
 by. 
 
 Several men heard her and questioned her and soon 
 a small crowd had collected around listening to her 
 story. Just then the race started and Freehold was again 
 making a runaway race of it, Down the stretch he 
 
46 PRAIRIE KING. 
 
 came alone and crossed the wire, duplicating his record 
 of 2 rig. Amid the cheers several men ran to the judge's 
 stand — 
 
 "Freehold's a ringer," they shouted. "His name's 
 Prairie King, and he's got a mark of eleven." Mrs. 
 Sebring herself was half dragged to the stand to person- 
 ally substantiate the charges, and her husband and uncle, 
 seeing her predicament, followed closely behind. Some- 
 one grabbed Freehold by the bridle and would not let 
 him be driven to the stable, and Morton was pushed out 
 of the sulky by angry men. 
 
 Elmer Dubs, owner of Red Jacket, was shouting, 
 "I want my rights" and pandemonium reigned. A 
 visiting pickpocket reaped a harvest among the frenzied 
 yokels. A boy ran up in the judge's stand and blew a 
 bugle, while a judge reached over his shoulder and told 
 the crowd to be quiet. 
 
 Then the president of the driving club announced 
 that a grave fraud had been perpetrated; that Freehold 
 was Prairie King, 2:11}^, and the two heats were given 
 to Red Jacket and all bets off. From- below Zekey Mor- 
 ton screamed a protest, but was hit over the head with a 
 beer bottle, and knocked down and trampled on by the 
 mob. 
 
 Freehold, or Prairie King, got loose and galloped 
 down the track into the stable yard. Mrs. Sebring was 
 being congratulated on all sides. 
 
 Soon the cry went up, "Where's the ringer's other 
 owner?" But Albright was among the missing. Al- 
 ready he was on a trolley car bound for the next town, 
 a decidedly wiser and sadder scallywag. 
 
OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST. 
 
 NEARLY seventeen years have passed since the mys- 
 terious death of this* old German, but the eye- 
 witnesses of the phenomena leading up to the event still 
 live, and vividly recall the occurrence. 
 
 Down in the Black Hollow, which lies between 
 Sugar and Nippenose Valleys, stands a square frame 
 house. It is now deserted, and time and neglect have 
 reduced it to the most dilapidated condition. All the 
 whitewash has gone, the windows have been removed, 
 and but one chimney points menacingly to the solemn 
 sky. A few peach trees in the kitchen garden still yield 
 fruit, which brings the small boys of the adjacent clear- 
 ings (but always in midday) to wander about the ten- 
 antless place. 
 
 Some years ago, on one of my rambles among the 
 wilds, I happened upon this ancient house. I noted its 
 superiority to the farmhouses of the locality, and won- 
 dered why it stood deserted. The house seemed ex- 
 tremely habitable, the rooms being large, with open fire- 
 places, and the barn, which had been burned, to judge 
 from the dimensions of the foundations, was equal to 
 anything in the river bottom. When I reached McEl- 
 hattan I eagerly inquired and was told the history of 
 the Michael farm. 
 
 In 1886 considerable lumbering operations were 
 being carried on by Lock Haven parties in the hollow 
 and a crew of seven or eight men, who were skidding 
 logs, building slides and shanties, were boarding that 
 winter at the farmhouse. In addition to these woods- 
 men and the family of the farmer, there was an aged 
 German named Righter. Whether he was a relative of 
 
 47 
 
48 OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST. 
 
 the family, a dependent, or merely a paid boarder, the 
 woodsmen never learned. But for some reason he en- 
 joyed unusual privileges, his peculiarities being encour- 
 aged, it was thought, by the tolerance in which they were 
 held. This old German was said to have a haunted 
 mind, and it was impossible for him to sleep at night, 
 the very approach of dusk sending him off into indes- 
 cribable fits of terror and fear. Every evening six large 
 kerosene lamps were placed in his bedroom, over the 
 "back kitchen," and all night long he would walk up and 
 down the room, sometimes crying piteously. But at 
 sunrise he would throw open the shutters, extinguish 
 the lamps, and lie down for a comfortable sleep which 
 would last pretty nearly all day. He apparently came 
 down stairs but for one meal, which was toward sun- 
 down, but the family left loaves of bread and crocks of 
 milk in his room when he retired for his nocturnal strug- 
 gles. Several woodsmen who slept below in the kitchen 
 complained that his tramping and wailing kept them 
 awake, but the farmer gave them the alternative of en- 
 during it or leaving. He said his family had "gotten 
 used to it and others could too." Who this old man 
 was, where he came from, and what ailed him was an 
 unceasingly interesting topic of conversation among the 
 naturally curious woodsmen. They tried to engage him 
 in conversation, but could not even learn his first name. 
 "Righter's my name," was all he would say. 
 
 When the first shadows would creep into the cor- 
 ners of the kitchen where this odd German spent his 
 afternoons, he would jump up from his chair and cry, 
 "light der lamps, light der lamps." The children, who 
 were well trained, would run up stairs and illuminate 
 his room and close the shutters, then, preceded by a boy 
 carrying a lighted candle, he would climb up the narrow, 
 
OLD RIGHTER'S GHOST. 49 
 
 rickety stairs, lock and bolt his door, and commence his 
 nightly tramp, tramp. This kept up all winter long, 
 until one evening in the month of April, at seven o'clock 
 a piercing shriek was heard from old Righter's room. 
 The woodsmen, who were all in the kitchen, having just 
 finished supper, ran up the back stairs to the room, and 
 finding the door locked, pounded on it vigorously. 
 
 Then a child's voice was heard from below, "Here 
 comes Daddy Righter now," and the sound of feet could 
 be heard on the front stairs. Some of the men rushed 
 down stairs again and toward the front door, while 
 others continued battering down the door to the recluse's 
 room. 
 
 Those who came down saw a remarkable sight, for 
 with leisurely tread, Righter could be seen coming down 
 the front stairs, a smile playing over his distorted fea- 
 tures. The men looked at him aghast. He slowly 
 opened the front door and walked across the yard to 
 the front gate, leaving his footprints on the soft, muddy 
 path. When the men recovered from their fright, they 
 made after him, but he had vanished in the semi-dark- 
 ness. In the meantime the door of ' the bedroom had 
 been broken in, and lying on the bed was found the life- 
 less body of old Righter, with an indescribably sweet 
 smile upon his distorted face. 
 
THE MOUNTAIN SOLDIER'S PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 WE were in the little churchyard at Rebersburg, 
 John Dice and I, and he was pointing out to me 
 the last resting places of some of his old friends, noted 
 hunters and woodsmen, and the graves as well of the 
 soldiers who went to the front from Brush Valley in 
 the Civil War. In a corner of the cemetery was a mod- 
 est stone, blactened by weather and moss, and on the 
 grave was a small linen American flag that had been 
 placed there the last Decoration Day, with the colors 
 almost washed out beyond recognition. On the stone 
 was the inscription "Eli Aurand, Private Co. G., 200th 
 Pa. Vols. 1840-1862." Old John Dice called my at- 
 tention to the stone, remarking that the poor young sol- 
 dier's life had been needlessly sacrificed, if only his power 
 of second sight had been consistent with military disci- 
 pline. 
 
 "It happened this way," he said. "It was before 
 dawn on the morning of the first day of Fredericksburg, 
 and a heavy black mist hung over the campgrounds, that 
 Eli Aurand was awakened with a terrific start, and the 
 realization that he was to meet his death within a few 
 hours. He was a mountain boy, who had married 
 young, and whose patriotism had made him enlist in 
 defense of his country, even though he had to leave his 
 wife and two little children at home. After awakening, 
 instead of the impression of immediate disaster dimin- 
 ishing as is generally the case, the idea became clearer 
 and clearer in his mind, and each minute made him 
 more positive of his doom. He spoke to his closest 
 friends in the company as they were washing, John 
 Casher, John Askey and Sam McCloskey, and with 
 their native superstition they advised him to obey the 
 50 
 
MOUNTAIN SOLDIER'S PRESEN*rtMEN1r. 51 
 
 'token' and keep out of the firing for that day, if pos- 
 sible. 
 
 "Eli Aurand had everything to live for — at least so 
 it seemed to his viewpoint. He thought of his wife — 
 only twenty years of age — with her black eyes and pale 
 sweet face* of his little boy, Wilbur, and his litle girl, 
 Lizzie; of his farm, -vhich he had been working so hard 
 to clear; of his house that he intended to paint on his 
 first furlough, and could see it in his mind— the square 
 structure built of unplaned hemlock boards, stained 
 black by the elements, with the young orchard in the 
 rear, where the afternoon sun shone so brightly ; and the 
 stable with the big raw-boned workhorse, and the three 
 pairs of buckhorns and a panther's skull, relics of his 
 vnarkmanship, which hung in the harness room; of Hie 
 high mountains, where he could always get work in 
 the lumber camps. It was all too real and beautiful to 
 leave just yet, and while he had been 'converted/ the 
 authorities dififered too much about the future life to 
 make it desirable as an abode just yet. His comrades 
 hurriedly told him of a dozen instances where portends 
 of death had come true. Aided by his own strong in- 
 stinct, he said : 'I'm going to see the officer, I knoW he'll 
 let me ofif when he hears my story.' Eli had never 
 known what fear was, in the lumber woods or as a 
 hunter, and could not conceive of such an idea of being 
 suspected of cowardice. 
 
 "When he got to the officer's tent, he asked the 
 orderly to grant him a few words with the officer. The 
 company's regular captain had died in the hospital a 
 week before, and it was under the temporary command 
 of a lieutenant — a tall, slim fellow, with a pale, yellow 
 mustache and goatee, a recent graduate of a New York 
 military school. Eli Aurand stood outside awraiting him, 
 
52 MOUNTAIN SOLDIER'S PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 with the damp, drizzly fog outlining his blue uniform 
 against the sombre gray of the atmosphere. Soon the 
 officer appeared, and the young private told him his 
 story, The officer's eyes flashed with anger. 'Nonsens- 
 ical, ridiculous, won't hear of such a thing. Go do your 
 duty like the rest of them.' And without, anyther word, 
 slipped back into the warm confines of his tent. 
 
 "There was nothing to do but submit, so Eli went 
 back to his old friends, and told them that it was no use, 
 and even as he spoke the weight of his doom seemed to 
 crush him more than ever. Pretty soon the company 
 was ordered to take its place at a stone row back of an 
 old rail fence, and they moved forward with the uncon- 
 cern of brave men. When they had reached the stone 
 row and were about to take their positions, Aurand 
 turned and approached the lieutenant, and said with 
 a firm voice, 'Let me off for this morning, sir, for the 
 sake of those at home.' The officer turned on him as if 
 to stick him with his sabre. So he quickly made for his 
 place, and as he started kneeling, a Confederate sharp- 
 shooter's bullet pierced his body. 'God help my wife 
 and little children," cried Eli, as he rolled over on his 
 back, and lay dead among the rocks and brambles." 
 
T 
 
 GRANNY MYERS'S CURSE. 
 
 HAT belief in witchcraft still exists in the United 
 States cannot be denied, as the newspapers every 
 now and then print accounts of doings of alleged witches 
 in remote parts of the country. But nowhere does it 
 flourish and its teaching defy the advance of modern 
 enlightment to such an extent as in the mountains of 
 Central Pennsylvania. 
 
 A typical case of Pennsylvania witchcraft is that of 
 an old Swiss, Christ by name, who tills a sixty-acre 
 farm on a bleak mountain top along what is known as 
 the "Pine Road," that runs from Jersey Shore to Logan- 
 ton. His house stands back a hundred yards from the 
 road. The original structure was built of logs, but as 
 more prosperous days ensued, a frame mansion was 
 "tacked" on the less imposing log cabin. 
 
 Not another house can be seen from the windows, 
 which look over a dreary expanse of fire-swept summits, 
 "slashings" and abandoned clearings. The gable of the 
 large barn, standing between the road and the house, 
 is covered with bear paws, nailed in disorderly profusion. 
 Several sets of buckhorns adorn the slanting roof of the 
 nearby comcrib. 
 
 With such surroundings, it is not surprising that 
 people become easy prey to mental vagaries, and live in 
 terror of persons possessing supposed supernatural 
 powers. 
 
 Formerly Christ had his brother, Michael, whose 
 house was two miles up a secluded hemlock hollow, for 
 "next door" neighbor, but alleged spirit rapping and ap- 
 paritions, culminating in the suicide of an old man 
 named Rigliter, who made his home with the family, 
 
 53 
 
54 GRANNY MYERS'S CURSE. 
 
 caused Mike to move to a farm nearer town and neigh- 
 bors. 
 
 At present, Christ's nearest neighbors are the fam- 
 ily of an old woman whom we shall call Granny Myers, 
 reputed among the mountaineers as a witch, and famed 
 for the potency of her spells, who lived in a windowless 
 shanty three miles away. 
 
 One Fall, about ten years ago, some of Christ's 
 cattle broke into the Myers buckwheat field, and cjne was 
 mysteriously shot. Threats of criminal prosecution were 
 made, until one night Granny Myers strode into Christ's 
 kitchen, and, in the presence of several witnesses, cursed 
 the farmer, his wife and daughter in these words: 
 "Christ, you shall shrivel to death with rheumatics, your 
 woman shall develop a cancer, and your daughter shall 
 cough up blood until she fades away." Then she went 
 out, slamming the door after her, leaving the Christs in 
 a state of nervous collapse. 
 
 Several months passed by ; it was the month of Feb- 
 ruary, the Pine Road was deep in snow and not even a 
 shingle sled could navigate, but a little thing like this 
 could not daunt old John Dice, the witch doctor from 
 the river bottom, who, clad in his familiar coat of Con- 
 federate gray, knee deep in slush, was bound for a ven- 
 due in the east end of Sugar Valley. 
 
 As he passed the Christ farm, a withered figure hob- 
 bled to the fence, and waved his hand at him. "Shon, 
 come here," he called. "My woman is dying mit der can- 
 cer, my girl is coughing up blood and I'm dying mit der 
 rheumatics." 
 
 The witch doctor climbed the gate and followed the 
 the farmer to his house. Mrs. Christ, complaining of 
 terrible pains in her side, lay moaning on a sofa, and the 
 
GRANNY MYERS'S CURSE. 55 
 
 nineteen-year-old daughter, worn almost to a skeleton, 
 dragged herself about the house, coughing every few 
 minutes. 
 
 "Granny Myers done it," was all they would say. 
 The witch doctor, who understood the trouble at a 
 glance, promised to have the spell removed within the 
 week, and before an hour was at the hut of the alleged 
 witch. 
 
 On his way, in a snow covered lot, he noticed four 
 miserable horses huddled together, protecting themselves 
 as best they could from the cruel Winter wind. All 
 told they had but two eyes and one good tail among 
 them, these cast-offs from the dispersal sale of the Wil- 
 liamsport Traction Company — ^now operated by trolley. 
 
 Granny Myers, a tall, rawboned woman with a long 
 nose and enormous hands, was smoking her clay pipe 
 by the stove, when her old enemy, who never knocked, 
 came in, shaking the snow from his boots. 
 
 "Go over to Christ's and tell them you have taken 
 that spell off, or, mark my word, it's now Friday, by 
 next Monday your four horses will be dead, and you 
 will follow them." 
 
 That was all John Dice said before he resumed his 
 tramp to the vendue. The next Monday, true to his 
 promise he appeared at Granny Myers's door, a scythe 
 and a poleaxe, purchased at the vendue, slung over his 
 massive shoulders. Granny heard his footsteps and was 
 on hand to meet him. 
 
 "You old deil," said she, "meh crowbaits are all 
 four dead, and I was to Christ's a'yesterday." 
 
S6 GRANNY MYERS'S CURSE. 
 
 When the witch doctor revisited the Christ kitchen 
 a vastly different scene met his eyes. Christ, humming 
 to himself, was mending a rocking-chair; his smiling 
 wife lifting a heavy kettle from the stove, while his 
 buxom daughter was setting the tea table. 
 
 "Von't you stay to supper, Shon?" said Christ, 
 "the old hex's taken off the spell, an' we're ahl well 
 again." 
 
WITCHRAFT VS. MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 /BRANNY MYERS had a daughter who was 
 vJ "mahried" to Jakey Welshans, a small store- 
 keeper in the German Settlement. The old woman 
 would tie up her bundle and wend her way over the hills 
 and make protracted visits to her daughter, often last- 
 ing a year at a time, much to the disgust of Jakey. On 
 one of these visits, when she had created turmoil among 
 the Welshans for eleven months and showed no signs 
 of going home, Jakey hit upon the scheme of enlisting 
 the aid of John Dice in ridding his household of the dis- 
 turbing mother-in-law. So one day he met John, who 
 was electioneering for a Republican candidate (John 
 is a Democrat), and told him of his unhappy predica- 
 ment. "Der old voman is awful scaret of you, Shon, 
 ever since you kilt them horses on her, and, if you tell 
 her somthin' bad may come to her, she'll light oud 
 preddy quick." 
 
 "All right," said John, "let's tend to her case now." 
 
 "Der old voman is a great lisdener, Shon," con- 
 tinued Jakey, "and if you talks kinder loud on der porch, 
 she'll be peekin' through der keyhole." Arriving at 
 the Welshans' store, they walked around to the side 
 porch, ostensibly to give John a drink from the well. A 
 hasty glance through the kitchen window showed Granny 
 Myers standing inside the closed kitchen door. 
 
 "I'm down on that infernal mother-in-law of 
 yours," said John in his loudest tones, "and she'd better 
 be going home soon or " 
 
 Oh, don't talk like dot, Shon, she's a loafly 
 voman," interposed son-in-law Jakey. 
 
 "I mean what I say," said John, "I have no use 
 
 57 
 
S8 WICTHCRAFT VS. MOTHER-IN-LAW. 
 
 for that old hex, and she'd better clear out, for if she 
 doesn't, her blood will dry in her viens and she'll die 
 standing up." Then John got his drink of well water 
 and resumed his electioneering for the Republican candi- 
 date. But his words had their effect. At the dinner 
 table that day Granny said she "thought it was time to 
 go home." All prevailed upon her to stay, even the 
 children, but with no avail. At half past four the next 
 morning she came downstairs with her bundles and 
 started on her ten-mile walk across the mountains. And 
 to this day Granny Myers has never revisited the German 
 Settlement. 
 
THE HAUNTED TAVERN. 
 
 AT the approach of evening a heavy fog arose, making 
 the navigation of the timber rafts a difficulty in 
 the "big river." The mountainous shores were complete- 
 ly veiled from sight, as were even the lights in the cot- 
 tage windows of Liverpool. Big rain drops pattered, 
 waves washed over the rafts, and the logs creaked and 
 slapped in the uncertain current. 
 
 The steersmen lit their watch-lights and called aloud 
 their warnings to prevent collisions, and vainly looked 
 about for places of refuge until morning. 
 
 On a raft of spars bound for Marietta, were two 
 brothers, Jacob and Richie Vail, who, although they had 
 been rivermen all their lives, were a trifle apprehensive 
 on this occasion. The current and fog had forced them 
 close to shore, and as they beat around for a comfort- 
 able eddy, they noticed a big building loom out through 
 the darkness on a neck of land which ran out into the 
 river. To this they steered, made fast, and abandoned 
 the raft for the night. No lights shone in the barred 
 windows of this house, but nevertheless the brothers 
 knocked at the door. To their surprise it was instantly 
 opened by a young woman, who, as she stood there 
 shading the candle with her hand, produced an impres- 
 sion on them which they never forgot. Of medium 
 height, with straight, black hair and pallid face, she had 
 one pale blue eye, while the other was brown. Her coun- 
 tenance was withal peculiarly attractive. When she 
 heard their predicament, she invited them in, explaining 
 that her house was a raftmen's tavern. 
 
 Richie, who was somewhat of a "ladies' man," in- 
 quired if she had a male companion in the enterprise, 
 
 59 
 
6o THE HAUNTED TAVERN. 
 
 to which the young woman replied she had been alone 
 since her husband died, two years since. 
 
 After supper, Jacob, feeling very tired, asked to 
 be shown his room, while Richie declared he would like 
 to "keep company" with the young widow by the fireside. 
 
 The room in which Jacob was domiciled for the 
 night was of large size, and the one chair, washstand, 
 and long-legged bed seemed diminutive in comparison. 
 There was no loft above, and the square-hewed rafters 
 and arched roof, through which the rain leaked, was like 
 the haymow of a barn rather than a bedroom. 
 
 The woman handed him her candle, said good- 
 night, and as he undressed, he could hear the buzz of 
 her conversation with Richie. He blew out the candle 
 and climbed into the long-legged bed, and covered him- 
 self with two or three patchwork quilts, in preparation 
 for the much needed sleep. But in less than five minutes 
 he was rudely disturbed. First one quilt, then the sec- 
 ond, then the third was pulled from him by unseen 
 hands, and thrown in a heap in the furthermost corner 
 of the room. He looked up, thinking it some joke of 
 Richie's, but could see no one. He jumped from the 
 bed, got the comforters and re-covered himself, only to 
 have them seized again. A third time he regained his 
 coverings, and held on to them with his stoutest grip, but 
 was powerless to prevent their removal. He ran over 
 to the washstand and groped about for matches to light 
 his candle, but there were none to be found. As he 
 started for the door to call for help unseen hands hurled 
 him across the room, where he struck the wall with a 
 terrific thud. The more he struggled, the more he was 
 forced against the wall, as if held there by a hurricane. 
 His clothes were thrown from the chair and lay in dis- 
 order on the floor, and in his helplessness his watch was 
 
THE HAUNTED TAVERN. 6i 
 
 lifted from under the pillow and he could hear the crys- 
 tal shatter as it smashed against the rafters. His cries 
 for help brought Richie and the woman to the door, 
 but they were unable to open it, although there was no 
 key in the lock. They hammered and banged on the 
 door, while poor Jacob was held tight by his invisible 
 tormenter. Suddenly the door flew open, Richie and his 
 companion were hurled upon the floor, Jacob fell in a 
 limp mass, and the comforters whisked across the room 
 and readjusted themselves upon the bed. Richie's lan- 
 tern was extinguished in the excitement, but all hands 
 found their way to the stairs and fled from the be- 
 witched apartment. Once downstairs, the woman tried 
 her utmost to coax the raftsmen to remain, promising 
 them better quarters, but they cursed the tavern and its 
 devilish occupants, and in the uncertain haze of dawn 
 hurried to the water's edge and loosened the raft from 
 its moorings. 
 
 At their next stop they met a gang of raftsmen 
 who laughed when informed of the awful night's ex- 
 perience. "Why, that's the 'haunted' tavern," they ex- 
 plained. "That woman's husband, two raftsmen and 
 an Irishman were murdered in that room at a dance 
 two years ago, and from that time there's been some hell- 
 ish happenings in that big room under the roof, and it's 
 pretty certain that one night is all you'll want to spend 
 in it." 
 
 The unsavory reputation of the log tavern spread 
 to the entire rafting fraternity, and the odd-eyed young 
 woman was forced to abandon the premises for lack of 
 custom. For a number of years the structure was un- 
 occupied, and latterly was used for a cow stable, until 
 the '89 flood carried it away. 
 
FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL. 
 
 TO anyone finding himself with a spare day on his 
 hands, and the ability of getting to Watsontown, 
 there is no pleasanter way of putting in that day than 
 to drive through the beautiful valley to McEwansville, 
 Turbotville and Washingtonville. 
 
 It was my privilege to have taken this drive one 
 sunshiny April morning, just when the pale green leaves 
 and vari-colored blossoms were budding forth, and the 
 air was sweet with the odor of the grass. Myriads of 
 robins, bluebirds and meadow larks were warbling in 
 the brushwoods, and the roosters by the roadside gave 
 vent to their Spring-rejuvenated crowing. The ducks 
 were taking their first swim in the brown, muddy mill 
 ponds. 
 
 The broad farming valley stretched out like an 
 English landscape, the cultivated fields alternating with 
 groves of stately oaks or hickories, and dotted here and 
 there were the substantial white farmhouses, in whose 
 front yards flourished the tall but alien Norway spruces. 
 
 Quiet reigned in the streets of McEwansville, with 
 its tall spired gothic churches, and rows of little stores, 
 with show windows of small paned glass. And likewise 
 in Turbotville were the streets deserted, except at the 
 huge white public house, where several idlers sat on the 
 porch in the morning sun, waiting for some stranger to 
 treat them to their favorite drinks. We passed the 
 scene of a recent conflagration, where one-third of the 
 peaceful old-fashioned street, and the friendly shade 
 trees, had been swept away by the uncontrollable flames. 
 New frame houses were being erected, but they were 
 narrow and shallow, painted yellow and blue, in unfav- 
 6a 
 
FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL. 63 
 
 orable contrast to the low-roofed comfortable dwellings 
 they pretended to replace. 
 
 Once more out in the country, we followed the 
 winding turnpike, over bridges which rattled as we 
 crossed, by ancient cemeteries, with gothic monuments 
 and decaying cedar trees, and past fields sprouting with 
 lawn-like wheat. And when we crossed a little stream, 
 whose bed was shaded by untrimmed willow trees, we 
 found ourselves in another village of the past, Wash- 
 ingtonville. 
 
 The little white houses stood flush upon the street, 
 which led up to a hill crowned by several good sized 
 churches. In the center of the town was "Fanny Hed- 
 den's Hotel," built, like the other structures, close upon 
 the road, but differing from them in having two tiers 
 of balcony-like porches, where guests could sit and watch 
 the doings of the town and wait for fresh travelers to 
 arrive. Before this old-time hostelry we stopped. A 
 half-grown stable boy held our horse, while a thickset 
 young man ran out and greeted us obsequiously with a 
 decided British accent, as you would expect to be met 
 with in the taverns we read about in rural England. 
 But when the stable boy addressed him as Mr. Herzog, 
 I knew it was only a case of the adaptability of the Penn- 
 sylvania Dutchman who had lived in foreign lands. 
 
 We were ushered into the low ceilinged office, the 
 walls of which I was surprised to find covered with old 
 colored prints depicting scenes in American sporting 
 and political life as it was sixty years ago. And there 
 was one print which was evidently not American — 
 "King William at the Battle of the Boyne." 
 
 While we registered, a country boy came in and 
 tacked up dodgers which announced a "Dance at Jeir- 
 
64 FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL. 
 
 seytown, Friday night," and I sincerely wished I could 
 remain long enough to attend this function. I made the 
 country gallant's acquaintance, and he showed me a 
 strange medal or button he had found the day previous 
 while helping demolish an old house. Apparently of 
 silver, the size of a modern dollar, the medal had a head 
 of Washington in the center, with the motto, "We up- 
 hold our President," beneath, and around the edges 
 were the letters, V., M., N. Y., C, R. I., N. J., N. H., D., 
 M., v., N. C, S. C, G., which I interpreted to be 
 the initials of the thirteen original states. There were 
 two small holes in the center which inclined me to be- 
 lieve this curious relic had been used as a button. "I 
 wouldn't take a dollar for it," said the country boy as 
 he went away. 
 
 Dinner was quickly prepared and we ascended the 
 narrow stairway to the dining room. At the door we 
 were met by a smiling old woman, Fanny Hedden her- 
 self, who confesses eighty years, but looks and acts thirty 
 years younger. The dining room was a spacious apart- 
 ment, the long windows and high ceilings being a de- 
 cided change from the low rooms on the ground floor. 
 In a corner was a walnut sideboard of antique design, 
 and the walls were decorated by five or six engravings 
 of Bibical scenes. The table was lavishly set with every 
 conceivable variety of preserves and relishes, and by 
 our plates were tall cut-glass goblets. Mrs. Hedden and 
 her grandson, for such the young landlord proved to be, 
 both apologized for their inability to provide for us 
 properly, which inability we failed to see. While her 
 grandson was filling our glasses with sparkling home- 
 made wine, which he proudly declared "was made of the 
 grapes from the arbor on the back porch," we commented 
 on the Bibical engravings which were on the walls. Mrs. 
 
FANNY HEDDEN'S HOTEL. 65 
 
 Hedden, noticing that we were interested in curiosities, 
 hurried from the room and brought in a woven basket 
 of immense dimensions which she said was made by 
 her grandmother, and was over a hundred and fifty 
 years old. "And it's as good as ever," said the old 
 woman, as she poured the contents of the ice water 
 pitcher into the basket, which did not leak a drop. 
 
 After finishing the appetizing repast we were con- 
 ducted to the parlor "to see some more old pictures," 
 as Mrs. Hedden expressed it. In the parlor I noticed a 
 Canadian scene, which led me. to suspect that it was in 
 that country Mr. Herzog acquired his English man- 
 ner of speaking. But most remarkable of all, three life- 
 size portraits of handsome women, two blondes and one 
 brunette, in the decollette garb of i860, hung in this 
 room, but Mrs. Hedden could give no clue as to the iden- 
 tity of the persons they represented, as she had "bought 
 them at a bargain from a retired boarding house keeper 
 in Philadelphia, Centennial year." As the classic faces 
 of these long-forgotten charmers smiled from the tar- 
 nished frames, I wondered where the originals could be, 
 whether living or dead, after the long lapse of years ! 
 
 After inspecting the various bedrooms, in one of 
 which we found engravings of n3miphs and shepherdesses 
 evidently dating back to the Eighteenth century, and 
 expressing our satisfaction at the courteous treatment 
 accorded us, we ordered our horse and buggy, and after 
 paying our bill, sped away toward the deer park of Con- 
 gressman Billmeyer, which is not a mile distant from 
 Fanny Hedden's Hotel. 
 
THE GHOST WALK. 
 
 IN a dilapidated log farmhouse in the White Deer Val- 
 ley resides an aged hermit, whose Scotch-Irish name 
 I shall slightly alter, as he is still living, and call him 
 Daniel McKean. Fifty-two years ago he was the dashing 
 son of one of the most prosperous farmers of the valley, 
 but now, alone and friendless, he ekes out an existence 
 from his deteriorated farm land. 
 
 A kindly old man is Daniel McKean, but his mind, 
 long focused on a single thought, has made him an un- 
 interesting companion to the neighboring agriculturists 
 who find him an unresponsive listener to their stories of 
 crops and horses, and guns, and politics. But to a 
 stranger, who will enter into the spirit of the old man, 
 and assent, not differ from his metaphysical imaginings, 
 he is a strange combination of scientific knowledge 
 and illogical stubbornness. With his parents he had 
 moved to his present abode during the year 1846, when 
 the hilly sides of the valley were in timber, and had 
 helped his father and brothers clear a good-sized farm 
 and erect a substantial farmhouse and barns. He was 
 then a stalwart, red-cheeked boy, fond of taking the 
 country girls "to meeting," and the best horseman for 
 miles around. 
 
 Back of the red bank-barn, which he aided to build, 
 stood two gigantic white pines. They had been left to 
 shade the watering trough until two young maples the 
 McKeans had planted reached sufficient size, for it is a 
 peculiar fact that the Pennsylvania farmer has a preju- 
 dice against the native pines, but will preserve the most 
 miserable maple or pin oak for shade or ornament. 
 
 66 
 
 One night the McKean, sheep had not come in 
 
THE GHOST WALK. 6y 
 
 from the mountain and Daniel mounted his buckskin stal- 
 lion, "Jefferson," for all the farmer boys in those days 
 rode stallions, and went in search of them. Far off 
 among the hills he found them, and it was past eleven 
 o'clock when he had them safely corralled in the sheep- 
 yard. He had put his horse away and was going to the 
 house when he noticed a peculiar ball of white light danc- 
 ing in midair between the two white pines. He stopped 
 to watch the phenomenon, which gradually elongated 
 until it assumed the form of a young girl of supernatural 
 beauty. The spectre remained motionless and seemed to 
 catch the eye of Daniel, who remained transfixed to the 
 spot. Then it slowly walked to one tree, touched it with 
 one hand, and in a moment more resumed the shape of a 
 ball of white light — and disappeared ! 
 
 Daniel was amazed at what he had seen, but kept it 
 a secret from the family. The next night at the same 
 hour he crept from thfe house to the watering trough, 
 when the apparition appeared and vanished exactly as 
 the night before.. 
 
 Night after night, Daniel watched the spot, fascin- 
 ated by the beauty and mystery of the phantom, until his 
 father demanded the cause of his unseemly conduct. 
 After several stormy scenes, he confessed, much to the 
 indignation of his orthodox parent, who refused to be- 
 lieve the story unless he should see it with his own 
 eyes. He accompanied his son to the ghost walk, but 
 next morning he could not be induced to say whether 
 or not he had seen anything remarkable. But one thing 
 was certain; after breakfast, despite his son's entreaties 
 he chopped down both the grand old pines and ordered 
 them cut into kindling wood. To Daniel this was an act 
 of desecration, and he shed tears as he dragged the 
 shaggy boughs to the brush heap. 
 
68 THE GHOST WALK. 
 
 When night came he resumed his watch by the 
 stumps, from which the red pitch was oozing Hke blood. 
 But alas ! no phantom appeared. The hours passed wear- 
 ily, morning came, but everything was matter-of-fact 
 On each successive night he was in his usual place, but 
 not a ray of hope was in store. 
 
 Before a year had elapsed he began to act queerly. 
 He neglected his work, muttered to himself; and thought 
 only of the night, when he could sit on the dug-out water 
 trough waiting for his ghostly love. 
 
 Years went by; his parents died, his brothers and 
 sisters moved west, but he remained. His old friends 
 regarded him as crazy and young people coming home 
 from church at night feared to pass him, sitting motion- 
 less by the rotting pine stumps. 
 
 But loss of friends and reputation could not shake 
 his faith, and to the present time he waits and hopes 
 for the return of his spectre sweetheart. 
 
OLE BULL'S CASTLE. 
 
 T LEFT the railroad at the lively little city of Cross 
 ■• Forks, and followed tlie mountainous valley of 
 Kettle Creek toward the former home of the world- 
 famous violinist, Ole Bull. Here and there neatly fenced 
 farms were sprinkled among the rugged peaks, but as 
 the valley became narrower, and the mountains higher, 
 the scene became one of desolation rather than culti- 
 vation. 
 
 Very little of the hemlock forests remained, the mills 
 and railroads of Cross Forks having done their share 
 toward desolating the valley. At last, as I came around 
 a bend in the stream, and likewise in the road, I saw^ 
 before me, on the summit of one of the highest peaks, 
 the jagged ruins of what appear to be a mediaeval castle. 
 The bright August sun glistened on the gray stone walls 
 and parapets, and above all, under the canopy of the 
 cloudless sky soared an eagle in his solemn grandeur. 
 Never, I thought, had the harmonies of nature united 
 themselves better than on the site of Ole Bull's Castle. 
 But there was one element which by some might be 
 thought discordant; on the steep sides of the mountain 
 on which the castle stands worked half a hundred woods- 
 men, their blue and red shirts in bold relief to the dark 
 green of the hemlock forest they were destroying. The 
 click, click of the axes, the wheezing of the crosscut saws, 
 and the rattle of the cant hooks producing a strange 
 contrast to the otherwise complete stillness of the scene. 
 Returning to the mediaeval simile, one could almost im- 
 agine these gaily bedecked woodsmen as the home g^ard 
 of the lord of the manor, throwing up fortifications on 
 the mountain side to repulse the assault of some hostile 
 
 force. 
 
 69 
 
70 OLE BULL*S CASTLE. 
 
 The part 'of the mountain which they had already 
 denuded stood thick with hemlock stumps, peeled clean 
 of iheir bark, and shining pink- white in the sunlight 
 like rows upon rows of tombstones in the graveyard of 
 the ages. And the freshly peeled glistening logs, piled one 
 on another, in seemingly regular order, reminded one 
 of the coat of mail on the capacious breast of some 
 mighty warrior of the Middle Ages! 
 
 I climbed the steep mountain, pausing every few 
 minutes to enjoy the fresh panorama which opened be- 
 fore me, and when I reached the castle grounds, the 
 view stretched in boundless immensity in every direction ; 
 raiige after range of dark green, light green, blue -and 
 brown mountains could be seen to the north, the south, 
 the e^st and the west. Thin white columns of smoke 
 which rose from distant ravines, betokened the presence 
 of steam saw mills. 
 
 I could not but admire the taste of Ole Biill in select- 
 ing this sublime spot for a mountain horhe, far from the 
 turmoils of the valley, like the philosopher in Sartor 
 Resartiis. 
 
 Of the castle itself but three walls remain, the tall- 
 est being nearest the precipitous cliff, and from whose 
 windows the occupants could have looked down a sheer 
 descent of five hundred feet to where Kettle Creek winds 
 about like a thred of silver fresh from the smelter. 
 Across the ravine is another mountain, as steep, but 
 not as high as the one on which the castle is located, 
 which rises majestically up with its uneven cliffs and 
 graveyard of hemlock stumps. The ravine is strangely 
 reriiiniscent of the pictures of the Colorado Canyon 
 we have seen in our geographies, and later on railroad 
 pbsters, but from what I know of the west, the ravine 
 
OLE BULL'S CASTLE. 71 
 
 of Kettle Creek, at least in Ole Bull's time, was far more 
 beautiful, for what it lacked in depth, was more than 
 recompensed by the dense foliage which grew in a tangle 
 on the rugged sides, a glorious gift of nature which no 
 western landscape can boast. 
 
BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING. 
 
 FOR several days the livery stables of Lock Haven 
 had been wearing an air of great activity. Long 
 rows of newly washed buggies and surreys stood in 
 front of the stables, while hostlers ran about grooming 
 horses, polishing harness and beating lap robes. 
 
 If you asked the half-grown colored boy, leading a 
 rawboned caricature of a horse up and down the stable 
 alley, the cause of these extraordinary preparations, he 
 would reply: "Booneville Camp's a Sunday." 
 
 Although Booneville is fully fifteen miles from 
 Lock Haven, nearly every member of the population 
 able to hire or borrow a "rig" makes the journey tolhe 
 Camp Grounds, across the dusty mountain roads. 
 
 We entered the "ofifice" of the aforementioned liv- 
 ery stable, a rough board partitioned room, the walls 
 decorated with framed colored prints of three famous 
 horses of the past, Abdallah, George Wilkes and the 
 Byerly Turk, and left our order with our jolly friend, 
 Frank, for "a first-class team" for Sunday morning. 
 
 Camp Meeting Sunday proved typical of the month 
 of August. At eight o'clock, when we started, not a 
 breeze was coming from the mountains, and our "first 
 class turn-out" was of the usual description — two long, 
 bony, gray nags,, smothered in a profusion of fly nets, 
 hooked to a low-geared buggy. 
 
 Driving along the broad turnpike leading from town 
 to the mountains, we overtook numerous teams bound in 
 the same direction. There were surreys loaded down 
 with stout families and heavy lunch baskets, the horses 
 steaming with perspiration from their unnatural loads; 
 young men driving buggies, accompanied by the inevit- 
 72 
 
BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING. 73 
 
 able "young ladies they kept company with;" half- 
 drunken country sports lashing delivery wagon horses 
 in borrowed carriages, and old ladies in phaetons, going 
 to see the great preacher from New Berlin, each equipage 
 followed by an indescribable canine and a cloud of dust. 
 
 We reached the gap in the mountains, where the 
 stony road was cut out of the mountain side, below 
 which a roaring stream flowed, and began a continual 
 ascent for five miles. 
 
 Looking back we could see several turnouts already 
 played out, the men walking, the women peering out 
 anxiously, while the perspiring beasts tugged up the 
 hills. 
 
 As for the young men with the "young ladies they 
 kept company with," they had stopped in the shade by 
 the springs gurgling from the mountain side, for they 
 certainly were in no hurry! 
 
 Here and there we passed a farmhouse or bark 
 peeler's shanty, with empty bark wagons by the road 
 side, but all evidences of habitation missing, everyone 
 having gone to Camp Meeting. Even the cabin of 
 Graimy McGill, famed as a witch, was deserted, that 
 worthy woman, too, having joined the band of worship- 
 pers for the day. 
 
 When the summit was reached, and the rushing 
 stream and slashings left behind, we touched up our 
 horses and flew through a bit of farming country, where 
 the air blew in strong gusts, and sheep grazed by the 
 "stake and rider" fences, and by log farmhouses, with 
 barns decorated with bear paws nailed to the gables 
 
 Again we entered the hemlock forest, following the 
 path of a black creek as far as the Sulphur Springs, 
 where before us lay a view of the beautiful Sugar Val- 
 
74 BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING. 
 
 ley, cultivated halfway to the summits of the opposite 
 range of hills, from its very center rising the three 
 church spires of Loganton, and down the valley we could 
 make out the little village of Booneville, where the Camp 
 Meeting is held. 
 
 The hot sun shines on the slate roof of the Logan 
 House, the only hotel in Loganton, kept by the affable 
 Harry Cole, where we stable our horses and get lunch 
 before going to the camp grounds. 
 
 Already a large crowd of mountaineers, old and 
 young, had collected around the hotel to "see the rigs 
 come in." There was "Clem" Herlacher, the local bar- 
 ber, just back from six months as a cowboy in Texas, 
 his jet black hair hanging on his shoulders, his face hid- 
 den by a large sombrero, the center of admiration from 
 the country boys. Sam Motter, the relentless hunter, 
 stands by his wagon telling the bystanders how he killed 
 the young bear which lies on the straw in the wagon box. 
 Old John Dice, the witch doctor, at heart an unbeliever 
 in any form of superstition, is recounting miraculous 
 experiences to Tom Miller, pseudo-inventor of a scheme 
 for perpetual motion. Francis Geyer, eighty-one years 
 old, once a Forester for the King of Prussia, is swap- 
 ping war stories with "Black Headed" Bill Williams, 
 who claims to have originated the first Bucktail .Regi- 
 ment. On a rocking chair on the hotel porch sits Maud, 
 the barmaid, a survival of the ancient custom, who on 
 week days dispenses Muncy Valley whiskey and port 
 wine to thirsty travelers, but today is surrounded by a 
 half a dozen young blonde giants with heavy shoes laced 
 up to their knees, who have come in from a "bark job" 
 on Cherry Run. 
 
BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING. 75 
 
 The dust on the highways grows thicker as scores 
 of mountaineers from distant settlements drive past the 
 hotel on their way to the camp grounds. 
 
 Every conceivable kind of equipage is represented. 
 A big horse harnessed beside a pony, spring wagons 
 with wheels that do not match, reins and bridles of 
 rope, dilapidated carryalls, farm wagons covered with 
 straw and crowded with children, and most wonderful of 
 all, a one-seated carryall with a cradle rocking to and 
 fro in the back, where!in lay a sleeping infant, almost hid- 
 den by mosquito netting. 
 
 A boy on horseback, the bridle with blinkers and 
 checkrein, stops at the hotel and is immediately swal- 
 lowed up by the crowd of loungers. He brings news 
 that the livery 'bus from Lock Haven has broken down 
 somewhere in the mountains, about five miles from Log- 
 anton, tumbling men and women and precious cases bf 
 bottled beer on the roadside. But before one can learn 
 what is to be done for the unfortunates, Elmer Kas- 
 tetter, the stable boy, has brought out our team from 
 the barn. Our start is just in time to encounter two 
 mountain boys racing their buggies. Crossing a narrow 
 bridge they came together with a crash, spokes, shafts, 
 harness and whips flew in every direction, and the 
 fickle crowd abandoned speculating on a far away break- 
 down, and rushed down the road en masse to the scene 
 of this fresh disaster. Driving through the bed of the 
 stream, we dodge by the pile of scrap iron and kindHng 
 wood, and although blinded and choked by dust and al- 
 most wrecked by racing teams, we at last drive down the 
 steep hill into the camp grounds. 
 
 Fully five thousand people are assembled in the 
 grove of gigantic hemlocks, either sti:Qllit)ig ^bo.mt ajn^er 
 
76 BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING. 
 
 the trees, eating from copious lunch baskets, or listen- 
 ing to the black-bearded preacher from New Berlin 
 whose voice resounds like a sledge and anvil. 
 
 A thousand horses, most of them with their heads 
 stuck in feed bags, are tied to trees and fences. 
 
 Elk Creek, a limestone stream, has dried up and 
 hundreds of children are playing on its rocky bed. 
 
 Country boys, with wide-brimmed straw hats, red 
 neckties and green and yellow barred bicycle stockings, 
 arm in arm with red-cheeked, white-dressed girls, walk 
 unceasingly up and down the avenue in the center of 
 the park. The tint)^e tent, kept by an old gypsy wom^n. 
 is surrounded by a laughing crowd, who guy the boys 
 as they come out after having their sweethearts' pictures 
 taken. But the calm of the scene is rudely interrupted by 
 a tow-haired bicyclist, wearing a red jockey cap, and, of 
 course, the green, orange-barred stockings, who, in rid- 
 ing down the hill to the grounds, coasted off the bridge 
 into the dry stream, and crawls up the bank cut and 
 bleeding. A few minutes later the eyes of thousands 
 are turned to a horse which has broken loose, and drag- 
 ging a buggy, dashes through the grove, ripping off 
 wheels in its way until its wild chase is brought to an 
 end by running into a tree, smashing the buggy to 
 splinters. 
 
 And thus the happy Sunday passes, the day gradu- 
 ally softening into night with no signs of the vast con- 
 course departing homeward. Kerosene torches, fastened 
 to the trees, give the woods a weird appearance, the flick- 
 ering light shining on the strong, pious faces of the 
 worshippers, singing, "I'm on My Way to Zion, I'm on 
 My Journey Home." 
 
BOONEVILLE CAMP MEETING. 77 
 
 Not until a thousand silver watches have noted 
 the hour of ten and the giant, black-tiearded minister has 
 pronounced the benediction, does the homeward march 
 begin; the neighing of horses, rattling of wagons, and 
 the roar of joyous voices making a strange contrast to 
 the stillness of the countryside. 
 
 Everyone is talking of the events of the day. 
 Everyone is happy. Truly the Sunday at Booneville 
 Camp Meeting is to these people what Christmas, Easter, 
 Birthday, Fourth of July and Derby Day rolled into one 
 would be to us, so important a place does it fill in reckon- 
 ing the life of the Pennsylvania mountaineer. 
 
THE BALD EAGLE SILVER MINE. 
 
 THE legend of a silver mine of fabulous richness 
 ■hidden somewhere in the Bald Eagle Mountains 
 between Pine and Aughanbaugh stations has had for 
 over fifty years a remarkable fascination for the ne'er- 
 do-wells, soldiers of fortune and "divining rod" men of 
 this section of the country. 
 
 Up to thirty years ago, small bands of Indians, 
 claiming residence in the New York State Reservations, 
 were in the habit of camping every Fall at the confluence 
 of Pine Creek and the Susquehanna River, not far from 
 the town of Jersey Shore. Ostensibly there for the sell- 
 ing of beautifully woven baskets and trinkets, the more 
 suspicious of their white neighbors ascribed to them an 
 entirely different purpose, for on dark nights these In- 
 dians would hurriedly cross the river in canoes, with 
 lanterns muffled in blankets, and climb up the mountain 
 which rises precipitously from the opposite bank. By 
 the lights they could be followed to the summit, where 
 they kept moving about until daybreak. On several oc- 
 casions the redskins were shadowed by local busybodies, 
 but were always discovered by the Indians' outposts. 
 Lights would be instantly extinguished, and the Indians 
 would disappear in the darkness, leaving their eaves- 
 droppers more mystified than ever. The whites still 
 held to their belief that it was treasure the Indians were 
 after, as farmers in the upper Pine Creek valley, who 
 had met the savages on their homeward trips to the 
 Reservations, declared that they carried bags of pure sil- 
 ver, which they showed to whites, whom, at rare inter- 
 vals they took into their confidence, but persistently re- 
 fused to tell the location of the mines. 
 
 One or two Pennsylvanians, who had lumbered near 
 78 
 
THE BALI) eAGLE ^iLVER MINE. i^ 
 
 the Cattaraugus Reservation, in Western New York, met 
 traders from Buffalo, who said they had bought silver 
 from certain Indians who were recognized as having 
 been in the vicinity of the Bald Eagles. 
 
 In Lock Haven until recently lived a gentleman of 
 wide culture, who became interested in the fabled silver 
 mine shortly after the Indians had ceased their yearly 
 pilgrimages. His geological knowledge told him that 
 it was possible for pockets of silver to be present on these 
 highlands, so in a spirit of adventure he paid a visit to 
 the Cattaraugus Reservation. After diligent inquiries 
 he learned that of a,ll the Indians who had been to Penn- 
 sylvania, but one, an aged squaw, remained. However, 
 she was too feeble to make another journey. By liberal 
 gifts of money, and promises of further rewards, he 
 finally induced this old woman to draw a diagram of 
 the location of the mines, which she described as a cav- 
 ern which led a hundred feet into the body of the moun- 
 tain, where progress was barred by walls of the purest 
 silver. 
 
 Armed with this map, the Lock Haven would-be 
 Monte Cristo hurried back to the Bald Eagles as fast 
 as the Seashore Express could carry him. Out on the 
 mountain he went, expecting to find the mine in less 
 than a day's search. But disappointment awaited him, 
 though he found the landmarks, a dead yellow pine, and 
 a pile of stones thrown up in pyramid shape. Then he 
 hired two countrymen to aid him, with no better success. 
 
 After a month's fruitless search he engaged an en- 
 gineer and a surveyor from Williamsport, but they, too, 
 failed utterly. Goaded to a point of "do or die," he 
 again visited the Reservation, but in the meantime the 
 old squaw had died, on her deathbed leaving the secret 
 
8o THE BALD EAGLE SILVER MINE. 
 
 to her half-breed grandson, Billy Douty. The half- 
 breed was positive he could find the treasure trove, if 
 some one would pay his expenses to Pine, which proposi- 
 tion was gladly accepted by the gentleman from Lock 
 Haven. Billy landed in Pine Station at six o'clock one 
 evening, refused any supper, and made straight for the 
 lower mountain. "Me find before morning, me dead 
 sure," he called back as he cut across lots. 
 
 Next morning he was back empty-handed and hun- 
 gry, but not discouraged. He loaded himself with a 
 stock of provisions and went out to the mountain, re- 
 maining night and day in all kinds of weather for three 
 weeks. Occasionally in the stillness of midnight -the 
 ring of his pick could be heard far away on the lonely 
 summits. At last his patience gave way, and he aban- 
 doned the quest, saying, "River run wrong, Allegheny 
 River run west, Susquehanna run east, me twisted." 
 And to this day the silver mine of the Bald Eagles awaits 
 a rediscoverer. 
 
THE BLACK WOLF OF OAK VALLEY. 
 
 THE last time I heard a wolf call on the mountain," 
 said Black-Headed Bill Williams, "was one night 
 in the fall of '63 when I was home on furlough from 
 the army." 
 
 We were discussing the passing of panthers, wolves 
 and other animals from Pennsylvania on Bill's spacious 
 porch, which overlooked the Susquehanna Valley with 
 the towering Allegheny mountains far to the north 
 that seemed to be an impenetrable wall between us and 
 the different race of people in York state. On the 
 porch, beside Bill and myself, sat a Methodist preacher 
 in a baby chair four sizes too small, whose expression 
 seemed to denote that he secretly disapproved of every- 
 thing concerning Bill, except his wife's excellent chicken 
 dinners. 
 
 "Yes, it was in - the fall of '63, but then wolves 
 have been killed much recenter than that, but not 
 around here — there are too many railroads and hunters. 
 They did kill a queer kind of black wolf over in Oak 
 Valley about fifteen years ago — I was over there cuttin' 
 ties at the time, but I always thought it was more devil 
 than wolf." 
 
 "What is that?" said I, who was surprised to find 
 that even with the side-whiskered preacher present we 
 were to hear a spook story. 
 
 "Well," said Bill, "there was a feller over in the 
 east end of the valley named Silas Werninger, a lazy 
 cuss, who never cut a cord of wood in his life, and one 
 Saturday night he was at old Tommy Mertz's Hotel 
 in Youngmanstown and got into a row with a couple 
 of old farmers, and before they could stop him he had 
 shot them both — one died — and was on his horse and 
 
 81 
 
82 THE BLACK WOLF OF OAK VALLEY. 
 
 off to the mountains. After a couple of weeks he tired 
 of playing 'catamount' and at night used to visit his wife 
 and children, who lived in a log cobin on the outskirts 
 of Jacobsburg. At first people did not like to tell on 
 him, but it leaked out, and a posse surrounded him one 
 morning before daybreak, but his dog gave the alarm 
 and he decided not to come out. The constables then 
 decided to go in after him, and standing in the second 
 story window he riddled two of them with bullets as 
 they were battering down the door with a fresh-cut 
 telegraph pole. Werninger kept up the shooting until 
 his ammunition was exhausted, and then someone in the 
 posse, I think it was Sam Himes, pitched some burning 
 rags through the garret window and set the house" on 
 fire. Mrs. Werninger and the two little ones ran out 
 to safety, but Silas shouted he would never be taken 
 alive, and cooly cut his throat with a razor. When he 
 didn't come out, the crowd ran into the burning build- 
 ing and found him Ijang dead. They were just able to get 
 his body out before the roof fell, and they laid him by the 
 well until the Coroner came. After that was over the 
 question came up of a funeral. The Lutherans had a 
 graveyard and so had the Evangelicals, but there was 
 a kick from both parties about burying a murderer and 
 suicide in 'consecrated' ground, and besides they said 
 that Silas' father was a Jew peddler — so to quiet things 
 down he was buried after night in the center of a grove 
 of white oaks, not far from the road that runs from 
 Jacobsburg to Youngmanstown. 
 
 "All was well until the cold weather came on-^- 
 then the children said they saw a big black shaggy dog 
 hanging around the oak grove, and some young men 
 who were looking for chestnuts one Sunday afternoon 
 saw it and said it wasn't a dog at all, but a big black 
 wolf. The old men at the hotel said there hadn't been 
 
THE BLACK WOLF OF OAK VALLEY. 83 
 
 a wolf in these parts for twenty-five years, and the ones 
 they saw were grayish and never black. Finally old 
 Ira Sloppey saw it — he had killed a lot of wolves in 
 Clearfield county before the war — he was positive it 
 was a wolf, but its color was a bit strange. He chased 
 it out of the grove, and hit it several times with stones, 
 he said. He organized a hunting party, and twenty men, 
 mostly young fellows went out to kill the ugly beast. 
 
 They found it in the grove. 
 
 "It's there to dig up that murderer's body and eat 
 it," said old Ira. Just when they had it surrounded, it 
 darted between the legs of old Ira himself, and twenty 
 mUskets and rifles were fired after it as it disappeared 
 into the brush. When the smoke cleared away, it was 
 found that old Ira had been shot through the ankle, and 
 is a cripple to this very day. 
 
 That broke up the organized hunt, but several boys 
 took their dogs to the grove, but they would not leave 
 the high road, although their owners beat them soundly 
 and threw them over the fence. Women became so 
 frightened they would not use the road, and several 
 fainted when they saw the monster darting in and out 
 among the trees. The situation became so unpleasant 
 that it was decided that the wolf must be gotten rid of at 
 any cost. 
 
 Previously, no thought had been given to a super- 
 natural origin of the "wolf," but one day Sam Himes 
 chased a deer clear over to the Spring Run Ridge, and 
 as he was near the home of the famous witch, Granny 
 Myers, he stopped in and told her the whole story. 
 
 "Goshens," said she, "I knew that business all along. 
 That hain't no wolf, you foolish, that's poor Sile Wer- 
 ninger's spook. He hain't been happy since they planted 
 
84 THE BLACK WOLF OF OAK VALLEY. 
 
 him in them lonesome woods. If you go back and put 
 him in the Lutheran Cemetery, you'll see no more of 
 that wolf." 
 
 Sam Hines dropped the chase then and there, and 
 went back to Jacobsburg. He got the ear of all — even 
 poor crippled Ira Sloppey — ^at the hotel that night. 
 Nothing was said publicly, but the next morning all 
 that remained of Silas Werninger was dug up and buried 
 beside the body of his mother in the Lutheran Cemetery. 
 
 That Saturday night Sam Himes announced he 
 had seen and killed the black wolf just at the ^dge of 
 the oak grove. For months afterwards old Ira Sloppey 
 would say to him in his knowing way, "When are you 
 going to show me that wolf's scalp? And, remember, 
 you've got to give. me half the bounty." 
 
THE MISSING HANDICAP WINNER. 
 
 THE Bull markets of 1901 had poured a golden 
 shower into the cofifers of Hartman Gregg, and en- 
 abled him to realize for the first time in his life the de- 
 sire to establish a thoroughbred horse-breeding establish- 
 ment. He had owned for several years a large farm that 
 was less than an hour's ride from Philadelphia, and only 
 lacked the livestock to make his outfit complete. It had 
 always been his idea to have a winner of the $25,000 
 Brooklyn Handicap at the head of his farm, and now 
 that he was financially able, set about to find the required 
 animal. He read over the list of winners carefully. 
 There was Ornament, that won in 1898, held at an upset 
 price by a Kentucky breeder; Sir Walter, the 1897 ^^^' 
 ner, the especial pet of a New York fancier; Howard 
 Mann, the 1896 winner, had died of colic a year after the 
 race; and Hornpipe, winner 1895, had broken down and 
 been shot. Dr. Rice, who won in 1894, was just be- 
 ginning to win success in the stud, and Fred Foster 
 wouldn't put a price on him. Diabolo, the game cam- 
 paigner, that won as an aged horse in 1893, was put to 
 producing hunters in Virginia. Judge Morrow, the 
 1892 winner, who ended his racing career as a successful 
 steeplechaser, had been bought for a long figure by a 
 wealthy New York Breeder, and Castaway II., who won 
 in 1 89 1 — no one knew where he was at present — and so 
 when Hartman Gregg found out that one handicap win- 
 ner had gone a-begging somewhere he decided that this 
 was the horse for him. 
 
 He reasoned out that a horse with class enough to 
 win this rich handicap must have qualities that would in- 
 sure a good progany — especially as the colts of previous 
 winners like Dry Monopole, Sir Walter, Dr. Rice and 
 
 85 
 
86 THE MISSING HANDICAP WINNER. 
 
 Judge Morrow were beginning to win recognition on the 
 tracks. i 
 
 He looked up the breeding of old Castaway II., and 
 found him bred to suit the most exact requirements of 
 the time. He was a four-year-old when he won the great 
 race — had run a few times aft-erwards on the big tracks 
 — ^went wrong and was sold to a small owner from Gut- 
 tenberg. The turf guides showed he had run several 
 times in 1894 on an outlaw track at Alexander Island, 
 near Washington. And it was there that Gregg re- 
 paired to find him, although after being among the 
 missing for nearly eight years, the chances of finding him 
 seemed very slim. 
 
 "The probabilities are he's pulling a dump "cart 
 across the Long Bridge, or dozing before a darky hack- 
 man's surrey on Pennsylvania Avenue," said a very 
 consoling friend. But Hartman Gregg was undaunted 
 and went his way to Washington. He took the trolley 
 to Alexandria, frequently scanning the hack horses that 
 dragged themselves by the car for a horse which might 
 disclose the lines of a once great thoroughbred. He saw 
 several, but not the right color. They were long and 
 angular, with meagre tails and dilated nostrils, and ap- 
 peared fully aware of their lowered positions in life. 
 
 The conductor showed him where the race track was 
 situated. "We used to carry big crowds out there," he 
 remarked. Gregg looked around for a good place to get 
 out, and spying a livery stable with a fat Irishman sitting 
 outside on a stool, he had the car stopped and alighted. 
 He spoke to the Irishman, who replied politely, and 
 they soon became engaged in a conversation. 
 
 "Yes, I mind Castaway II, very well, a good looking 
 horse. They kept him in a stable back of that brick 
 house down the street. His owner lost everything and 
 
THE Missing MAMDiCAf winner, g; 
 
 skipped, and thi^ sold him for $56, to pay his feed bill." 
 "Who got him ?" queried Gregg. 
 
 "A saddle horse dealer in the city," said the Irish- 
 man. 
 
 Gregg learned the name of the saddle horse expert 
 and returned to Washington. 
 
 At the stable, a tall Southerner in charge said he 
 would look over the books. In a few minutes he came 
 back and said that they had kept the horse a week and 
 resold him for $75 "to a party that stood close to some 
 big Virginia breeders," and whose stables were not far 
 from the White House. 
 
 Gregg walked there and found the dealer, who said 
 he had the horse for six months and no one wanted 
 him, so he put him in an auction and he went for $25 
 to a war veteran from Pennsylvania, who was in. town 
 for regimental reunion. 
 
 That meant that the chase from now on would lie 
 in the couiitry. So Gregg, after learning the veteran's 
 address, left the next day for Pennsylvania. He found 
 himself on the night of the third of July at McConnells- 
 burg, a county seat, and the nearest place of any size to 
 the home of the missing handicap winner's present 
 owner. He asked at the old stoiie hotel for Joel McKee, 
 and was told he lived eighteen miles liofth of town on 
 a farm. "But," added the propfietot, "YotfU see hiili 
 iti town to-rriorrow. He always rides his old charger. 
 Castaway, that won the $25,000 race in New York city, 
 in our Fourth of Jlily parad'e.". 
 
 This was, indeed, good news. All the next itiornitig- 
 amid the incessant din of the firecrackers, he watched 
 the hbrsetnen tiding into tht main street. Yoting boys 
 t& -M'^f^', e©lts to d^eripiS family ma-rss, all matiiiet oi 
 
88 THE MISSING HANDICAP WINNER. 
 
 riders and horseflesh; but no horse met his eye that 
 looked like a Brooklyn Handicap winner. At two 
 o'clock the parade began, the horsemen in single file, 
 most of them dressed as Indians, followed by pedestrians, 
 also in fancy garb and a vast throng of spec- 
 tators. A blind man, led by his small son, who 
 rattled a tin cup with one penny it it, passed by in the 
 crowd ; but Gregg was too busy watching for the coveted 
 steed to give him any assistance. After the procession 
 had passed up and down the street a dozen times, he asked 
 the hotelkeeper if he had seen Mr. McKee, or his horse, 
 but was told neither had been in line. 
 
 The next morning Gregg was on his way out to the 
 McKee farm in a "livery rig." The driver was a vei-y 
 communicative, red-cheeked country boy, who enter- 
 tained him with all the gossip of the celebration of yes- 
 terday. When they got to the farmhouse, a large log 
 house with a coating of plaster, Gregg got out and went 
 around to the kitchen door. He knocked, and truly he 
 might have been "knocked down by a feather," to use 
 the old expression, when it was opened by the lovliest 
 looking girl he had ever seen. 
 
 She was about the medium height, not over five 
 feet five, with a slender, well-formed figure. She had 
 those matchless red cheeks that denote a strain of Scotch- 
 Irish ancestry. Her eyes were round and the shade of 
 fresh spring violets, while the smile that sparkled 
 through her long dark lashes would have captivated the 
 most unimpressionable. Clusters of her fine-textured 
 black hair appeared from under her large Yale-blue sun- 
 bonnet. She had just passed her twenty-first birthday 
 and her beauty of face and figure was at its most notice- 
 able point. The young man had not expected to see such 
 
THE MISSING HANDICAP WINNER. 89 
 
 charms in this remote locality; but it is just such a shock 
 that is needed to jolt into being the sparks of love. 
 
 "Does Mr. McKee, who owns a horse called Cast- 
 away II., live here?" said Gregg. 
 
 "Yes, he lives here, but he's in the field. We killed 
 that horse day before yesterday," timidly replied the 
 smiling young girl, who was Sarah McKee, the veteran's 
 daughter. "You see father was planning to take him 
 into town to ride in the big parade, but a colt kicked the 
 old horse and broke his leg, and we had to shoot him." 
 
 Here now was a predicament — the horse he had 
 hunted for weeks was dead — ^but he had met a very 
 charming young woman, and would have to leave her 
 sooner than he wished. Just then a wiry old man with a 
 gray mustiache and broad straw hat came around the cor- 
 ner of the house. 
 
 "Father, this is a gentleman from Philadelphia, 
 who came to see poor old Castaway." The young fellow 
 bowed and explained his mission, and was about to add 
 how it had been in vain, when the beautiful Sarah Mc- 
 Kee saved the day by saying in her sweetest tones : 
 "Won't you put your horse up and stay for dinner?" 
 And Hartman Gregg put all thought of handicap win- 
 ners out of his head to enjoy a far more pleasurable real- 
 ization. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 Why the Steiner House Patient Pulled Through. . . 7 
 
 The Story of Altar Rock 13 
 
 The Spook of Spook Hill 17 
 
 The Romance of PostofKce Rock 23 
 
 The Fate of Simeon Shaffer 2'j 
 
 The Legend of Penn's Cave 30 
 
 The Hermit of the Knobs 34 
 
 Prairie King 39 
 
 Old Righter's Ghost ' 47 
 
 The Mountain Soldier's Presentiment 50 
 
 Granny Myers's Curse 53 
 
 Witchcraft vs. Mother-in-Law 57 
 
 The Haunted Tavern 59 
 
 Fanny Hedden's Hotel 62 
 
 The Ghost Walk 66 
 
 Ole Bull's Castle 69 
 
 Booneville Camp Meeting 72 
 
 The Bald Eagle Silver Mine 78 
 
 The Black Wolf of Oak Valley 81 
 
 The Missing Handicap Winner 85