HENRlKSEGttKEitsa

YALE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY

FROM THE COLLECTION MADE BV
CHARLES SHELDON B.A. 1890
OF BOOKS ON NATURAL HISTORY
EXPLORATION • HUNTING & FISHING

GIFT OF FRANCIS P. GARVAN
B.A. 1897

Tales of The
Bald Eagle Mountains

McETHATTAN GAP AND OLD QUIGGLE HOMESTEAD
Photo by H. W. S'wope, Lock Haven. Pa.

Tales of The
IN CENTRAL PENNSYLVANIA
3i/ Henry W. Shoemaker

Author of "The Indian Steps and Other Pennsylvania Mountain
Stories," "Pennsylvania Mountain Verses," etc., etc.

"It can. therefore, be readily seen that in my early days these
mountains were, to the minds of many of those, ¦who then
lived there, not only a land of -wonderment, but of awe, nor
has this feeling enti-ely passed a'way, nor do 1 believe it^vill
ever pass a'way. Generation after generation ¦will tell the
tale with greater or less veneration as they may believe that
they once -were true or false, as the case maybe," — Judge
D. C. Henning.

Jdlustrateb

PUBLISHED BY
The Bright Printing Company, Reading, Pa.

COPYRIGHTED, 1912
All rights reserved

MO

ARGUMENT

N" offering still another vol
ume of Pennsylvania moun
tain legends, the author has
this to say by -way of ex
tenuation. While his other
books contained folk-lore
gathered at random in
various sections of the cen
tral part of the common-
¦wealth, all of these herein -were collected
along the "dark and sombre" range of the
Bald Eagle Mountains, the inspired origin
of -which is described in the first chapter.
It has been the author's aim as far as prac
ticable, to give one legend for each mountain
in the chain, as far as the Juniata, -where the
true Bald Eagles come to an end. Most
of them have an old-time setting, and the
greater part of the personal note -which
entered into some of the tales in the other
volumes, is lessened.

Shortly after the appearance, in Septem
ber, of "The Indian Steps", a letter -was
received from a competent critic, asking of
the author the perfectly justifiable question
"just -what proportion is pure fiction, and
what is pure fact". Although diligent ef
fort had been made to elucidate this in the
"explanatory preface" to "More Pennsylvania
Mountain Stories" issued last March, this
query, coming from one of the -writer's oldest
friends, set him to thinking that he had not
made himself clear enough. In all the
legends he has tried his best to set them forth
exactly as he heard them from the old peo
ple, putting his o-wn imagination and vie-w-
point far into the background. Unfortu
nately, in most every case, -when the stories
were -written out, they seemed to lack much
of the charm that -was so inherent in them
as oral legends. Try as he might, he -was
never quite able to catch that atmosphere.
Evidently there is a wide gulf between a tale
that is passed from lip to lip, and a purely
literary composition. Or else the writer has
failed completely as a chronicler. If they
were fiction they would not be; the world is
too full of really good imaginative literature.

In "The Indian Steps," tale IX "The
Dancing Chairs," was, when the writer heard
it, the most fascinating and most awe-awak
ening of legends. In the book, it came dan
gerously near to the commonplace. Perhaps
it was only intended to be told by a pretty
miss in an old livery surrey crossing the
Sugar Valley Mountains on a moonless night.
It was an orchid which could not stand the
sunlight of "cold type."
In "More Pennsylvania Mountain Stories"
his favorite was tale XXVI "Meeting
Hermionie", but that having been a per
sonal experience and a remarkable one, he
was unable to judge it in completed form
as was done with stories imparted by others.
One afternoon, several weeks after the
publication of the book, the author was day
dreaming in his buggy in front of a har
ness-store in a Central Pennsylvania town
when he heard someone calling his name. He
looked up, it was Hermionie, just as black-
eyed and winsome as in the days when she
constituted to him, pretty much all of the
cosmos. She cheerfully verified the story
which was some satisfaction, one can be sure.
XV

In "Pennsylvania Mountain Stories" he pre
ferred tale I "Why the Steiner House Patient
Pulled Through" by far the best. It possessed
some, but not by any means all of the eerie
qualities that thrilled him when he heard it
m the hallway of the old hotel in Millheim,
now alas burned to the ground.
In the present volume he is partial to tale
X "Conrad's Broom", yet of all he has writ
ten it lacks more of the marvellous succinct
ness and thrill it possessed when related by
a grand old gentleman whose eventful life
time at its close, just missed ten years of the
century mark! We can only say that the
old legends may have lost in passing through
our hands, but have not been added to or
trifled with. As there seemed to be no one
else bent on chronicling and preser-ving them,
the author, with a full realization of his
limitations, has "stuck at it." Chief among
these "limitations" is the fact that the time
is late to have begun collecting Pennsylvania
folk-lore and Indian tales. This could have
been done, by almost anyone, with great
thoroughness a hundred and twenty-five
years ago. There was a lull after all the

uproar of the Revolution and Indian wars,
yet romantic tales were rife. But no one
thought of collecting such things then. Peo
ple looked upon their individual lives as of
little consequence, their deeds as simple duty.
As to the Indians or their history, they were
regarded with loathing or indifference.
We have no one to-day who would collect the
annals of English sparrows or Cooper's
hawks. Fifty years ago, even, was not too
late, as Indians were met with from time to
time, and aroused no particular attention;
they were tolerated as itinerant basket
weavers or harvest-hands. A few of the
original frontiersmen or their sons were then
living "up in eighty" as they say in the
mountains, but who cared to catecize them
about a troublous past? A new war, between
North and South was beginning to absorb
everyone's attention. When the present writ
er came upon the scene "all was over", but
there were gleams in the embers of romance
and folk-lore that showed that they contained
life. He was able to learn the legends from
a few of the old people, who were boys when
there were still borderers and Indians whose

talk was interesting enough for them to lis
ten to and remember.
Incomplete, and lacking the "thrill" most
needed, these tales are an honest effort to
preserve a period as teeming with romance
as "when the world was young". They show
the wealth of folk-lore the Indians stored up,
and the first settlers brought -with them from
"over seas", from Scotland, the North of
Ireland, France, the Palatinate. They are
worth comparing, at any rate, with the folk
lore of the old world. In some of them the
author thinks he was able to catch on the
wing a passing phase, a time and mode of
life that will come no more. Every year
death has wrought havoc with the "old
folks", most of them going to their graves
with their reminiscences and ghost-stories
unrecorded. Some of their "untold tales"
were probably more startling than any here
recounted, and many times more numerous.
Many recorded in these pages may lack in
vital interest, but our selection was limited.
If the author has been able to perform a
service, no matter how slight, to legendary
xviii

history, or to a reader's gratification, or to
promote a love of all that is picturesque and
best in the Central Pennsylvania mountain
fountry, the task cannot be said to have been
in vain.
But one more word, kind reader; another
old friend complained that all the love-stories
ended too unhappily. This is partly due to
the fact that they had to be transcribed
exactly as they were told to the writer, they
came reeking unhappiness. But it may be
partly o-wing to many incidents in the
author's life, which made him remember
more distinctly experiences somewhat re
sembling his o-wn.
A debt, an un-repayable one, is owing to
press and public for the kindly reception of
his previous books. The author is extremely
grateful for the genial and intellectual com
panionship of John H. Chatham, of McEl-
hattan, Pa., who accompanied him on many
of his pilgrimages to remote spots in the
mountains; to James W. Quiggle, 2nd, also
of McElhattan, for valued assistance in cor
recting the "proofs"; to the Pennsylvania

Forestry Department, and others, for kind
permission to reproduce photographs used in
the illustrations.
Henry W. Shoemaker,
Riverside, Connecticut.
November 9, 1912.

I.
BIRyH OF THE B.ALD EAGLES
(Story of Muncy Mountain)

[5]|D][n]

N the earliest day that Indian
myth and folk-lore have
knowledge of, the region
which we now call Central
Pennsylvania was a flat
and fertile plain, inter
spersed with clumps of rich
tropical-like trees and bub
bling springs, and where
grazed countless herds of strange looking
animals and reptiles, ancestral types of those
found there upon the advent of the white
men, Sometunes the bunches of luxuriant 21

22 Tales of The
trees grew out of hillocks or knobs, and on
these the sa-vage forerunners of the Indian
tribes had their abodes. They had come so
lately from the bosom of Getchi-Manitto the
Almighty, for the world was new, and had
experienced so few of the -vicissitudes now
so inherent to the generations, that if they
had religious belief, it would be founded on
a certainty. Things had not run contrary
to their wishes, consequently they had not
found the advisability to inquire into their
beginnings. Fruits of all kinds, as well as nuts and
cereals grew at hand in abundance, A new
taste, for the flesh of animals, birds and fishes
had sharpened their appetites. All was easy,
opulent, serene. They were beloved by their
Great First Cause and grew comfortable and
complacent in the very radiance of His bless
ing. Wars, quarrels, strife, competition, all the
emulative features of life, were lacking in
their composition — their backbones had not
hardened. One hour of modem life with its
upsets, backsets and rivalries, would have

Bald Eagle Mountains 23
exhausted their untried energies. They
lacked the motive force to send a line of
hardy descendants down the ages. They had
not demonstrated their rights for existence.
But they were fearless, in a sense, although
nothing had ever happened to make them
afraid. In plain words they were spiritually
"half-baked." There must be reasons why
humanity was made what it is. The Chris
tian Bible tells the origin of sin, the Indian
legends repeat the beginnings of valor. The
Indians never acknowledged that they sinned,
perhaps they never did; the people of the
Bible never laid stress on their bravery. But
it was to be the fate of the Indians that they
came down the ages physically and spirit
ually brave and only by contamination with
the whites did their deterioration begin. But
for centuries they lived in the broad plains
of Central Pennsylvania, no better nor worse,
than when the Great Spirit breathed His
breath into the clay ; their inertia must have
begun to pall on Him. Only men of action
have immortal souls, the Indians had none
in those days — ^there are no Indian ghosts

2-* Tales of The
dating from remote antiquity nor are there
legends of any. Perhaps their lack of indi
viduality and progress were all a part of the
deeply laid plans of the Great Spirit,
Valor, to be the dominant trait of the In
dian character, was not to be developed until
they were physically fit. But when time had
produced a magnificent race of beings their
testing out process was to begin. Like all
acts of the Great Spirit it came about in
a way that could not be long foretold.
It occurred after a season of unparal
leled calmness and prosperity, in a joyous,
bracing autumn, when the redmen smelt the
falling leaves, and it was too cool to doze in
the half -crisp, half-sultry sunshine. It came
first in the form of news from Indians whose
canoes had started far towards the head
waters of Bald Eagle Creek, and like tawny
Paul Reveres brought the message of a new
order of things, to their peaceful, indifferent
fellows in the land of the Susquehanna. And
once they heard it, not an Indian rested as
calmly as of yore. The bearers of tidings told
of a vast upheaval of the earth, moving irre-

Bald Eagle Mountains 25
sistibly eastward, like the progress of some
monstrous mole. Where once were smooth
plains, covered with groves of oaks and pine
or giant ferns, or fields waving with Indian
corn, were now great mountainous masses of
broken rocks rifted from the centres of the
earth. Springs and water-courses were
loosed from their rocky fastnesses, and
gushed forth in torrents through the crevices
in this new formed face of nature, A force
that from within could raise such huge moun
tains, some of them a thousand feet in height,
must be titanic in its strength and immensity,
almost a creator of worlds itself.
Death and destruction had followed this
birth of a mountain range. The peaceful
redmen would fall asleep one night in their
cool tents, along some stream on the rich
plains, never dreaming of aught but plenty
and contentment. During the night the earth
beneath them would rise, sometimes quickly,
other times unsteadily, as if some vast
monster was turning in his slumbers. Tents,
lodges, campfires, Indians old and young,
would be hurled to their deaths, or sink to

26 Tales of The
burial alive in the new-formed crannies and
abysses. The sun would rise from behind
a rocky peak instead of gliding gracefully
into vision above the horizon. The sound
of happy voices was no more, only the dull,
ominous rumble of the great masses of rock,
earth, and uprooted timber settling into
place. And this horror was moving steadily
eastward, forming a new mountain some
times every night. As it seemed endless in
its course, the Indians dwelling further east,
moved rapidly from the radius of the new
development, but some were caught una
wares when side ridges, mostly to the south,
were suddenly heaved from the plains. The
far-eastern Indians heard the news with dis
may; it was either combat the oncoming
force, or fly before it. But what good was
flight, if mountains shot up in every nook
of safety. But how to combat it was the
question. All the physical force of every
Indian on the vast American continent
rolled together could not stay a force vast
enough to heave up mountains from the
plains. It was f utilei to iconcoct schemes to

Bald Eagle Mountains 27
combat it, human energy was nil. It had
not occurred that a supernatural power could
be invoked. The Indians of those ancient
simple days were much like our -white people
in this modem complex age, they did not
know how to pray or who to pray to. They
accepted everything as a matter of course,
they had a physical name for every ghost.
They called the rain, when it pattered on
the birch-bark roof of the lodge-house, just
rain, it was not the footsteps of a wraith.
They called the "vrind, when it howled dis
mally throu^ the pine woods, or swept
shrieking up the open bed of the river, just
wind, and not a disembodied, unhappy
spirit calling for surcease. They called the
shadows, when they fell suddenly in front of
a traveller's path, or hid the surroundings of
a peaceful camp, just shadows, and not the
dimly seen presence of a ghost or troop of
ghosts. They called the sighing splash of
distant waterfalls, just waterfalls, and not
the song of the banshee or "token," The
crackling of boughs, or the sudden fall of a
tree at night in the forest, was, juat oature.

28 Tales of The
and not unseen hands working out their pur
poses. It was a very prosaic world of facts, much
like the world we live in now. We have as
many ghosts about us today as we had a
hundred years ago, but like the Indians of
old, we have given them physical names.
But they are ghosts all the same; some day
they will come to their own. But this com
plete understanding of this world as a purely
physical manifestation had its limitations.
When human agency failed there was noth
ing that drew out the reserve force. In a
world where there are ghosts, the big deeds
of valor and unselfish bravery are accom
plished. A prayerful world is a hopeful,
undaunted world. And yet these simple abo
rigines differed in one great fundamental
principle from our modern materialists. The
Indians were creedless, but cheerful ; they did
not have the pessimistic gloom of modern
faithlessness. We bemoan a faith once held,
but thrown away ; they were comfortable be
cause they cared for nothing before or
behind. But in this crisis, when the onrush

Bald Eagle Mountains 29
of a nascent range of mountains daily grew
more imminent, physical opposition being
footless, they must needs appeal from it
somehow. Among their number they ac
knowledged one man wiser than the rest, yet
he was only a very young man. Of course his
name is lost in the shrouds of time, but a
name matters very little where there is ac
complishment ; it is only useful with society
people who do nothing, and need a name to
prop them a brief period on the ragged edge
of the inevitable oblivion. Without striving,
this young man had been by common consent
acknowledged to be the superior of all others.
Distinctions of birth were unknown in those
days, but his wisdom made him king, and he
became the progenitor of descendants grow
ing less "wise -with each generation until at
the time of the white men's invasion, they
v/ere the dullest of their tribes.
This wise man, when they appealed to him
for some recourse other than flight and to
stop the destruction of their happy lands, said
he must go out to the barest part of the plains,
to meditate for seven or eight days. He

30 Tales of The
went, taking scanty provisions to ensure high
thinking, but was back after one night's soli
tude. He told them, when they assembled
before him, that their desire to remain where
they were was an inspiration, nothing less,
but furthermore, if they were brave and be
lieved, they could forever stop the onslaught
of their destroyer, who was mighty but not
divine. His speech was intelligible, except for the
words "brave," "belief," "divine," They
dealt with a range of experience beyond their
•orbit. The wise man seeing this, explained
them as best he could, and to the credit of
the redmen let it be said they understood.
With this much gained, he proceeded to
tell them of the secret of their birth, some
thing they had not known nor cared about
before. After once they heard it they were
different beings, it was as if a di-vine spark
from the realm where it abounds, had pene
trated them ; they never felt the same again.
The Great First Cause, who made them ("but
who made the Great First Cause" was their
unanimous demand, and this remained unan-

Bald Eagle Mountains 3 1
swered) desired to instill a new virtue, cour
age, into the supine, calm dwellers on the
plains. He had permitted a Machtando or
giant monster of the underworld, whose home
had been many leagues toward the centre
of the earth, to disport himself mole-like
beneath the outer lining of the globe.
Nature is wasteful of its seed, except when
it has some purpose to conserve, and the lives
blotted out in the monster's track were un
counted and would have availed not. But
the vast body of dwellers, to the eastward,
who had learned of the great changes, were
to be given a chance to save themselves, and
make themselves in the full sense. Men.
But here the concourse again interrupted
the wise man, "Who made the Great First
Cause?" they clamored. "That will be an
swered some day to each of you," said the
speaker calmly, "you will laugh that you were
ever dumb enough to ask such a question,
it will be so simple". At any rate, the In
dians were to win their birthright, only to
lose it to a race ages later, with a purer faith
than theirs. Four moons from the time of

32 Tales of The
the assemblage, the monster mountain builder
was due to emerge, head first, from his chain
of hills. The place chosen by him was to be
on the fertile, thickly populated plains, across
the swelling river from what the Indians
afterwards called Motisey or Muncy To-wn.
If the redmen defeated and destroyed
the monster, they would increase, multi
ply and prosper; if they failed, all would
meet the fate of their compatriots to the
west, not one but a horde of similar mon
sters would rise out of the earth and anni
hilate them. The Indians could conquer, if
they would be brave, and bravery was syn
onymous with belief. Believing in oneself
is equivalent to a creed, for God, or the
Great First Cause, we all know is within us,
to a greater or lesser extent, God is the
power within us to do things. During the
time intervening until the great monster
shoved forth his Gorgon's head, the Indians
were to prepare his doom. First of all they
were to shape a huge granite rock, which
lay (perhaps put there by divine foresight, on
the river bank) into a spear point. This they

Bald Eagle Mountains 33
were to smear thickly with poisons which
could be dug from the earth, the wise man
would show them where. Then they were
to fasten the spear point to a handle made
from many tree trunks laid side by side,
fastened by hickory poles, and securely
spliced at the ends.
All this was to be raised from the ground
on trucks or wheels, made from smooth beech
logs, and at the sides propelled by every In
dian able to navigate. The logs were to be
indented for each Indian's body, and his full
force would help send it forward. The wise
man shQwed them the place where the mon
ster would emerge, and where to station their
poisoned ram. When they heard the rip
ping of roots, the cracking of boulders, and
the bursting of soil, denoting the appearance
of the menace, they would get ready to set
the instrument of defense into motion. When
the huge head, open-fanged, emerged, they
were, by concerted effort, to drive the sharp-
ned, poisoned end down its venomous throat.
The wise man had tried to make himself
clear; there was little more to say. Before

34 Tales of The
dismissing the concourse, however, he bade
them recite after him a short prayer to the
Great First Cause, because that was the only
part of his discourse they had not un
derstood. Self-preservation came naturally
enough, but the idealistic part, the power not
seen, yet themselves solely, was too abstract,
too far from immediate benefits to shape it
self succinctly in their plant-like intellects.
But they followed him word for word, and
reverently, in the prayer. Before the mood
for action would change, the young sooth
sayer led his people to the great flat rock, and
set them to drilling one end to a point.
Buoyed up by their new ideals they worked
faster and more skillfully than even their
leader deemed it possible. Despite their vast
numbers, not one worker conflicted -with an
other; it was inspired team work. While
they were pounding away, the wise man se
lected the trees which were to form the trucks
or handle to the giant war-spear.
These being chosen, and marked, he set
the enthusiastic workers constructing it, as
soon as the spear-head was done to his satis-

Bald Eagle Mountains 35
•faction. They say that after four days and
nights of cheerful labor, the great weapon
was ready to be hurled against the foe.
Meanwhile the old men, and the women and
children were moved far to the eastward, and
settled comfortably amid hills and valleys,
until the conflict should be over. So confi
dent was the wise man of the ultimate tri
umph that he forbid families at parting to
say goodbye, he determined to make faith
of victory certain. He drilled the force who
were to operate the ram, until they handled
the mighty weapon dextrously. Then there
was nothing to do but to wait developments.
The foe might not appear for four moons,
but there was a danger of its appearance
sooner. They did not have to wait until they
became tired or disorganized. It was not
long until they heard the awful rumble of
mountains in the making. The ground shook
v/here they were encamped, as if mammoths
v/ere disporting themselves under their very
feet. One clear haze-less morning they be
held the great circular outlines of a moun
tain, looming against the horizon, seven or

86 Tales of The
eight miles to the westward, where the night
before none had been.
The "mountain builder" was almost upon
them; at this rate, their conflict with him,
would occur that night or the next morning.
In order to let them see plainly hy night, the
wise man ordered the plains and forests fired.
When the sun sank miles of blazing grass and
tree ferns illuminated the scene -with a lurid,
uncanny glow. All had been silent since the
morning, the monster had evidently retired
below, to rest before another effort. At mid
night they heard a tremendous crunching of
rocks and roots, the signal that the mountain
building had begun afresh. Some of the In
dians almost vrent mad from the deafening
roar, so sustained, so loud, so nerve-racking.
It reached a pitch where it overpowered
everything, and the tensely strained ear
drums became used to it. But many of the
redmen were totally deafened for life. By
the orange-red glare of the burning vegeta
tion, they noted the level of the plain rising
higher and higher. The work of upheaval
had begun right before them; it was their
chance now to stop the hideous monster, and

Bald Eagle Mountains 37
earn a patrimony of valor to send on to gen
erations yet unborn. Amid the terriffic
noises, the back-bone of a mountain rose into
view, a mountain a mile in width and close to
a thousand feet in height.
As it was settling into a permanent con
tour, they noticed a rending in the struc
ture of its easterly slope; the monster, evi
dently apprised of his human enemies, was
preparing to issue forth to give them battle.
Soon the vast horned-head of the Machtando,
or demon, did emerge, shooting forth gaseous
vapors so foul, that it sickened many of the
defenders. But those who could overcome
their indisposition, manned the ram bravely,
and sent it in motion after the fiendish mon
ster. Both head and ram moved with about
the same acceleration, and force. But the
Indians were gifted on that occasion with
superhuman courage, and drove the sharp
ened spear point into the open maw of the
on-coming foe. For an instant all seemed
swallowed in the mass of sulphurous smoke,
but the sharpened apex went true, coming out
the back of the monster's neck. Transfixed

38 Tales of the
it could move neither forward nor backward,
but its subterranean body lashed itself wildly,
sending fresh convulsions through the newly
formed mountain. Sooner or later the crea
ture might have freed himself, but for the
poison, so liberally smeared over the spear
head. Before he could devise a way to shake
off his enemies, he was in the throes of a
horrible death-agony. Struggling with
might and main, he was forcing the blade
out of his jaws, when the chilling forces of
death overcame him. But he did not become
still until after the entire form had turned
itself completely over, causing that notice
able breadth at the termination of what we
now style Muncy Mountain.
When he had gasped for the last time, like
some foundry blowing off, and lay like the
heights above, perfectly still, the wise man
clambered out on the truck of the weapon,
and asked the prayers of the valiant band.
"It is not for the death of the worst foe that
could attack us we wish to give thanks, it is
for the birth of our souls, of our new valor,
of our hope for immortality," The Indians!

Bald Eagle Mountains

for the most part utterly exhausted, fell on
the earth, uttering grateful expressions.
They had won a notable and lasting -victory.
"Let none of you forget the spear" said
the wise man when he bade them disperse.
And so it came to pass that Indians always
carried spears when on the chase or in battle.
Antiquarians have wondered at the appar
ent uselessness of these weapons, but they
were the armament of the redmen's souls,
the symbol of the grandest feat of their exist
ence. When they carried them it augured
something great. And the mountain range
which came into being was called the Mach
tando, or Devil Mountains, until rechristened
centuries later in honor of the great Chief
Bald Eagle.

XL
THE SIREN
(Story of Loyalsock Mountain)

HERE seemed to be an un
warranted number of raft
ing accidents at Loyalsock
Riffles, some of them
fraught v/ith loss of life. It
was certainly not the worst
place on the river by any
means, at least to pilots who
could successfully navigate
Conewago Falls, with its drop of seventy
feet in the mile, year after year, to say noth
ing of the chutes in Muncy and Shamokin
dams, yet would go to destruction in the shal
lows of Loyalsock. There was one explana
tion which found many followers, and which
was as so many rafts had tied up at Lock
Haven or Williamsport on their way, that the
raftsmen had imbibed too freely, and were
not in the proper trim when they hit their
40

Bald Eagle Mountains 41
first obstacle. But this could not hold good
when numerous rafts, manned by church
members fresh from the throes of protracted
meetings, went down with the same alacrity
as those piloted by crews "outside the fold" ;
it behooved investigators to learn the prob
able reasons from the raftsmen themselves.
But the rafting fraternity was clannish and
close-mouthed, as reticent about their mis
haps as their triumphs, with their own re
venges and rewards, and it was only when
practically the "last raft" had gone that the
old pilots became communicative. Then were
heard many interesting reminiscences of the
river. There was one old gentleman who had
rafted for over half a century, and who knew
the Susquehanna from the mouth of Moshan-
non to the dead waters of Marietta as a nun
knows her beads, that was able to explain
why so many rafts split up at Loyalsock, He
did not profess to believe the story in its
entirety, but without it the constant wrecks
would be shrouded in the profoundest mys
tery. Once when the grand old gentleman

42 Tales of The
was in a particularly communicative mood;
he was seated on his favorite easy-chair on
his comfortable piazza in the shadow of the
Round Top, he told the story of the rafts that
went to pieces over the Riffles of Loyalsock,
It seemed there never was so much as a dog-
raft or a dug-out wrecked there in the early
days of rafting ; the river had been run safely
from Karthaus to Harrisburg for ten years
before the trouble began. Then all of a sud
den there was a change ; it took a hardy pilot
to get through in safety until he learned the
secret of the danger. Once aware of this, he
took particular care not to duplicate his loss,
which sometimes had mounted up even into
human lives. As was generally the case with
untoward happenings in those days, and in
these for that matter, if we only took trouble
to inquire, man's avarice and sin and super
natural retribution were the "cause and ef
fect" of these rafting tragedies.
To go back to the first elements of the
story, let it be stated again that the Indians
did not leave the Bald Eagle Mountain coun
try suddenly, nor any other part of the State.

Bald Eagle Mountains 43
After they had been whipped into being
peaceable citizens, they were familiar figures
in the market places of the towns, around the
old public-houses and ferries, and their tents
and shanties loomed along many a river bank.
Gradually only did they become less, they
went quietly and unobtrusively, until no one
was shocked when they were seen no mora.
The negro of today is going through a simi
lar transition, he is seen filling fewer posi
tions than ten or twenty years ago, he is drop
ping out of his familiar haunts, he is becom
ing less obtrusive, he is on the wane. Fifty
years from now people will listen with amaze
ment at tales of the plentitude of negroes
in the last years of the nineteenth century;
he will have followed the Indian into shad-
o-wy oblivion.
There was a single family of Mingo In
dians, tradition had it they came from the
Southern part of the State, who lived a short
distance below the present location of the
summer resort known as Sylvan Dell. They
were not the only interesting denizens of that
spot; Tim Murphy the famous sharp-shooter

Tales of The

of the Revolution spent his last days there.
But to be exact, Tim's cabin stood an eighth
of a mile further up stream, where there was
quite a respectable sized flat for his garden.
The Indians' shanty was perched at the apex
where the flat and the mountain side come
together. It looked, from a distance, like an
oriole's nest, literally hanging over the river.
The Indian head of the family went by the
name of Powderhorn, not a very pretty, but
yet a serviceable cognomen. About the time
they adopted trousers and stove-pipe hats, the
redskins began anglicizing their names. In
their last phase in Pennsylvania history we
read of Johnnyhocks, Little Johnny Broken-
straw, Bob Sunday, Billy Frozen Stone, Hot-
bread, and Powderhorn,
But the story of Powderhorn concerns us
most at present. He was the last of his gen
eration, his father and mother had been
butchered by whites on the Yellow Breeches
Creek, his brothers and sisters grew to ma
turity only to die of some pestilence which
decimated their kind on the banks of the
Juniata, Powderhorn himself had suffered

Bald Eagle Mountains 45
from the horrible disease, but survived it
minus hair and teeth and plus a palsied leg.
It was hard for him to hunt, so he cultivated
a taste for basket-making. He married on
the Juniata, and drifted North with his bride
and built for her the hanging nest in that neck
of woods below the Sylvan Dell, He became
an attendant at the first markets in Wil
liamsport, where he found ready sale for his
wares and in addition did chores for the
farmers and housewives. To see an Indian
today at a Williamsport market would draw
a crowd, but that is because the last aborigine
has gone. In those days there were supposed
to be Indians, they caused no more conster
nation than when a bull moose from the
North V/oods is strung up in front of a
butcher's stall.
In due course of time Powderhorn accumu
lated a family ; it consisted of eight girls and
a boy. The boy was a sickly specimen, early
ticketed for the Happy Hunting Ground with
out stop, but the girls seemed full of health,
were lithe, graceful, good-looking. There
was one, the flower of the flock, in whom was

46 Tales of The
centred all the good points of generations be
hind. Powderhorn and his squaw Maggie
Sue, she was named after two rich Scotch-
Irish women near whose home her parents
once tented, both wanted an attractive name
for this most winsome of their daughters.
They called her after a flowering plant, the
roots of which they had both hunted and
loved as modern children love candy, Sweet
Cicely. The young girl developed to be
sv/eeter than her name and her parents in
their homely way were sometimes sorry they
had not chosen a name more imposing, Ter'-
haps as they grew older they forgot the taste
of their early sweetmeat. Socially the lonely
Indian family were quite by themselves, as
much so as a parrot in a flock of sparrows.
The good looks of the Indian girls, especially
Sweet Cicely, made considerable of an im
pression on the few young white men of the
neighborhood, but as the girls had no wild
inclinations, they made no efforts to be civil
to them. The oldest girl, when she was twenty-
six, in the Warrior's Run Sunday School one
morning told her teacher that she had never

Bald Eagle Mountains 47
had a sweetheart. The white girls looked
at her amazed, as she was far prettier than
any of them.
Once, by chance, an Indian youth appeared
on the scene. He came from the reservation
about fifteen miles north of Warren and did
farm work for old Ezra McGrady who lived
across the river from Powderhorn's retreat.
He was a fine appearing young fellow, about
twenty years of age, and grown to a height
a couple of inches over six feet. He called
himself Wild William Winters and boasted
of a relationship to the venerable Chief Corn-
plant. Having the choice, he selected Sweet
Cicely as the object of his admiration and
soon was genuinely in love -with her and she
with him. He was her first admirer, her
first love, her first kiss, all was so new and
fresh ; her embraces did not cast the shadow
of some other man who had been there be
fore. She was happy in not being able to
measure his intensity -with some one else, to
compare his kisses and hand clasps with one
who had gone before. The ecstacy of the
first love is life's grandest elation; but how

48 Tales of The
few who have experienced it are aware of
its value.
There was a pathway which led from the
home of Powderhorn along the river bank;
it ran about ten feet above the water and
was shaded by venerable red-birches, button-
woods, elms and hemlocks, Wildflowers and
many colored birds, sweet scents and sweet
songs, made it a paradise for strayers. The
path terminated at a narrow, rocky ledge
which was often used as a seat by the lovers.
On the warmer evenings Sweet Cicely eat
there and waited until Wild William, his
work at McGrady's done, would cross the
river in his canoe and court her on the ledge.
When it was time to go home he would ac
company her up the path to the cabin, and
then return to his canoe, skimming across
the moonlit waters like a savage warrior of
old. Often as she waited. Sweet Cicely would
sing. She had a sweet voice and picked up
many of the ancient Indian refrains and,
coming from the South, she sang the earliest
version of that bewitching piece, "Wild roved
an Indian girl, bright Alfarata," It was an

THE NEW BRIDGE. NEAR McELHATTAN
Photo by H. "W. Swope. Lock Haven, Pa.

Bald Eagle Mountains 49

entrancing sight to see her sitting there, with
her pretty feet dangling over the ledge, sing
ing her love-warmed songs, while her lover
sped to her side in his canoe. It was a bit
of primeval life restored; if it could only
liave lasted.
During the Spring floods rafts would drift
by the lovers' rookery; when they were to
gether they waved to the raftsmen, just as
tnodem folk salute a passing express train.
All was good-natured, simple, harmless. Oc
casionally at dusk when Sweet Cicely was
Waiting for her lover, rafts would pass, but
they were belated craft, looTcing for comfort
able eddies to tie up for the night. The
¦young girl never waved to the raftsmen when
she was alcnie and few noticed her when the
sun was gone. They swept by like wild geese
hunting their night-marsh. But sometimes
^s they parsed she would catch herself in the
"midst of some song, though in minor key, and
"would check herself instantly fearing that the
watermen might think she was singing to
lattract them. She -sang because she was

50 Tales of The
happy, and one ought to be allowed happiness
even when strangers are present.
One night when the river was falling fast
she had permitted herself to burst into song ;
it seemed a late hour and late from river-
men's standards for any rafts to pass; the
time slipped quicker when she sang until
Wild William came. They had been house-
cleaning at McGrady's, and the young red-
man being man of all work was detained in
consequence. Sweet Cicely expected this, but
he seemed uncommonly long in coming. As
she looked up and do-wn stream -with her
eager lover-like glances, she noticed a raft
approaching. The pilot, a black figure against
the silvery tone of the dusk, stood motionless
at his steering-oar. He was alone; a pile
of buffalo robes on the centre of the raft
showed where he slept. Where the rest of
his crew were was a mystery; maybe they
had mutinied at some tavern. Sweet Cicely
conjectured. She was so interested by this
apparition of the lone raftsman that she
forgot to stop singing. The night wind
springing up bore the strains of "Still sweeps

Bald Eagle Mountains 51
the River on" to the ears of the silent man.
His alert glance showed that a young slender
girl was watching him and her singing was
probably meant for him. Quick as a flash he
threw his weight against the oar and headed
the raft towards shore. It was a perilous
place to tis up, but he was willing to risk it.
When the front logs snubbed the rocky bank,
he leaped on land and tied the raft to some
of the sturdiest red-birches. Then he clam
bered up the rocky cliff to where Sweet
Cicely was seated, with her feet dangling
over the ledge. He moved so rapidly, she
was still singing when he stood beside her.
She was not frightened, it was not dark, any
minute she might see Wild William's canoe
launched in the current. What did the
stranger want, his conduct was inexplicable.
He did not lose time in showing her, as he
sat do-wn and put his arm, as strong as an
iron girder, around her slender waist, and
began addressing her in names of endear
ment. The girl tried to free herself, calling
out "let go, let go, let go, you," but the
stranger only held her more tightly, "Let

52 Tales of Thet
go or I'll scream for help" was her next
note of warning. At this he put both arms
about her and tried to push her over on her
back. That was the limit of endurance, she
screamed lustily, all the vigor of her Indian
lungs was asserted. The man, angered to a
point where self-control was gone, released
his hold from her waist with one hand and
grasped her throat to silence her. He had s
stronger grip than he realized, so used ta
bending his heavy oaken oar against resolute
currents; the girl miraculously to him, be'
came still. He looked do-wn on her as a pan^
ther would on sickly fawn ; the purple pink of
her complexion was now a blue grey, the color
of t-wilight before it dies. Some instinct of
self-preservation, such as every animal pos
sesses, caused him to turn his eyes across the
river, A canoe, with two men in it, was be
ing launched. He looked again at the limp
form before him ; he had evidently killed the
girl, he must make his escape. But how was:
he to do it? On one side was the river, -with
the canoe of the avengers now in mid-stream^
on the other rose the stiff forbidding height

Bald Eagle Mountains 53
of the Bald Eagle Mountain, It was a peri
lous climb at dark, but he must go that way,
as the hea-vy timber would protect him from
any bullets they sent after him.
Abandoning money, robes, provisions, he
started up the mountain, speeding with the
giant strides of fear and self -protection. The
canoe which contained Wild William, and
another young Indian named Bully Elkhorn,
who had come to hostler at McGrady's farm
reached the shore below the ledge, and the
young men clambered to where Sweet Cicely
lay. She was not dead yet, every possible effort
was made to revive her, but as the last streak
of light vanished from the sky, she died; and
they stood before death in the darkness, with
the sound of the river rippling below them.
Wild William could feel the marks of the
brute's thumb in her slender neck. He must
have broken her windpipe. He was too sto
ical to cry; he belonged to a vanishing race,
death was the principal event to them, what
else was there but death, "That's pretty
tough", said Bully Elkhorn, sympathetically,
as he had sized up the situation "come to meet

54 Tales of The
your sweetheart only to find her murdered."
"That raftsman did it, but we couldn't have
stopped him, as we had no guns, and he was
gone before our canoe touched shore." Tak
ing the fragile corpse in their arms, the young
men, straight and tragic looking, and never
speaking a word, stalked up the path, the
scene of so many happy strolls in the past,
to the cabin of poor old Powderhorn,
It appeared so bleak and forlorn looking out
through the night, it was just a shade darker
than the gloom, as the hearts of the house
hold would be in a few minutes. The little
shaggy watchdog, a sort of mongrel descend
ant of the true Indian dogs, barked moodily,
as they drew near. He saw that something
was amiss. Wild William knocked on the
door, and it was almost instantly opened by
Powderhorn, "What's wrong" he stammered,
"I had a feeling something was going to hap
pen, I couldn't get to sleep," He need not
have inquired, his second glance showed
Sweet Cicely lying limp in Bully Elkhorn's
arms.

Bald Eagle Mountains 55
Wild William explained the story as briefly
as possible, and then the body was borne in
side. The next morning old Powderhorn
tramped to Williamsport and tried to give the
account of his daughter's death at the Court
house. But the officials plainly regarded
the Indians as outside the law, he could
not get a listening ear. He was so insistent
that something be done that the sheriff, to be
rid of him, intimated that unless he dropped
the subject and left toAsm, he would send
down and arrest Wild William and charge
him with the crime, and lock up Bully Elk
horn and the old man as witnesses. Con
vinced of the futility of obtaining justice, he
returned home, and that night helped bury
the remains of his beloved daughter in a
patch of rich earth. They planted sunflower
seeds on the grave.
Powderhorn was never the same after
Sweet Cicely had gone. He would not go to
Williamsport again, as he imagined everyone
else was as unjust as the Court-house offi
cials. He limped more than usual, and com
plained of headaches and backaches. He

56 Tales of The
often said he would like to get away. In
this wish he was supported by the rest of his
family. The happy days were no more.
After harvest Wild William and Bully Elk
horn, who had tried to trail the murderer
during their leisure moments and became dis
couraged, decided to go back to the reserva
tion on the Alleghany. When they confided
this to Powderhorn, he said he would go along
and take his family. So early in September
"they gathered up their tents like the Arabs
and silently stole away." Years afterwards
rumor had it that Wild William's wound had
healed sufficiently to marry another of Pow
derhorn's daughters, while Bully Elkhorn had
married the oldest girl, whose first love affair
came to her at thirty.
But the shado-wy essence of the ill-used In
dians remained along Loyalsock mountain, at
least the spiritual part of one of them. In
the springtime when belated rafts swept
do-wn the river in search of cozy eddies,
the clear, pure notes of a young girl's voice
were heard from high on a ledge above the
stream. Hearing them for the first time.

Bald Eagle Mountains 57
they were so liquid, so exquisite, so far-
reaching, many a pilot let go his oar, and the
uneven current would bump the raft on the
sharp rocks or send it wobbling into shore.
There would be a rending of thongs, a bend
ing of bolts, a ravelling of ropes, shouts,
curses, thumps and bangs ; the raft, mistress
of the tide but a few moments before, would
be floating in all directions like so much
flotsam and jetsam. Sometimes pilot or help
ers would fall between logs and have their
necks broken or be drowned in the maelstrom.
And above the crash of breaking timbers and
seething waters would come the clear, flute
like echoes of a young girl's voice. Even
those who had gone through these perils and
escaped with life and limb would be sorely
tempted to look and listen the next time they
heard it.
Who she was, and what she was, this Siren
of the West Branch, must be explained. She
could not be human, she sang as if divine. No
one dared stop to investigate; it was fatal
to even listen. But old Ezra McGrady from
his point of vantage across the river began

58 Tales of The
to do some thinking about the matter. He
had already formed an opinion of what
caused so many wrecks when one night a
stranger stopped for supper and asked him.,
incidentally, if he knew what had become of
the Indian family who used to live on the
opposite shoi-e. The man had been drink
ing, so his tongue ran freely ; there was some
thing about him which stamped him as a
raftsman. By deft questioning McGrady
learned his name and his experiences on the
river before he sent him on his way, "Some
just fate sent him here" muttered the old
man, as he turned about after lighting the
stranger to the pike with his lantern, "In
dian or not, that girl will be avenged," The
next time a party of raftsmen stopped at his
house, it had become quite a resort for them
on their long walks to their homes, he whis
pered to them the story of the strange singer
with the fatal voice, and who her murderer
had been. "Mum's the word, by the saints
above" they all said with right hands raised.
"We'll send that girl's spirit into peace, even
if she was an Indian."

Bald Eagle Mountains 53
Who could forget that rugged circle as they
stood in the hallway in the candle-light ! One
night, the following Spring, just as the last
streaks of light were passing from the sky,
another fatal rafting accident occurred at the
Loyalsock Riffles. A well-known pilot from
the new county of Clinton, respected and
prosperous, was knocked off his raft by the
bow of another raft which had been trailing
close behind. He was horribly mangled by
logs and rocks, so much so that it was decided
to inter his remains on the flat near the de
serted Indian cabin. As they threw the sods
over him, this human chuck-steak, the crowd
around seemed to hear high up on the moun
tain, the sweet notes of a girl singing, "Fleet
ing years have borne away the voice of Al
farata," The men nudged one another, bared
their heads and listened. It was the last
time that anyone ever heard the Siren.

IIL

THE RED FOX
(Story of Williamsport Mountain)

T was regarded as remark
able, by such men of science
as Professor Spencer F,
Baird and others of his
stamp, that no fossil re
mains of red foxes were de
rived from the Carlisle and
other bone caves, whereas
the remains of grey foxes
were abundant. At Port Kennedy one upper
molar was found in a cavern, belonging to
the pleistocene period, said to be from a red
fox. Apart from this there is no evidence
to suppose that the red fox existed in Penn
sylvania before the advent of tEie British
colonists. It is kno'wn for certain that they
were imported from England into New York
and New Jersey as early as the beginning of
the Eighteenth Century. In 1750, an enter-
60

Bald Eagle Mountains 61
prising sea captain landed at New York City
a cargo consisting of English and Irish hunt-
ers, English hounds and fifty brace of red
foxes. It created great excitement at the
time, and the young bloods from New York^
Pennsylvania and Virginia bought out the
entire shipment at good prices. It was a
few years after this that red foxes began to
be noticed as Wild animals in the above men
tioned colonies. Other shipments followed
at irregular periods, and it must be assumed
that a fair percentage of the animals es
caped and bred, as there was so much wood
land and rough country.
It is recorded that the first red fox killed
in Perry County, Pennsylvania met its death
in 1787, Showing that the species Was gradu
ally moving into the Central part of the
State, The gentlemen of English descent
who lived in the manor houses along the West
Branch took up fox-hunting as a pastime.
Several shipments of red foxes arrived from
England about 1795, consigned to wealthy
sportsmen at and below Williamsport. Among
the most enthusiastic sportsmen of his day

62 Tales of The
was old Edgar Cooper, or "Lord" Cooper,
as his friends called him. He lived in a large
unfinished mansion in the Gap back of South
Y/illiamsport, at the foot of the "upper" or
westerly mountain, then a very wild region.
Although he had been born in Pennsylvania,
he liked to pretend he was English and took
pains to ignore the fact that the United States
had been formed, and the colonies were no
longer dependent upon England, He was
proud and aristocratic to a degree, yet the
name Cooper would indicate that two or three
generations back, or maybe less, his ancestors
were part and parcel of the hoi polloi. He
tried to look like an English country squire,
of the kind he had read about in books, or
had heard descriptions of from travellers, as
the genuine article was far from extinct at
that time.
One would think that -with all his love for
the English he would have made fre
quent trips to that country, but in truth ha
had never been across the Atlantic, some said
he had never been as far east as New York.
When distinguished Englishmen were travel-

Bald Eagle Mountains 63
ling through the valley, he always managed
to entertain them at "Boxwood," as he called
his estate, and would talk intimately about
"dear old England," As he looked the Johnny
Bull, and talked with an exaggerated Brit
ish accent, his guests often asked him when
he was last in the old country. From long
experience he deftly turned the conversation,
or if cornered fibbed bravely and said he had
been educated there. In reality he went to
district school one term in Little Britain
Township, Lancaster County. His father, an
Englishman by birth, had made his money as
a clothing contractor to the patriot army dur
ing the Revolution; the son owed everything
to the new republic, yet he professed utmost
contempt for "the common herd at the head
of things."
Hunting grey or hybrid foxes was a sport
followed by Germans and Scotch-Irishmen;
it was below his dignity, he must hunt the
animal that had made the chase famous in
the land of his ancestors. So he imported,
at considerable expense, six brace of red foxes
from England. The arrival of these hand-

64 Tales of The
some animals created great excitement in the
neighborhood. Tended by Indian and negro
servants, they had as milch care as children.
Every Sunday "Lord" Cooper and his hevy
of more br less English friends would
visit the pens, and stand long and reverently
before these brick-colored specimens of ani
mal life in the realm of King George, "Box
wood," the name of the estate came from
the fact that Cooper imported a dozen box
woods from England, which were set out on
the terrace in front of the mansion. Unfor
tunately all but one died ; but it was too late,
the name had been selected and "Boxwood'*
it remained. He had better luck with the
rarer varieties of native trees, of which he
had quite a knowledge, and possessed excel
lent taste. He set out groups of sweet gums,
gingkos, Kentucky coffee trees, honey-locusts,
virgilias, and buckeyes, balsam firs, red
spruces, arbor vitaes and junipers, which
grew handsomely. He interspersed these
with clumps of rhododendrons, ha-wthoms,
red-buds and spice bushes, all of which helped
to hide the unfinished aspect of the house.

Bald Eagle Mountains 65
He was a very improvident man. If he lived
within his income he could have had ample
means to finish the house, but whenever his
remittances came to hand, he spent it lavish
ly, and the work languished. He finished the
stables first, letting the house progress by
gradual stages. The stables were built of
the native stone, but roofed with red Eng
lish tiles, and surrounded by thrifty Lom-
bardy poplars, imported from "the snug lit
tle isle."
"Lord" Cooper had married a Quakeress
in Philadelphia; their family, which was
small for those days, consisted of a son and
a daughter, Meredyth Cooper, the son, was
the antithesis of his father, and was said to
take after his mother's side of the house. He
was genial, democratic and broad-minded.
He had refused to be sent to England to be
educated, but had received an excellent train
ing from tutors and in the best of private
schools in Philadelphia, He was a handsome
big fellow, and while devoted to out-door
sports, and fox-hunting in particular, he pur
sued them in a manly, dignified manner, after

66 Tales of The
the fashion of the best type of the American
gentleman. The most prized object in the stables was
a handsome English thoroughbred stallion
which was said to have won the great Derby
Stakes, Some years later another alleged
winner of the Epsom classic appeared at Jer
sey Shore ; they must not be confused, as both
left a numerous progeny. The spirited Derby
winner had been imported to this country in
charge of a diminutive ruffian from Newmar
ket, called Luke Pratchett. Luke boasted
that he was a prize-fighter, and made him
self very quarrelsome with the natives. One
Sunday afternoon he became impudent to
two tall, lanky Scotch-Irish youths, named
McClanachan who came to look at the stal
lion, and they treated him to a terrific beating
in consequence. The same afternoon a strut-
ty duckwing game-cock, also from Newmar
ket heath, was trounced to the last feather
hy a commonplace Creeley rooster belonging
to some Pennsylvania-German farmers who
were immigrating to Sugar Valley, After

Bald Eagle Mountains 67
that Johnny Bull had his cla-ws drawn around
"Lord" Cooper's stables.
Early in the autumn the first hunt with
one of the English foxes took place. An Eng
lishman from Sunbury, another from Harris
burg and t-wo from York were on hand as
special guests to give local color to the chase.
"Lord" Cooper -with a red coat, mounted on
the English stallion, with his son, and Luke
Pratchett as huntsman, were the other mem
bers of the party. Unfortunately the im
ported thoroughbred balked shortly after
leaving the stables and the hue and cry -went
out Mosquito Valley minus his lordship. It
"w&s an exciting chase, while it lasted. The
fox had not been given sufficient start, but
was game and speedy. He circled twice
around the valley, over such a rough country
that only young Cooper and Luke were on
his trail when he made his final dash for lib
erty. The other four Englishmen, outrun,
eased their mounts and trotted them back to
the manor-house. The fox made every effort
to escape, but when he felt his strength fail
ing and the laaunds drawing nearer and near-

68 Tales of The
er, sprang through an open window into the
cottage of a German settler named Tobias
Lehman. The old man ran out and began
swearing at the huntsmen and threatened to
shoot the dogs. He might have done so had
not his daughter, Catharine, a very pretty
blonde girl of twenty, appeared on the scene
and coaxed her father into the house. Dur
ing this parley the fox escaped out the back
door of the cabin, and became one of the pro
genitors of the red foxes of Pennsylvania.
Catharine was a buxom-looking girl, the typi
cal artist's conception of a milk-maid; her
coloring was good, her hair was yellow gold,
and her grey eyes were large, but she had
the peasant's habit of looking down, and
could not meet a person's gaze. There was
a smallness and instability to the lips that
did not measure up to her rather large, well
moulded nose. Despite hard work in fields
and dairy her hands and feet were small ; the
latter were incased in beaded black slippers,
evidently she had expected the denouement.
To young Meredyth Cooper who had been
shielded from girls as from poison i-vy, his

Bald Eagle Mountains 69
father never having considered anyone good
enough for him, the sight of this voluptuous
mass of blonde loveliness made a profound
impression. He continued the talk about
the unseemly conduct of the English fox for
longer than was necessary, and when he re
mounted and rode homeward he felt as if he
had known "Catharine", as he called her to
himself, all his life. Having had no prede
cessors in his heart, she spread over the
entire area of his experience, "Lord" Cooper
and his English guests had a grand jollifica
tion that night, even though they had no mask
nor brush to display. They imbibed freely
of English punch and rum and towards mid
night one of the guests picked up a hatchet
and said he was going out to the barn to cut
off one of the fox's tails and have a brush
anyhow. The others were too upset to re
strain him, and he might have done it, but
that he fell against a stucco figure of Brit
tania while crossing the lawn and lay petri
fied until morning. The next afternoon, Mere
dyth, who was glad for a chance to get away
from the roystering company, rode out in the

70 Tales of the
direction of the Lehman clearing. It occu
pied a hillside at the far southwesterly cor
ner of the valley, "Lord" Cooper had tried
to buy the piece, which comprised fifty acres,
but the aged Palatine, who hated any kind of
aristocrat, stoutly refused to set a price.
Catharine was collecting some large greeii
pumpkins in a pile in the cornfield, when the
young gentleman approached. He stopped
his horse by the stump fence, and the girl
came to him eagerly and they were soon in
animated conversation. It was the beginning
of a romance which burned furiously while
it lasted. It was ideallic in its beginnings, a
sort of earlier phase of the Maud Muller
legend, but not to be without its thorny
places. Six months before Luke Pratchett,
the English stud-groom, had met Catharine
at a country dance, had tried to be atten
tive but failed. There was something repul
sive about under-sized men to this big strenu
ous girl; many women feel the same. It is
nature trying to raise the average stature
of the race. No woman living -will marry a
homely man, if she can get a good loddng

Bald Eagle Mountains 71
one, Luke was short and ugly, and Cathar
ine had scores of stalwart handsome admir
ers. Though she could not help but fancy the
attractive appearance of Meredyth Cooper,
who was six feet tall, athletically made, with
graceful aquiline features and sandy complex
ion, Catharine's principal interest was
aroused by his exalted station, "Lord"
Cooper's distant manner, he was the only pro
fessing aristocrat in the neighborhood, his
mansion, his horses, his entertainments, all
stamped him, and his son as well, as not being
in the "roll of common men," To have this
scion of grandeur attentive to her was far
beyond the girl's wildest dreams.
She forgot that marriages seldom take
place between persons in different social
grades; caste encamped in the backwoods
even at the close of the eighteenth century.
She was a superstitious girl and went to the
little mountaineers' burial ground one morn
ing at dawn and plucked a sprig of yarrow
from the grave of her girl friend, Maggie
Yost, who had died of pulmonary trouble
the year before, and slept with it under Her

72 Tales of the
pillow that night. She dreamed of her aristo
cratic admirer, which was a sure sign she
would marry him. This made her more anx
ious than ever to cultivate his attentions.
Luke Pratchett had noticed ever since the
afternoon the English fox had darted into the
Lehman cabin, that Meredyth took solitary
rides, being gone for hours at a stretch.
Formerly he liked company, and Luke, whose
jealousy was aroused, suspected that the
young man was continuing his chance ac
quaintance with the fair Catharine.
One afternoon after the "young lord" had
started out the road on his hunter, the groom
mounted another animal, and headed for a
path which ran along the wooded mountain
side, paralleling the highway. His suspicions
were confirmed, as he saw the girl come out
of a clump of timber and meet young Cooper,
about a quarter of a mile down the road from
her home. He was too angry to wait to see
how they acted towards one another. Jab
bing the spurs deeply into his horse, he gal
loped the entire distance back to the man
sion, a distance of about three miles. Luckily

Bald Eagle Mountains 73
for him he found "Lord" Cooper in the sta
ble when he arrived. He started to tell how
he had been exercising the horse, and what
a fine horse he was, artfully bringing in that
he had passed "Master Meredyth on the road
but a half hour ago," He said it in such a
way that the old man's curiosity was aroused,
and he must know where and what the young
fellow was doing, "Same's he's always a-do-
ing, sir, courting old Tobias Lehman's daugh
ter, up by the gum-stump bridge." The old
aristocrat almost had a fit ; that was the worst
thing he had ever heard in his life. The idea
of his carefully shielded son, who was being
reared for an heiress or a princess of the
blood, nothing less, courting a member of
the despised German race, was horrifying in
the extreme. Pratchett urged him not to
divulge his name as the informant, to which
the old man promptly agreed, only to forget
his promise as he started out the barn door.
It was a chilly night in November, and the
old man was sitting before the fire, while his
colored cook, an importation from the Eng
lish colony of Jamaica, was roasting a wood-

74 Tales of The
cock, entrails and all, on a spit. The rich
aroma of the luscious bird dilated the old
"lord's" nostrils, and his gouty hands were
folded across his stomach, as he waited for the
gastronomic debauch to commence. Sudden
ly the door opened, sweeping in with it a gust
of that incisive, crisp, steel-toned air, smell
ing just a bit of the moss and fallen leaves,
that is so characteristic of November nights
in the Bald Eagle Mountains. Like a symbol
of this vitalizing breeze, in strode the sturdy
form of Meredyth Cooper. The old man for
got his precious woodcock, and leaped from
his pink plush easy-chair, which had been im
ported from England, as if shot up from a
spiral. He charged the young man with dis
gracing an honored name by consorting with
his inferiors, with carrying on a vulgar in
trigue with a scheming woman, with planning
to m.arry without aslcing his father's consent,
all courses of action so opposed to one an
other as to make the whole outbreak unpar
donable. The young man listened respect
fully a minute, then stooping down he un
buckled his spurs, laying them beside his rid-

Bald Eagle Mountains 75
ing-crop on a table and quietly marched up
stairs. In the excitement, the Jamaica negro,
overcome with anxiety to hear every word of
the argument, let the woodcock drop into the
coals and it was burnt to a cinder.
The old man, after his son had left, called
for brandy and consumed a whole decanter-
full before his servants helped him off to his
bedroom, which with rare foresight was locat
ed on the first floor. But that ended the
ideallic period of the young man's romance
with Catharine Lehman, He continued going
to see her, but was harrassed before he went
and after he returned, until he thought of
moving into the stable for peace. His mother
and sister who had been in Philadelphia, re
turned, and were told the whole story. They
made no comment, which angered the old man
considerably. It was easy to see that "Lord"
Cooper's health was shattered by his son's
love affair; that is, he drank heavily, and it
told on his system. He had several fainting
spells, and would lay up for days recovering
from his over-indulgences, all of which had
their effect on his wife and daughter, Noth-

76 Tales of The
ing was said, but the young man resolved to
tell the girl how he was situated, and give
her up for the sake of the general family
welfare. He loved her as he would never love
again, but he believed in duty first.
The first snow had fallen when he drove
out with the chinkling of sleigh-bells, in his
low-built, old-fashioned cutter. The drive
lay through a forest of virgin pines and hem
locks; old man Lehman's was the only clear
ing between the mansion and the pass
through the mountain. The moon, striving
hard to shine down between the dusky ever-
gre"en boughs which arched the way, lit up the
road here and there in patches of pale blue
light. The horse was jogging along nicely,
when all of a sudden he stopped short,
snorting and pawing like a wild thing, Mere
dyth had barely enough time to see a large
red fox disappear into the laurels not twenty
feet ahead. "That must be the animal that
introduced me to "Catharine", he murmured,
half amused, to himself. Old Lehman and
his wife had climbed the ladder to bed when
the young man arrived, and he had no listen-

Bald Eagle Mountains 77
ers when he began his sad story of blighted
hopes. He could see the girl's face plainly in
the firelight ; when he told her he could never
marry her, he noticed to his surprise that her
countenance never changed. She expressed
the deepest regrets, but they were disappoint
ed worldly hopes speaking ; the wounded soul
speaks through the face, through the eyes,
Meredyth was at a loss to understand the
composed manner with which she accepted
her altered destiny, but ascribed it to her
courageous nature, inured to hardships.
Before they parted a few tears were shed
— ^by him ; her eyes showed no emotion. They
pledged eternal fealty to one another; even if
they could not marry, they would always love.
"It is a terrible blow to her", thought the
young man, as he let the lines lie loosely on
the horse's back, and take its own gait home.
Next day he told his father what he had
done, but the old man did not even thank him.
He turned his back and poured out a big
drink of brandy. Instead of making condi
tions more congenial in the household, rela-

78 Tales of The
tions between father and son were more
strained than before.
In order to cheer himself Up the young man
Went on a trip to Philadelphia where he -vis
ited old school-mates and relati-ves. His moth
er wrote him regularly, but his father never.
None of them mentioned the name of Cathar
ine Lehman, and he dared not ask after her
for fear of arousing the paternal ire.
Often in the cold loneliness of inn-bedrooms,
he was sorely tempted to take out quill and
paper and write to her, again confessing his
hopeless love and commiserating her on the
loneliness she must be enduring in that log*
cabin on the lonely mountain side.
But he fought these inclinations to the fin
ish, and in April returned home, more cheer
ful, but with lines at the corners of his mouth,
the signature of his battle for soul mastery.
All seemed the same at the mansion, except
that Luke Pratchett acted more assertive and
arrogant than when he had gone away. He
actually ordered "Lord" Cooper about, a thing
that. Englishman though he was, he never
dared before.

Bald Eagle Mountains 79
The morning after his arrival, he sauntered
out to the stables to look at the horses ; sev
eral foals, sired by the Derby winner, had
lately appeared, and he was curious to see
v/hat they were like. As he stood with
Pratchett before the stall of the horse he had
driven out to see Catharine Lehman the last
night he was with her, the impulse to ask
after her rose so strongly within him, he had
to bite his tongue to desist. Pratchett seemed
to divine his struggle and gloated. He
watched the young man for several minute"
and then blurted out cold-bloodedly: "Sav
Master Meredyth, did you hear of Catharina
Lehman's marriage to Andy McClanachan in
February?" Meredyth tried to appear un
concerned, shifting from one foot to another
and answered "yes, yes, — I did." "I never
saw a happier couple in my life, sir, she's just
devotion itself." The young man's face was
ghastly pale, and Pratchett was exultant.
Six months before, when the McClanachan
boys had whipped him he would not have ex
patiated on the triumph of one of them as a
husband. Now it was different, his worst

80 Tales of The
enemy v/ould have been eligible to the hero
class in order to crush his young master, of
whom he was insanely jealous. It seemed to
Meredyth as if the horses had lost their
charm, in fact the stable seemed to swim like
the cabin of a ship in a tempest in the Gulf
of Lyons. He hurried out into the balmy
sunshine, and in returning to the house inad
vertently passed the pen where Hie eleven
English foxes still flourished. Old Cooper
had not hunted since the memorable day.
With a muttered curse, he kicked tKe
latch loose, and pounding on the top of the
box with his stick, sent the batch (d
animals bounding into freedom. Like seeds
in a gale, they flew in every direction, but
their deliverer did not watch them; he was
seeking the quiet of his room. On the grana
staircase he met his father, who noted his
unquiet demeanor. He suspected the cause,
adding insult to injury by remarking "wen,
son, that Lehman girl didn't care for you
after all ; she's married a fine man, and fhev
say they are getting along splendidly," The
next thing the old man heard was the door

A BALD EAGLE MOUNTAIN LANDSCAPE
Photo by Charles -W. Kimble, Trenton, N. J.

Bald Eagle Mountains 81

of his son's room slamming loudly. The young
man did not come down to dinner that day;
he sent word he was indisposed.
In the evening he announced that he was
going to Philadelphia on the next stage, and
from there would sail for England. The first
part of the speech shocked the old man, but
the second part gained his consent, "By all
means go, my boy," he said. He realized he
had humiliated his son, and would give him
a trip to England to harmonize matters. The
next day the young fellow was ferried across
the river to William.sport where he boarded
the east-bound stage. He v/ent to Philadel
phia, h« went io England. But he also went
to Fi-snce where he remained, becoming one
of the earliest American expatriates. Hav
ing some money in his own right by inheri
tance, he could not be induced to return,
"'Lord" Cooper never felt equal to go aftsr
him, and a trip undertaken by the sorrowing
mother and sister availed nothing. He had
loved once, deeply and for all time; but in
return he held a mass of shucks. They say
that ia his old days he shook like a leaf when

82

Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains

he heard the bugle of the foxhunters in the
Forest of Rambouillet.

IV,

THE VIEW TREE
(Story of Duboistown Mountain)
F all animals Peter Pentz
most disliked to kill a wolf.
He would never do so when
alone, no matter how they
harassed him. Sometimes
when he was with women
and children travelling
through the depths of the
forests and the hungry
packs threatened to sweep across the caravan
devouring everything, he would join in the
general fusillade for protection. Whenever
he found settlers setting out poisons or traps,
he would use his influence to get them to de
sist. But he showed no mercy to other ani
mals. He said that a wolf had once saved his life,
and only an Indian would be mean enough
to be ungrateful. He ascribed to wolves
83

84 Tales of The
in general supernatural intelligence. He
often pointed out that vdtches and spooks
generally took the form of wolves when it
was to their advantage to become animals
for a time. That was nothing against the
wolves, it was a compliment to their sagacity
and keenness. Wolves in Central Pennsyl
vania might have d-windled to next to noth
ing a decade or two before they did, but for
the restraining influence of Peter Pentz,
"There is good in a -wolf" was his familiar
slogan. Often when he was spending the night at
the pioneers' cabins, lurid tales about wolf
hunts would be retailed, but the stalwart
frontiersman always disparaged these experi
ences. But he enjoyed hearing the children
of William Crispin, a settler who lived at the
foot of lower McElhattan Mountain, teU how
a wolf had folio-wed them to school every
morning for a week. "William, you did -wrong
to shoot that wolf," he said, "it only wanted
to act as a bodyguard to your little folks to
keep off the bears and panthers." When all
the disadvantages of wolves had been dis-

Bald Eagle Mountains 85
cussed, Peter would tell his side of the ques
tion, invariably winding up with the story of
how the wolf had saved his life.
Once when a pompous young la-wyer said
that the story proved nothing except the the
ory of coincidences, it is related that the old
hunter became positively angry, and refused
to say another word all evening. He literally
shamed the attorney into feeling he didn't
want to spend the night at that particular
cabin after all. But the host dissuaded him
from going, and next morning Peter was as
genial and affable as was his wont.
"I really do believe," said one old settler to
him, "if your life had been saved by a deer,
the woods would be full of them today. What
a pity you think you owe something to such
a cursed varmint as a wolf." But Peter could
not be shaken in his belief concerning wolves,
even when he was told that the wolf which
saved his life might not have been a wolf
after all, but merely one of these witches in
wolf's form. They used to say a witch loved
him, and that was why he escaped the Indians
so often.

Tales of the

No man without immortal assistance, could
have run the risks he did and lived to tell
the tale. But Peter insisted that his life had
been saved by a real wolf, and nothing could
shake him. It had happened along the
north slope of the mountain which rises above
' the present village of Duboisto-wn, in the days
v/hen the Indians, desperate from persistent
defeats, were resorting to the cruellest deeds
to indelibly impress their waning presence on
the land.
Peter, with his boon companion, Almiral
de Gruchy, were tramping one sno^wy Sunday
morning along tlie trail which crossed from
Nippenose Valley into Mosquito Valley, when
they noticed something stirring unsteadily
in a rhododendron thicket alongside the path
way. Both rnen raised their rifles, and were
about to fire, when Peter's keen eyes noticed
that the object was evidently a wounded wolf,
and an enormous one at that. "Don't shoot,"
he commanded, "lef s see what's the matter
with the critter." Tliis was a strange order,
but de Gruchy belie-ved in his companion im
plicitly, and would have dropped his firearm

Bald Eagle Mountains 87
even if told to do so in the face of an Indian
brandishing a tomahawk. But Peter Pentz
was never able to analyze the impulse which
made him spare that wolf. Formerly he had
killed these animals by the scores. He had
been a leader of "drives" which had rounded
up and slaughtered vast numbers of wolves,
foxes, bears and other so-called predatory
beasts. On this occasion he was sparing a
wounded wolf, which might even prove a bur
den to itself. He stooped down where the
creature was crouched, noticing that one of
its fore paws had sustained a compound frac
ture, and dangled loose from the broken joint.
Evidently it had been caught in a trap, but
had drawn the foot free, but not without
mangling it horribly.
The injured wolf looked up at him with its
dark, liquid eyes; the millennium had ar
rived, it could hardly believe its senses. Peter
cut some white oak twigs and shaved off
the rough bark. These he placed as splints,
on the wounded foot, tying them securely
with a piece of the inner lining of his buffalo
coat.

88 Tales of The
Meanwhile the animal kept eyeing him in
tently but never once offered to snap or even
grind its teeth. Almiral de Gruchy stood
nearby, with rifle ready, so as to fire if dan
ger threatened, but this precaution was
unnecessary. When the surgical task was
finished, Peter set the wolf on its feet, and it
was able to walk without much difficulty. No
ticing that it was lean from lack of food — it
would have starved to death but for the time
ly arrival of the Samaritan — he took a piece
of dried venison out of his coat pocket, and
threw it to the beast. This it ate ravenously,
rolling its eyes with evident pleasure.
Leaving the animal in this happy frame of
mind, the two hunters went their way. "I
never would have thought that of you, Peter",
said de Gruchy after they had proceeded a
hundred yards. "Nor I, Almiral," he replied,
"some instinct made me help that particular
wolf, though if I met a dozen more this morn
ing, I'd kill every one," "Why don't you go
back and fix that one? I don't think it's gone
very far," said de Gruchy. "No," answered

Bald Eagle Mountains

Peter, "I sent it on its way rejoicing, I can
not go back."
They met other wolf tracks crossing and
re-crossing the trail before they reached de
Gruchy's cabin at the head of Mosquito Val
ley, but saw none of the animals. During
the remainder of the winter both men were
fortunate enough to kill a number of
wolves, and Peter never once displayed evi
dences of the compassion which moved him
on that snowy Sunday morning. With the
advent of Spring, Indian troubles took the
place of hunting, and the bold pioneers were
too busy guarding their scalps to bother about
the comings and goings of the animals.
One bright August noon de Gruchy was
sitting by his cabin door, watching his cow,
which was pasturing on the opposite side of
the streamlet. He heard stealthy footsteps
approaching, and raised his rifle for protec
tion. All at once he heard a loud guffaw and
beheld the big round face, and the shock of
wiry, sandy-colored hair, of Peter Pentz,
peering out of the underbrush. He hadn't
seen his old companion for several months.

90 Tales of The
and jumped up shouting "Oh, Peter, I almost
took you for an Indian !" The big frontiers
man came nearer, laughing until his thick
lips stretched from ear to ear. Then the two
friends shook hands, and sat side by side on
the door-sill, smoking, and exchanging remi
niscences. Peter had brought his favorite
dog Sade with him ; she was a sagacious crea
ture, and joined de Gruchy's hound Mingo in
tonguing about the adjacent hillsides, "They
must be trailing a bear," said Feter, "it's a
little too loud for a rabbit or a fox." Both
men instinctively took a grip on their rifles
in case any wild animal should precipitate
itself towards them from the brush. But
they had placed too low an estimate on the
character of their dog's bait, A bullet, whiz
zing through the air, went through one of
de Gruchy's eyes, and he was a dead man in
an instant, A second and a third shot taught
Peter to "make himself scarce," as he was no
match for a foe in ambush. He trotted do^wn
the path towards the more open part of the
valley, whistling and calling for Sade to fol
low him. The only answer he got was an-

Bald Eagle Mountains 81
other fusillade, one bullet knocking off the
bucktail plume in his cap. He felt he was
"in for" a long race, so he stopped long
enough to fill his canteen at a "boiling''
spring. He travelled quite a distance, and
not hearing any more shots, began to look
about for a place of safety. It would be best,
he thought, to lay up for the night in a tall
tree. It was a hostile country, but by morn
ing light he could climb down and cross the
river, there to ally himself with some armed
band of white men. While looking about for
a suitable retreat he came into a windfall, or
large opening, on the northerly slope of the
Duboistown Mountain.
Near the centre of this natural clearing
stood a single tree, a chestnut of immense
height, spared as if by a miracle. Different
in form from most trees of its species, it was
a typical forest king. The long, smooth, ser
pentine trunk, at the butt not more than two
feet in diameter, rose into the air upwards of
ninety feet. On the top was a round, heavily
foliaged head, compact as a cabbage, and par-
haps thirty feet in height.

92 Tales of The
Feter Pentz, big and hea-vy as he was, re
tained much of the agility of his boyhood
days when he was called "the pine squirrel,"
Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he began
"shinning" up the tree. Occasionally he found
the remnant of a branch broken off years be
fore, to take a hold on but most of the dis
tance was overcome by skill and sheer pluck.
As he neared the leafy "top," he caught a
view of the river, with the red rays of the set
ting sun mirrored upon it. Far to the north,
at the foothills of the Alleghanies, he made
out several settlers' clearings, with thin tails
of grey smoke rising from the mud chimneys
of the cabins. All was peace and rest, and
supper-time, off there.
Further away, on the distant summits,
were finer tails of smoke, probably from In
dian campfires. He could discern from this
"-view tree" where to go on the morrow, and
where to keep clear of. It was with a sense
of genuine elation that he grasped the first
branch of the top, to know that he was safe
in his sylvan eyrie. He pulled himself up into
the thicket, but as he did so, he was almost

Bald Eagle Mountains 93
dislodged and thrown by a pair of Cooper's
hawks striking him in the face with their
stiff sharp wings. One of his eyes was badly
scraped, and pained him frightfully. But he
was able to draw his knife, and stabbed both
birds until they squeaked and gibbered in
pain, and flew away with checkered, unsteady
winging. Then he seized the nest, which was
built in a cradle of dead branches in the very
kernel of the "top," and hurled it, fledglings
and all to the jagged rocks a hundred feet
below. He unstrapped his gun, his canteen,
and took out his packet of provisions, deposit
ing them in the "cradle" where the nest had
been. He twisted himself into a comfortable
position, to wait until morning, or until his
f oemen had passed. The branches hung thick
with the green prickly burrs, of unsual size;
even now some of them would be big enough
to eat.
He had barely settled himself when the In
dian band on a dog trot hove in sight. There
were eight in the party, and four of them
carried guns. He held his breath, and mut
tered a wish that they would pass by. To

94 Tales of The
his great joy, they moved by the giant tree
in single file, neither looking to the right nor
the left, nor into the heights above ! He felt
he was tolerably safe. Just as he was about
to heave a sigh of satisfaction, a ninth Indian,
a cripple, appeared in the opening. This In
dian, on account of his affliction, travelled
slowly, and kept glancing about him with fur
tive, inquisitive eyes. As luck would have it,
they rested upon the shattered hawks' nest,
with the crushed and dying fledglings lying
about. His quick wits told him some agent,
other than the wind, must have dislodged this
stoutly built nest. By the looks it had fallen
recently ; even if a wind might possibly have
done it, it could not right now; it was dead
calm. He looked into the dizzy top of the
mammoth tree ; he could see nothing, the ver
dure was so thick, and dusk was at hand.
But he was not satisfied, and uttered a war-
whoop, which brought the eight redmen who
had gone ahead, trooping to his side. He
pointed to the nest, the fledglings, and to cer
tain scraped places on the bark of the tree
trunk, which meant the fugitive was "up

Bald Eagle Mountains 95
there." The Indians strained their eyes, but
likewise saw nothing. One of them fired three
shots, but they whizzed by the hidden fron
tiersman's head, doing no damage. But the
Indians were convinced he was in the tree top,
so they sat do-wn, to wait until morning, when
they could see more clearly. At dark they lit
a campfire around which they sat, passing
the time chanting a low, mournful war dirge.
Some of them fell asleep, and the sight of
them dropping over into involuntary dream
land made it difficult for Peter to keep him
self awake. Sleepiness, like its earlier stage
"gapping," is contagious.
Just as the crimson da-wn was flaming over
the eastern mountains, the two hawks hove in
sight, floating along unsteadily, as if in pain.
They had nursed their wounds over night on
some remote crag, they were now coming
back to try and recover their home. The In
dians saw them as quickly as did Peter, and
wasted two good rounds of ammunition on
them to bring them down. The hidden pio
neer wished he could thank the Indians for
this service.

96 Tales of The
As soon as light was well established, the
Indians began their scrutiny of the tree-top
afresh. They fancied they saw him, and he
kept wondering if one of their number would
attempt to climb the trunk, and give him bat
tle in the dizzy height! But they seemed
content to shoot in his direction from time to
time; it seemed a marvellous circumstance
they did not hit him. Perhaps they were not
trying very hard but were waiting to starve
him out, and take him alive. It would be
great sport to burn such a noted Indian killer
at the stake,
Peter figured he had provisions enough to
last three days, after that he could live a
while longer eating unripe chestnuts. He
had water enough for several days, that was
the most important necessity. The chief dan
ger was in falling asleep; if he did he would
surely tumble from his perch. How long he
could fight sleep v/as a question he could not
answer. Even the night before it had almost
gotten the better of him on several occasions.
But he -would not surrender to his foes; if
he dozed and fell, it wasn't his fault.

Bald Eagle Mountains 97
All went smoothly until sunset, when he
felt sleep stealing on him with almost irre
sistible fury. Then he observed a fresh peril.
The Indians, after a council together, built a
hot fire around the butt of the tree. He was
to be burnt out in true Indian fashion and
would be killed with the fall. That was the
Indian's method of felling trees before axes
were introduced by the white men. His bold
soul trembled.
In the distance to the South, he heard a
yelping and barking. Could Sade and
Mingo have caught the trail and be com
ing to his rescue, leading a party of pio
neers? But no, it wasn't dogs barking; it
was the sound of wolves, of very hungry
wolves. Now there would be some fun. Evi
dently the Indians were apprehensive, as they
fired a half dozen more shots, ostensibly at the
top of the tree, but plainly to frighten the on
coming pack. But the wolves v/cre daunt
less. Nearer and nearer they advanced.
Soon, in the dusk, at the edge of the windfall,
a long row of eyes like the lights of a city
at night, gleamed and glared, at the Indian

98 Tales of The
watchers. They fired several shots, which
seemed to infuriate the animals, which, yell
ing like fiends, rushed forward en masse,
driving the Indians before them like chaff
from a winnower. The fire about the tree
had not made very great headway when the
wolves appeared, and smouldered do^wn to a
lot of smoking embers during the excitement.
This was some relief to the refugee, but he
hated the prospect of dropping, in his sleep,
in the midst of a pack, which now that they
were all out in the open in the windfall, must
contain five hundred snarling snapping ani
mals. Then to his surprise, he noticed a black
wolf, larger and more masculine, evidently
the leader of the pack, every pack has its
acknowledged leader, approach the hot coals
around the tree and try to beat them out with
its paws. On looking closer, he noticed the
animal was lame, could it be the wolf that he
had befriended on the Bastress ridge the win
ter before? Just then the brute looked up
wards, it seemed to catch a glimpse of him,
for it wagged its bushy tail, and began
thrashing out the hot coals more vigorously

Bald Eagle Mountains 99
than ever. The other wolves circled about,
yelping and sniffing the air, sometimes rolling
over one another with antic playfulness,
V/hile thus gamboling, the Indians caught
them off their guard. Stealthily creeping
back they fired a deadly broadside into the
pack. There was a chorus of hideous howls
of pain, and a dozen brutes lay dead upon the
rocks. The rest, stirred into a frenzy, turned
on the over-confident redmen, surrounding
them, and cutting off their means of
escape. Leaping at their throats, and
tripping them, they laid their enemies
low, like a plow in a fallow. Where a minute
before had stood nine savagep, some with
smoking rifles, nothing now was visible but
the dark, ever-moving surface, a wrig^ing,
howling mass of hairy beasts. They had lit-
terally buried their foes beneath them. Every
few minutes the "king" wolf .with his lame
leg, would come near to the chestnut tree, and
leap up against the trunk, like a friendly dog,
hanging out his tongue, and wagging his tail.
It took Peter some time to convince himself
that the wolves meant no harm, but still he

100 Tales of The
hesitated about descending. After the pack
had chewed the dead Indians into unrecog
nizable pulp, the lame wolf gave vent to a
series of howls, as musical as a bugle call, and
all the pack came together in a solid phalanx,
and trotted off into the forest. The lame wolf
remained behind, curling himself up at the
foot of the tree like a collie.
Feter began to feel sleepy again; come
what may, he must descend. It would be
dangerous to encumber himself with the
heavy rifle so he left it in the abandoned
hawks' nest. It was much harder to work
down the smooth trunk than up; his heart
was in his mouth, the slightest wavering or
slip meant a fall of nearly a hundred feet and
ignominious death. But the same kind Fate
which saw him up the tree, guarded his de
scent, and he landed on terra fLrma, thank
ful, happy, free. The lame wolf got up,
stretching himself like a friendly dog, and
hopped over to him, jumping upon him, lick
ing his great sine-wy hands. Feter stroked
and patted him many times, and gave him

Bald Eagle Mountains

101

his last piece of provision. Then man and
beast went their respective ways.

VL

THE BROWN BEAK
(Story of Nippeno Mountain)

mm fSl

HERE were at least four
kinds of bears in Pennsyl
vania at the close of the
eighteenth century. To
day, but two varieties are
found, and these, the hog
bear and the dog bear, are
commonly confused as one
species. The hog bear is
short-nosed, broad-faced, of chubby build,
and makes excellent eating, his flesh being
tasty like pork, while the dog bear, which is
the scarcer variety, has a long pointed
snout, small ears, long thin legs, and his flesh
tastes like that of a canine, that is if there
are persons competent to say so. The va
rieties which are probably extirpated were
the white faced bear and the brown bear.
The white faced bear was commonly met with
102

Bald Eagle Mountains 103
in the Northeastern part of the State, a good
description of one is to be found in Black-
man's "History of Susquehanna County,"
The brown bear was found pretty much
all over the Northern and Central sections
of the Commonwealth, and grew to greater
size than any of the other three kinds. He
v/as probably related to the brown bears of
Europe, as he resembled them more than our
silver tips or grizzlies of the west, or even
the Alaskan brown bears. Some black bears
have a few bro-wn or reddish hairs but they
are not the true brown bears.
The last brown bear was probably killed
in Bradford County, in 1882, by Thomas
Leahy, a noted hunter of that region.
Another was killed earlier in the same year
in Lycoming County.* They were accounted
by far the most savage of all the bears, as
the black varieties, and even the white-faced
bears possessed marked social instincts.
Stories of how the brown bear attacked
hunters or carried off calves or sheep, or
even chfldren were plentiful along the Bald
Eagle Mountains, three-quart;srs of a century
* See appendix A

104 Tales of the
ago. As time went on they became generally
disbelieved or confused with anecdotes of the
black bears.
On the flats and table lands back of the
Nippeno Mountain which slopes down to the
river where Nippeno Park is now located, the
bro%vn bears made their last stand. It
seemed to be their natural breeding and
feeding ground, for no matter how far they
wandered, they always spent part of every
year at this retreat. For this reason they
were exterminated more quickly than their
black relatives, which knew enough to scat
ter themselves and stay scattered in nearly
every county in the State. At one time there
were thirty-five well-constructed bear traps
or pens on the plateaux of Nippeno Moun
tain, and some of these must have caught
several victims in a season.
At an early date, probably in the first
decade of the Nineteenth Century there was
a settler's cabin situated near to the present
site of the boarding house at the Park. The
land about it was all cleared, but later aban
doned as too wet, by one Reuben Arm-

Bald Eagle Mountains 105
priester, who was also a hunter of some no
toriety. That he was a hunter was a sign
he wasn't very successful at farming, as the
prosperous agriculturist has little time to
stray in the woods. He had become so pro
ficient trapping bears, that the traders from
Harrisburg came to his home every Spring
and bid against one another for the bro-wn
bear hides. These were much affected as
coats by the drivers of the passenger stages
and freight wagons which ran across the
mountains to Pittsburg; each driver must
have a brown bear coat or a bear robe and
this fashion lasted until there were no more
brown bears, and buffalo coats and robes
from the west took their places,
Philadelphia zoologists never recognized
the existence of the bro-wn bears as a distinct
species, but they never took the trouble to
see them, dismissing them in their brochures
as a "colorphase" of the black bears. Still the
men of science being satisfied, the rest of the
public including future generations must be,
so the habits and pecuharities of these inter
esting animals have been lost to us.

106 Tales of The
Reuben Armpriester boasted he had killed
a brown bear which "hog-dressed" weighed
six hundred pounds. This is more than likely
as Rhoads, in his "Mammals of Pennsylvania
and New Jersey," mentions a black bear
killed by the famous Clinton County pioneer,
Seth I. Nelson, which "hog-dressed" weighed
four hundred and eight pounds. As years
went on Armpriester became imbued with a
single thought and that was to capture bro-wn
bears. During his most successful season he
caught eight, but it is hard to see how it paid
him to knock off from work for months when
the price of hides was in reality very low. He
raised a large family of children, who were
kept in order by his industrious wife. She
often complained bitterly that too much time
was wasted by her lord and master -with his
bear hunts to maintain the household prop
erly. The youngest child was a little boy of
three named Simon, and the next to the
youngest was a five-year-old girl named
Phoebe, This little girl was bright and pre
cocious for her age, and if her parents had
encouraged her, she might have developed

Bald Eagle Mountains 107
into an unusual young person. But with the
mother it was all work and complaints, with
the father it was the eternal story of bear
hunting, Phoebe and her little brother were
given much liberty of movement, and on
warm afternoons wandered up the sloping
sides of the big mountain, to gather berries
or acorns or chestnuts as the season afforded.
They always came home at supper time and
the mother was too busy to think of snakes,
so they had their way.
One bright afternoon in October the
two youngsters, after stopping at King
Wi-daagh's Spring for a good drink of the
crystalline water, started up the well-worn
little path for their daily ramble in the
woods. There were still many old pines and
oaks along the mountain, some of them were
not cut do-wn until 1895 or thereabouts, and
many of the tall trunks were covered with
woodbine, now scarlet in its autumnal glory.
Reuben was away on a bear hunt ; it was his
first that season. He was keen to be at his
favorite pastime, as his wife was to be busy
with her domestic duties, or complaints.

108 Tales of The
About six o'clock little Simon returned alone.
The mother, at seeing this, flew into a great
state of excitement and demanded the where-
aDouts of his sister. As best he could the
little fellow stammered out that a great
brown bear, bigger than any that his father
had brought home the last winter, had come
up to where they were playing, and had sat
down beside them. All afternoon they had
played with him, and when it came time to
return for supper, Phoebe said she was go
ing home with the bear. And off they went
together, so he said. The mother was infu
riated, "You little fool", she screeched,
"don't you know that bear has eaten your
sister, that's the way they went off together."
The little boy insisted that Phoebe hadn't
been eaten, but was in the best spirits imagi
nable when they parted. His story could not
be shaken. The nearest neighbors lived
across the river, and the older boys went in
their dug-outs and fetched them over. They
decided that Reuben must be notified at
once; if the little girl still lived it v/ould be
a miracle, at any rate he could kill the bear

Bald Eagle Mountains 109
that had devoured his child. He would know
the haunts of the big bears better than any
one else, and this bold brute would soon "bite
the dust," At dawn a party of six men and
boys crossed over the mountain in search of
Reuben. They carefully observed the spot
where Simon and Phoebe had played the
afternoon before — it was strange they
thought, that they could find no blood nor
particles of clothing. It was sundo-wn before
they came upon the unsuspecting father.
They had to make a tour of all his traps, some
of which were situated three miles apart, and
three miles across rough mountains is no
easy task, before catching up with him. He
was dumbstruck, but incredulous when he
heard the story of his child's disappearance.
"That little boy's been romancing, either he
doesn't know where his sister is or that bear
ate her, there's no other way", he concluded.
When told of the size of the bear he said
he could not believe it was one of the largest
brutes, "There are only one or two of the
real old fellows left, there's one, I know, but
it can't be him, that weighs I'm sure close

110 Tales of Tha
to seven hundred pounds. I tracked him all
last -winter for Daniel Eck yonder in the
Bastress region, he was the biggest and bold
est one I ever trailed, but he always eluded
me. After eating three of Farmer Eck's
heifers and thirteen sheep, he had the nerve
to come into the barn-yard on his hind feet
when Mammy Eck was milking, drove her
away, and drank out of the milk pail, I can't
believe it's him, he never came over to the
river mountain, he knew where he was safe".
That night, in the solitude of the hunter's
shack a course of action was decided upon.
Armpriester. was to bring his two bear dogs
home, and see if they could take up the
scent. The weather was fine and chance
might favor them. If they lost the scent,
he would visit all the known bear dens in
the mountains. Formerly all of these held
their bruin families, but hunters like Arm
priester, had sorely reduced their numbers.
Some of the biggest caves or dens had not
been occupied in several years— it was "home
to let" on every ridge. A quick march home
was made the next morning. The dogs were

Bald Eagle Mountains 111
promptly brought to the place that had been
indicated by Baby Simon, but after sniffing
about for half an hour scampered off to
wards their kennels. That was a sign they
were baffled. Armpriester was grief-
stricken; rough man of the woods that he
was. he broke down and wept, "It will be
a long hunt ; even if poor little Phoebe is alive
now. she won't be by the time we find where
that bear has hidden her. He will play with
her like a cat does with a mouse and then
eat her. Oh, my poor little girl!" He was
for starting on the hunt at once, but his
friends restrained him until he was given
some dinner.
About three o'clock in the afternoon, ac
companied by his two dogs, and his two old
est boys, Lewis and Michael, he started for
the bro-wn bear country. Six or seven pits
and dens were visited before dark that day,
but all were tenantless save one, and out of
that they chased a small black dog-bear.
Armpriester was so angry at the whole race
of Ursus that he shot this bear, and threw
it over the mountain into a ravine. They

112 Tales of The
camped that night on a lofty height over
looking Rattling Gap where their sleep was
disturbed by the nocturnal dissensions of
panthers, wolves and catamounts. At day
break they broke camp and resumed the
quest. By nightfall they had inspected a
dozen other dens, some in abandoned quar
ries, others in the steep, and almost unscal
able sides of the mountains. In one of these
a catamount family was found, and the liv
ing struggling mass, mother and all, hurled
over the precipice. "You'll not keep me
awake", said the frenzied hunter, as he saw
the fuzzy brutes strike "rock bottom," The
third day's search was also fruitless. The
party had described a circle in the mountains,
had closed into the centre, so that not a
cranny escaped unexplored, "There's only
one place more", said Armpriester, "and
that's too near home for any brown bear. I
never heard tell of one being seen there in
all the fifteen years I've hunted the brown
devils", "Let's go there anyhow, it won't
do any harm", said the optimistic sons, "All

Bald Eagle Mountains 113
right, we'll be passing there tomorrow", said
the father, sadly.
It was close to noon when they came upon
the cave. It was in the side of a pile of loose
rocks near the summit on the south slope of
Nippeno Mountain, The opening Vi^as small,
but a mass of great flat sandstones made a
chamber, say twenty by ten. It was a pecu
liar formation, and no one but a skilled
hunter like Reuben Armpriester could have
discovered it. Once he had caught a paltry
family of grey foxes in it. He brained them
all, it made him so angry to bother with
"small game". In some localities in this de
generate day if you ask if there is any large
game the natives reply, "well, yes, we've
foxes". Reuben lit his torch and went in,
dragging his rifle after him. He wore a de
jected look when he came out — "not a thing,
but the skeletons of some cursed foxes I
killed there six years ago". Would they hav*
to go home empty-handed? The three men
and the dogs presented an unhappy looking
quintet, as they sat with hanging heads on
the flat stones outside the cavern. The faith-

114 Tales of The
ful dogs seemed to have imbibed their mas
ter's dejection. During the most oppressive
moment one of the dogs began to sniff the
air and bark. "A bear, a bear", shouted
Reuben triumphantly. The men seized their
rifles, and followed the lead of the dogs. In
the midst of an old huckleberry patch they
stopped short and could scarcely believe their
eyes. Was it a daylight phantasm or reality?
Coming towards them, astride of the biggest
bear they had ever seen was little Phoebe,
smiling and rosy! The bear looked as con
tented as the child, beaming happiness with
his great bro-wn eyes. "Oh, pop, pop", she
called out, "see my good playmate. Master
Bro-wn Bear, he's the best friend I've got".
Reuben Armpriester did not take in the
humor or the picturesqueness of the situa
tion. All he was thinking about was the
ultimate safety of his child. He felt exactly
as if he had found her playing with a rattle
snake. Quick as a flash he had his rifle at
his shoulder, and was sighting it on the cen
tre of the brown bear's broad flat skull,
"Don't shoot, pop, don't shoot, don't kill my

Bald Eagle Mountains 115
bear",, the little girl screamed, but it was
too late. There was a sickening report, and
the huge brown monster fell forward on his
breast, tumbling little Phoebe off his back
¦into the brittle berry bushes. There she lay,
unhurt but weeping piteously. The bear did
not die the first shot, but tried to raise him
self and look at the little girl with his ap
pealing brown eyes. A second bullet sent
him to sleep, and he lay vast and ponder
ous, a titan of the animal kingdom. Phoebe
finally got up and came over to where the
bear lay, and stroked his dead coat, "Oh,
why did you do it, pop, he meant no harm,
he talked to me just like you do, only nicer".
"Oh, nonsense, child", said Armpriester,
alarmed at her remarks, "you'd better come
home, this thing's going to your head," "But
he did talk to me, pop", she continued saying.
"The child's getting a fever, I'm afraid", the
hunter whispered to his boys, thoroughly
alarming them.
Michael carried the little girl home, and
put her to bed. All were overjoyed to see
her again, but predicted a long illness would

116 Tales of The
follow her adventure in the wilderness. Next
morning she woke bright and early, without
a symptom of disorder, although she com
plained that "pop acted a-wful mean to kill
that bear", "He'd have eaten you", said
the mother to console her. "No he wouldn't,
he told me he wouldn't when I went away
with him".
That night the giant bear's carcass was
hauled in to the Armpriester home. It "hog-
dressed" just six hundred pounds, and the
hide, an exceptionally fine one was sold to
the driver of a "select" stage for fifty dol
lars, a record price. It was a long time be
fore Phoebe would give up chiding her father
for killing the bear, she kept on insisting that
it could talk just like a person, and had given
her presents of berries and roots, the hke
of v/hich she never tasted before. Arm
priester and his -wife were too happy to have
her back to ever quarrel with her over this
strange talk, but it worried them consider
ably. When they would listen she would tell
of the lovely grotto he took her to, walled
with red rock and as bright as day inside.

Bald Eagle Mountains 117
"I'd say that was a spook bear", said Mrs.
Armpriester aside, one day, "if it wasn't you
killed him without a silver bullet, and I saw
the fifty dollars you got for the hide", "It's
beyond me", answered Reuben shaking his
frowsy head, Phoebe stuck to her story even
when she grew up, but she never found any
one who believed it, she maintained. "Every
generation's worse, why my grandchildren
won't even believe there was such a thing
as a brown bear in Pennsylvania. It isn't in
their natural-histories, their teachers laugh
at the idea, they thmk I'm romancing. But
it's truth, the unvarnished truth that I ran
away with a brown bear and lived in his cave
a week."

OLD PHILIPPE
(Story of Big Run Mountain)
EW of the present generation,
or the generation past, were
aware that, not far from the
creek, at the foot of Big
Run Mountain, stood a spa
cious log-tavern, which was
burned down during the
first decade of the last cen
tury. It was run, for a
year, about 1796, by old Philippe Anthony-
son, an Alsacian, who later became famous
as the proprietor of the "Blockhauss" in
Tioga County.
Anthonyson was certainly a character. He
had drifted to Paris prior to the French
Revolution, and espoused the cause of the
people during those bloody days. He had
taken a fiendish delight in butchering aris
tocrats, until his wing of the radical party
118

Bald Eagle Mountains 119
fell from power, and he had to escape to the
seacoast disguised as a carter, and embark
for America, In Philadelphia he learned the
prosperous trade of Neulaender, making
three trips to his native Alsace to extoll the
riches and opportunities of i'ennsylvania to
his fellow-countrymen. For every person
v/hom he caused to emigrate, and the total
was in the three figures, he received a com
mission from the o-wners of a line of vessels.
The sufferings of the -victims who found
class-distinctions and hard work awaiting
them in the "promised land", brought on him
such execrations, that he decided to retire
to the interior. He accordingly bought out
the new tavern-stand on Big Run, Lycoming
County, It had a lucrative trade among
travellers and hunters crossing the Bald
Eagle Mountains as well as rivermen, and
he was well-liked by his patrons.
But trouble came to him, and he had to
move on again, this time to the Blockhouse
Country, where he remained until his death
twenty years later. Despite Lhe unpleasant
cause of his departure, it was an excellent

120 Tales of The
move, as he made the Blockhouse famous
throughout Pennsylvania and Southern New
York, "Old Philippe", as he was called, and
the "Blockhauss" were one and the same;
travellers went out of their roads for miles
to spend a night under his roof. He was
just the kind of person to keep such a re
sort. Rough, positive, and brutal, he allowed
no nonsense or swindling, but to those who
treated him decently he was kindly, and often
a friend in need.
The Blockhouse was built about 1795 as a
refuge from the possible hostilities of In
dians, by the handful of white settlers who
lived within a radius of ten miles of the head
waters of the stream then called Metimmue,
or V/olf Run, but afterwards known as
Blockhouse Run.
The following year, John Williamson, a
New York land agent, in the employ of an
English nobleman who o-wned a vast tract
of land in New York State, opened a rough
wagon road through the wilderness, in order
to facilitate emigrants in reaching these lands
from Philadelphia. The road passed the

Bald Eagle Mountains 121
Blockhouse, and Williamson bought it, added
to its size, and opened it as a stopping-place
for the emigrants and adventurers. The
trail which took the name of the Blockhouse
road became such a great thoroughfare that
Williamson cast about for an experienced
inn-keeper to run his tavern. He heard of
Old Philippe's troubles in the West Branch
Valley, and sent for him. A bargain was
struck, which turned out to be mutually prof
itable. The old man literally coined money,
which he spent trying to amuse and educate
his children. Many were jealous of his suc
cess ; all kinds of stories were told to his dis
credit, but they were traceable to the unjust
charges brought against him while still keep
ing Big Run Tavern.
The chief glamor of the Blockhouse was
the excellent table. Many a tired German
traveller, who could pay the price, tasted
there his first elk steaiJc, or fried trout, or
v/ild-pigeon pot-pie. The smoke-house was
always filled with elkmeat, as the old fel
low maintained an elk-lick nearby. He had
several Indians, whom he paid in cheap

122 Tales of The
whiskey, to do the killing, and they helped
the rapid extermination of Cervus Canaden
sis in Tioga County. The gables of the
Blockhouse, and the sheds, were adorned
with innumerable elks' antlers. Sometimes
emigrants camped for days about this resort.
They obtained feed for their stock from the
old man, also certain supplies and liquors
for themselves. It was a genial break in the
monotonous journey through the dark for
ests and rough roads. They delighted to find
a place kept by one whom they imagined a
German like themselves; for old Philippe,
being an Alsacian, could speak German flu
ently. But to return to the story of his uncere
monious departure from the commodious
tavern in the shadow of Big Run Mountain.
The old fellow arrived there in the first
month of 1796, and was given a rousing wel
come by the mountaineers. He had come to
supply a long-felt want. His earliest policy
was to run the tavern in the manner of a
club, by making desirable patrons feel at
home. Many of them, according to the cus-

Bald Eagle Mountains 123
torn of the day, in order to escape the dreary
monotony of pulling stumps and gazing out
at pine trees, would visit the tavern for a
week at a time, drinking, smoking, eating,
telling hunting and Indian stories about the
fire, and sleeping long hours at a stretch.
In March, one of these worthy "club mem
bers" had a nightmare, and in an abortive
effort to cut his bedfellow's throat, cut off
the tendon of one of his feet, crippling him
for life. This started a story that much
brawling took place, and wives "carried on"
when they heard their husbands intended
going there. But old Philippe tried to run
an orderly place, in a disorderly locality and
generation. The resort was famed for the
cooking, an old Mingo woman called Indian
Mary being responsible for most of it. Phil
ippe's three daughters, the eldest Vieva, a
girl of seventeen, assisted in the kitchen and
about the house. The old man was wifeless ;
rumor said he formerly had one, an Italian
woman, but that he had deserted her in the
old country, Philippe once told a friend that
she had died on shipboard, on his first trip

124 Tales of The
to America, leaving him with the three little
girls. Vieva was a buxom, lively type of girl,
with black ringlets, laughing black eyes
with streaks of green in them, eyes that
were always in good humor, and a full-
lipped, merry mouth. Though totally un
educated, she possessed natural abilities,
which might have been developed had she
fallen in with the right kind of men. She
was, however, rather indifferent to the male
sex, except those who were exceptionally
good-looking. There was a hostler, or handy
man, about the premises, one Leopold, or as
he was locally called "Lu-pold" Nancarro, an
Alsacian redemptioner. He was not a bad
looking fellow, by any means, but densely
ignorant, and enamored with Vieva. De
spite his efforts to charm her, she outwardly
displayed little interest in him. The guests
at Big Run Tavern were not all backwoods
men and itinerant traders. Occasionally
men of quality, such as Quaker landowners
from Philadelphia, Scotch-Irish candidates,
French naturalists, or German missionaries

Bald Eagle Mountains 125
stopped over night. Old Philippe, having
lived abroad, knew how to receive these
gentry; republican though he was, he pos
sessed the inherent peasant servility. When
they left, he abused them roundly; he hated
"blooded stock", he said.
One balmy Spring evening, when the peep
ers and the tree toads were heralding the com
ing Maytime, while the transparent-winged
bats were chasing insects and the air was
sweet with the odor of violets and wild
apple-blossoms, a horseman stopped in front
of the tavern. This was nothing un
usual, as most persons going a distance
travelled that way, but this rider and
his mount were so richly comparisoned, that
they attracted especial notice. The rider, who
was a young man, by his looks belonged to the
landed aristocracy, except for his lack of
the customary negro servant. Old Philippe
and Lu-pold ran out to assist him in dis
mounting from his mettlesome thoroughbred
stallion. When he dismounted, it was observed
that he was very tall and handsome, with
clear-cut, aquiline features, blue eyes, and

126 Tales of The
auburn hair. He gave his name and address
as Wilmer Norris, "Belmont", Philadelphia,
clearly he did belong to the old stock. He
acted the gentleman, except that his man
ners were more affable and democratic than
most men of his cloth. He made friends
easily, talked over his affairs freely, and
seemed especially anxious to become ac
quainted with Vieva, Apparently the dash
ing young girl was impressed by his good
looks, but if he had been a trifle less ap
proachable, she might have liked him better.
She helped wait on him at the supper-table,
during which meal he asked her many ques
tions, paying her considerable indirect com
pliments. Later in the evening he contrived to bring
up his chair close to the settle by the big
open fireplace, where she sat sewing. He
talked in undertones, but old Philippe, and
Lu-pold, who were also in the room, could
not fail but catch from the drift that he was
very much smitten. There was no mistake
about Vieva's beauty. There were few pret
tier girls in Philadelphia or in Europe, there

Bald Eagle Mountains 127
was a distingue air about her, which attract
ed instant attention. This high-bred air had
given rise to the report that she was not
old Philippe's daughter, but the child of a
French nobleman and a seamstress, whom
he had adopted for a stipend. Her features
were more delicately chiseled than the old
man's, but there was a similarity in coloring,
and other characteristics, which gave the lie
to this pretty fancy.
Although Vieva encouraged her aristo
cratic admirer, she also kept him at a dis
tance. This is a fine distinction which
women understand, but which many men
are unable to fathom,
Wilmer Norris, despite his ball-room
bringing up, could not detect the veil of re
serve which the girl drew about her, but
pressed his attentions, until the old innkeep
er growled at her that it was time for every
body to go to bed. The young stranger, in
deference to his position, was given use of
the living room as bed-chamber. He was
assigned to a roomy couch, covered -with buf
falo robes and brovra-bear hides, by the

128 Tales of The
inglenook. Old Philippe, Lu-pold, and Vieva,
after seeing that all his wants were gratified,
filed up the rickety stairway, holding aloft
tallow-dips in their pewter candlesticks. The
young man said nothing about departing on
the morrow, so it was inferred he would re
main a day or two. He had given out that
he was on his way to inspect some of his
father's timberlands further up the West
Branch Valley ; he made no "mystery" of his
movements. The next day was rainy, he
would hardly have started anyway.
He spent as much time as possible with
Vieva, who was not averse to having her two
younger sisters present during the courting.
They lingered around the fireside that night,
until she yawned and expressed a desire for
bed, Wilmer Norris, try as he would,
seemed unable to be with her alone. On the
following morning which dawned clear he
announced that he would leave the next day.
Had Vieva given him an ounce of encour
agement, he might have remained a month.
On his last evening, he was more anxious
than ever to spend a few min-.itco v/ith the

THE GOLDEN HOUR AT THE CAMP
Photo by -W. T. Clarke, Conrad, Pa.

Bald Eagle Mountains 129
beautiful girl when others were not present.
She tried, though perhaps not as tactfully
as a more experienced girl, to have a third
party present every moment, Wilmer was
too much in love to notice that while his
friendly advances were welcome, his love
was not.
When ten o'clock was struck by the chimes
of the tall walnut clock from Berks County,
Vieva, rubbed her eyes, ya-wned for the twen
tieth time, and said she was dead tired, she
must retire. The younger girls who were
dozing with their heads on her lap, rose up
suddenly, saying that bed was a grand idea.
Lu-pold had left the room half an hour
earlier, but old Philippe still sat in one corner
smoking his long clay pipe. The young aris
tocrat begged her stay up just a few minutes
longer, because it was to be his "last night",
but she was obdurate. She lit her tallow-
dip, and followed by the younger girls, and
the old man, ascended the stairs.
It was impossible for the foolish lover to
sleep that night. He did not even undress,
but sat by the fire, drinking deeply from a

130 Tales of The
brandy jug which he had brought in his sad
dle bag. He scorned the product of the moun
tain stills which old Philippe doled out. He
had never felt so unhappy in his life. Aris
tocratic belles had smiled on him, but now
he was to be thwarted by a little backwoods
damsel. It seemed impossible to his imperi
ous pride. He must win her; he would
marry her, and take her to Philadelphia,
come what may. She was just a little shy,
or hesitated because of their different posi
tions in life, that was all, he reasoned. The
brandy and his disappointment made his head
whirl; he decided to go outside for a stroll.
There was a fine spring a few hundred yards
above the tavern; he would go there to
quench his thirst with mountain water. He
took a gourd from a hook on the wall, un
chained the hea-vy oaken door, and sallied
forth. A wolfish watch dog barked and
ramped about viciously; it seemed as if he
must rouse the entire household, through his
innocent stroll. The stars were out; from
its reflection in the sky, the new moon had
come and gone. An early cricket was trying

Bald Eagle Mountains 131
to chirp louder than the peepers, to raise his
voice above the musical crooning of the top
most twigs of the giant buck-topped white
pine which surrounded old Philippe's clear
ings. He was walking towards the spring when
he heard footsteps, and sticks crackling
among the maple underbrush beneath the
pines. Then he heard a woman's voice, low
and musical in tone, it was Vieva's, none
other, "Is that you, is that you Lu-pold?"
Wilmer Norris stopped short, his heart
thumping against his ribs, the red-blood
surging to his cheeks, his soul aflame with
wounded pride. There is nothing so galling
to a gentleman as to have the woman he
admires prefer a low-bred fellow. He
thought of himself, clean-cut, intelligent, sen
sitive, and then of the frowsled-headed, un
shaven, undersized redemptioner whom she
was meeting clandestinely in the forest. It
was the most humiliating event of his life.
It was his punishment for loving outside his
class. People are different, class distinctions

132 Tales of The
do exist; he who will defy them is a block
head of the first order.
He hoped he could slide back to the tavern
without being observed, but footsteps coming
up behind him, told him as plainly as words,
that Lu-pold would soon overtake him.
Rather than face his ignoble rival, he moved
forward along the path. In another dozen
paces he came face to face with Vieva. A
ray of moonlight was shining on her cheeks
through an opening in the pine-boughs. He
noted that she was whiter than the ghastly
light, when she saw who was approaching,
that her mean deception was discovered,
Wflmer made no effort to speak, and she re
mained silent, until he was past. Then he
heard her calling softly "Lu-pold, Lu-pold,
what has become of you?"
The young man fully realized the awful
truth, Vieva loved the redemptioner, he could
have been nothing in her eyes. He ploughed
along the forest pathway, sometimes stum
bling and almost falling over stones and roots,
not caring if he did. He went on his way
for several miles, until he came to a -wind-

Bald Eagle Mountains 133
fall, where a dozen uprooted pines formed
a semi-circle of a tangled mass of fibres,
rocks, and earth, like a corral. He sought
out a secluded spot in this tangle, where he
sat down. In another minute his face was
wet with hot tears. He was paying the pen
alty of unwise love, reaping the harvest of
tares that comes to him who dares proclaim
there is no caste. He fumbled in his belt,
which was under his whipcord coat, drawing
out a hea^vy pistol. He held it up to the
moonlight, to see if it was properly primed.
Then he put the cool muzzle against the roof
of his mouth, and pulled the trigger. There
was a muffled, undefinable report, a lot of
smoke and fumes, and Wilmer Norris re
leased his crushed and broken spirit to the
infinite. When old Philippe, next morning, came
downstairs, his distinguished guest was no
where to be found. It was thought at first
that he had gone for an early morning walk.
When he did not return at nine o'clock, a
search was instituted, but no trace found,
Vieva and Lu-pold had seen him, and heard

134 Tales of The
the dull pistol shot in the wilderness, but
they feared to tell, lest they incriminate
themselves. The story of the young man's disappear
ance spread like wildfire; of course old
Philippe was charged with having murdered
him for his money. It was in vain that he
pointed to the fact that his money-pouch,
containing nearly five-hundred dollars in gold
was found hanging over the back of the settle.
The Philadelphia relatives missed the youth
in due course of time, and representatives of
the agonized parents visited the scene. They
went away completely mystified. In the early
fall, some hunters chased a wolverine into
the jungle of roots in the windfall. There
they came upon the shrunken, twisted body
of a young man, sitting upright, witli a bul
let hole in the top of the skull. A screech-
owl had a half completed nest in his matted
auburn hair. On the moss nearby laid a
big pistol. They picked up the weapon, and
brought it back to show to old Philippe. That
was the worst thing they could have done as

Bald Eagle Mountains ]3£
it started the story that no firearm was
found near him.
Norris's parents were notified, and they
directed that the remains be shipped to Phil
adelphia, for interment in the churchyard
of Gloria Dei, They threatened to have the
old innkeeper arrested, as his murderer, but
as no motive could be shown, the matter was
dropped after a time. But the tragedy killed
the old man's business, and he was glad when
the invitation came to run the hotel in the
remote Blockhouse Country, He went there
with a tarnished reputation, which could not
be shaken off in a life-time of square-dealing.
His slightest faults were exaggerated, his
efforts to prevent impositions looked upon as
evidences of overbearing and brutal tenden
cies. But he made the name of the Block
house Country famous, he furnished cheer to
thousands of sad-hearted pilgrims.
His children, despite his efforts to educate
them, scorned everything done for them,
marrying more or less worthless fellows. As
for Vieva, she became the wife of Leopold
Nancarro within a couple of months after
young Norris's disappearance. It was not

136 Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains
a happy union, as the neighbors shunned
them, and after the old man had gone to keep
the Blockhouse, whispered about that the
couple had killed the youthful Philadelphian
in order to get a "dowry," AU was storm
for old Philippe and his family; it was like
a retribution falling on them for his per
nicious activity in the bloody days of the
Guillotine,

VII,

KING WI-DAAGH'S SPELL
(Story of Antes Fort Mountain)
T was the unvarying custom,
and perhaps the chief pe
culiarity of King Wi-daagh,
the last ruler of the Susque-
hanah Indians, that any of
his subjects who happened
to lay eyes on him, must re
turn and see him again one
year from the date. This
he imagined instilled a proper respect for his
exalted station, especially when the person
who had looked at him would have to travel
two hundred miles through forests drifted
with snow to repeat the performance. If he
but knew it, his subjects came to "hate the
sight of him" for this very reason. But he
had other faults. As a financier he was a
failure, even for an Indian, His bargain
with the Proprietary Government in Sep
tember, 1700, a century after his great an-
137

138 Tales of The
cestor Pinsisseway's military triumphs, when
he deeded the fertile Otzinachson Valley to
the Penn family for a few trinkets and a bale
of English goods, will stand out as the most
one-sided land deal in history.
King Wi-daagh was very susceptible to
flattery, a few grandiose compliments deliv
ered to him by persons of the proper rank
and he would give away anything. These
were probably used by Penn's emissaries and
if they had carried the farce much further he
might have given them his birthright and
handed back the trinkets and the bundle of
goods. Though he ever regretted the sale,
he kept it mostly to himself, which is to his
credit. But to the day of his death he was
pompous and overbearing to his kind, exag
gerating trifles and glossing over the really
important events in life. As long as his fol
lowers came back the following year after
having seen him, he was satisfled. To put
people to trouble seemed to be his chief de
light. He was letting some splendid energy
go to waste.

Bald Eagle Mountains 13&
Wi-daagh's favorite walk was from his
"palace", which consisted of a many roomed
cavern near the source of Antes Creek, along
the stream, and thence westward to a small
spring, where in his youth he had met clan
destinely an Indian maid of inferior birth.
Along tlie creek was the favorite pathway
for Indians travelling north or south, and he
invariably met troops of victims on every
stroll. Much as they originally revered this
august symbol of royalty, they hated the idea
of having to come back a year from the date
of their chance meetings with him. To each
Indian who met him he handed a piece of
shell, curiously carved, and when a year later
the bearer returned, it was broken in half
by the King's chamberlain, as a sort of re
ceipt to prove that the Indian had fulfilled
his obligation. As a result of this oppressive
custom, the meadows in the ¦vicinity of Wi-
daagh's abode, afterwards the scene of his
unequal bargain with the Quakers, were al
ways thronged ¦with Indians, Oftentimes
he would keep them waiting for days before
collecting their bits of wampum, which he

140 Tales of The
did personally. He claimed he had a great
mem-ory for faces, and would sometimes ac
cuse a redman of being a substitute sent by
the person who had actually seen him the
year before. He would talk loud and threat
en, but unless his mood changed before sun
set, as it usually did, it meant death to the
tlleged substitute. The Indians, to avoid
these unpleasant complications, would have
avoided the trail along the creek, that their
monarch frequented, had it not been that for-
seeing this very thing, he forbid his sub
jects to pass north or south any other way.
Some did go many miles out of their course
to keep clear of him, but spies reported them,
and in some cases they fell into the hands of
hostile tribes, whose penalties were more se
vere than Wi-daagh's. The only comfortable
way to avoid their king was to stay at home,
and Indians who had to travel east and west
were envied, but some of these who were
unlucky enough to have crossed the Susque
hanna, and met the King at the spring, were
forced to return like the hapless travellers on
the trailway of Antes Creek.

Bald Eagle Mountains 141
As he grew older he was mortified by the
knowledge that most of his subjects acknowl
edged the Penn family, and not himself aa
the real rulers of the realm. He protested
that he merely thought he was selling the
Englishmen right of way through the Sus
quehanna Valley, he did not expect them to
attempt to be his overlords. That was his
feeble defense to go down the ages against
the paltry sum given him for his property.
He was humiliated when one year his cham
berlain reported to him that four hundred In
dians whom he had met on his walks had
failed to return to pay their respects at the
expiration of the year. The official gave the
King a certain number of shells each day he
went walking, and in that way kept track of
the size of the returning parties, A party
of fifty innocent Juniata Indians who were
found camping along the mountains at the
south side of Nippenose Valley were seized
and accused of being some of the renegades.
Despite their protests that they had never
been in that part of the country, all were
sentenced to be burned at the stake. Had

142 Tales of The
it not been that a delegation from the Pro
prietary Government happened along oppor
tunely, this cruel sentence would have been
carried out. One of the Quakers seeing the
captives lying about in the hot sun in the
meadow, bound hand and foot, learned their
story from an interpreter and intimated to
King Wi-daagh to abrogate the punishment.
That night, while the Quakers slept, an ear
was cut from each of the fifty prisoners, their
goods confiscated, and they were turned
loose. Even this sentence seemed shocking
to the Quakers but it was too late for further
protests. But the backbone of Wi-daagh's
rule was crushed, he lived the balance of his
life a broken-hearted man. Even before his
death, his sons and sons-in-law were quarrel
ing over the remnants of his domain like buz
zards struggling over a dying horse. Per
haps if he had not estranged his subjects by
his silly idea of making those who saw him
return in a year, he might have rallied them
around him and forcibly broken his con
tract with the Penns, Only a handful of In
dians, and mostly from his immediate house-

Bald Eagle Mountains 143
hold attended his funeral exercises. No doubt
the bulk of his subjects feared they might be
exacted to come back the next year and call
on his corpse. Attired in full warrior's re
galia and vrfth face painted, he was buried
where the Fish-house now stands on the Loch-
abar estate. How the later o-wners of this
magnificent property came to erect this little
pagoda above the remains of the fallen chief
tain, is unknowable and belongs properly to
the subject of divination. If only the weight
of the Fish-house could have weighed down
the ghost, then the best interests of di^vine
justice would have been conserved.
King Wi-daagh's ghost was as unhappy as
the living tenement had been. He had not
been in his grave a week before he acquired
the habit of taking midnight strolls through
the Gap to the small spring at the foot of the
upper mountain. Few Indians travelled at
night, as lights were uncertain and expensive,
80 there was little to relieve his churlish lone
liness. But he was occasionally seen by red-
men from distant points, who were unlucky
enough to build their campfires along the

144 Tales of The
path. When he loomed up before them, from
back of the blaze, he would hold out his hand
aa if trying to give something to the campers.
Obviously a spirit could not do this, unless it
be the double of a living person, and he would
sink back into the gloom and vanish. For
some odd reason, those who saw him always
found themselves back in Antes Gap a year
later, no matter if they had left there after
their first visit vowing never to return. They
always met the regal ghost on their second
visit, and he would flit about them like a hazy
rainbow before he dwindled out of sight.
After the second visit the travellers did not
find it necessary to return.
When the Indians were driven out of their
beloved valleys of Central Pennsylvania, they
took especial care not to warn their white
supplanters of King Wi-daagh's ghost and
his propensity to make those who saw him
pay a return visit. They would have a laugh
on their haughty conquerors if a ghost with
far less substance than a jelly-fish compelled
them to do homage in this manner. It would
be the triumph of Indian spirit over Anglo-

Bald Eagle Mountains 145
Saxon matter. Many a self-important Scotch-
Irishman, through a chance meeting with the
spook, was compelled to tramp back from the
Chillasquaque, the Mahantango, the Codorus
or the Swatara, Wliy they came, they could
not understand. As the anniversary ap
proached they "felt queer in the head", as
they phrased it, and an unaccountable im
pulse started them in the direction of Antes
Gap. They always felt easier after their sec
ond meeting with the ghost, but the trips
usually wound up by a long siege of inso
briety, and plenty of curses heaped on the
offending apparition.
In a later day, after a hotel had been built
at the northerly entrance to the GJap, travel
lers and farmers would come into the cozy
barroom nights with hair standing on end,
and eyes bloodshot and dilated, order a drink
of whisky, look about to judge the crowd,
and say, "I saw an Indian, all gotten up in
war paint in the Gap; I was scared out of
a year's gro-wth when he tried to hand me
something." At first the landlord attributed
these Indian stories to the alcoholic proper-

146 Tales of The
ties of Nippenose Valley cider, or Rauch-
to-wn applejack, but as each frightened guest
told a similar story, he concluded there must
be "something back of it."
He also noticed that about a year after the
first fright, the same men would turn up in
the bar-room, considerably cooled do-wn, but
saying that they had just come from a sec
ond experience with the Indian, and this time
they were sure it was a ghost. It helped
the trade in the bar, and as time went on,
the genial landlord "saw through it all," and
rumor had it he too had met King Wi-daagh.
But the wives of the solid citizens who met
him never became convinced. When they
heard the story they laid it to too much good
cheer at Jersey Shore, or at the cozy hos-
tlery in the gap. The ghost never appeared
when two persons were together, or to folk
in carriages or wagons. He reserved himself
for lone pedestrians. Wi-daagh in life had
a similar predillection. If he came upon one
of his subjects alone, the wretched sav
age, awed by the presence of supreme high
ness often prostrated himself on his face.

Bald Eagle Mountains 14-;

When a crowd were present, more reserve
was displayed.
It happened that out in the summit coun
try east of Loganton, there lived a bright
young fellow named Lot Clingerman, He had
received a good common school education, and
had once cherished an ambition to teach. Hard
work on his father's farm and some inci
dental prop timber and paper-wood opera
tions had blocked his hopes of going to "Nor
mal," and he secretly nursed a bitter dis
appointment. He liked to talk with persons
who had been away from Sugar Valley and
had come home professing a contempt for
their own Dutch blood, "You've got to get
away from the Dutch if you want to amount
to anything", was their very silly refrain.
Lot began to feel that if he "got away from
the Dutch" he would become a great man.
It was his Dutch associations, and not his
lack of education that had prevented his suc
cess thus far. He professed a dislike for
everything savoring of Dutch. He criticized
his aged father to his face because he spoke
with a Dutch accent, yet Lot talked as bro-

148 Tales of The
kenly as his parent, if he had only known it.
"The Dutch aint progressive", was a jewel
of wisdom he interjected into every conver
sation, "WTien I get away from these Dutch
you'll see some hustling", was another of his
aphorisms. In short, all the failures and imperfec
tions of his family were blamed on the Dutch
blood; to hear him talk one would have
thought he came from a different race. The
unfrocked priest is not the worst apostate,
the Pennsylvania German who is ashamed of
his race, is the meanest renegade of all.
Lot had met a pretty girl at Pine camp-
meeting who lived along Antes Fort moun
tain. She professed to be of Yankee origin,
and this made her doubly desirable in his
eyes. He must have had some pluck, for he
proposed marriage to her on the strength of
a job he imagined he'd get. The girl liked
his looks, for he was a fine big specimen of
manhood, but said she wouldn't take him until
he had the job. In his heart Lot said "those
Yankees, aint they the slick articles," He got
into correspondence with an old friend who

Bald Eagle Mountains 149
worked in a mine office at Butte, Montana,
a fellow who had left Carroll four years pre
viously. He promised Lot to place him, event
ually finding him a situation in the same of
fice. The young mountaineer was beside him
self with joy. He borrowed money from his
father to make the trip, and started away in
high glee. It was harvest time and all the
horses were busy; he was too close to hire a
rig, so he walked over the summits, through
the Gottschall Hollow to Rauchtown, and
from there across the broad valley to Antes
Gap. He intended taking the train at Antes
Fort, but would stop first and say au revoir
to his sweetheart.
It was a sultry midsummer night, almost
full moon, when he reached the smooth mac
adam road leading through the Gap, The
katydids and crickets were chorusing loudly.
His big suit^case which looked heavier than
it really was swung from a strap across his
shoulders. To show he was "citified" he wore
a brown derby with a ridiculously narrow
brim, such as no city man ever owned, and
kept it jammed on his head though he per-

150 Tales of The
spired freely. He crossed the small suspen
sion foot-bridge which spans the creek near
a group of summer cottages, and started out
the forest path which led in the direction oi
his sweetheart's rather remote residence. As
he neared the little spring, he saw a tall fig
ure emerge from behind a white oak of stu
pendous proportions, it is called "the Indian
oak" by the way, and walk towards him with
a brisk step, "Say, he v/alks like a New
York banker", thought the young "know-it-
all." When the figure drew near, there was
a filminess, and an instability which made
him feel that New York bankers must be
made of very frail stuff. He was further
surprised when the stranger held out his
hand, as if to give him something, and he
noticed the hands quiver and melt into vapory
smoke at the finger tips. He would have
grasped the hand had not the spectre van
ished into thin air. He supposed he was
overtired from the long walk; he had heard
of folks having hallucinations under such con
ditions, and decided to say nothing of his ad
venture to his sweetheart. It was to be their

Bald Eagle Mountains 151
parting night; he had only seen her thrice
before, and then it was at "Camp" in a crowd,
and he wanted to make a favorable impres
sion. The evening passed off better than he
had expected ; he knew he was a "winner," to
use his own language, but this was the hand
iest work he had attempted. The girl agreed
that after he was settled at Butte if he would
send for her she would come out and
marry him, if he paid her railroad fare.
Lot Clingerman did not see the Indian
King's ghost again that night, but he reached
Antes Fort station in time to catch the west
bound morning train, which connected at
Lock Haven for Tyrone and Pittsburg. He
got along very well in Butte, and he had been
there nearly a year before he realized it. He
saw many girls out there whom he liked bet
ter than the one he had left on Antes Fort
mountain. He was growing less and less
anxious to send for her. What he wrote
her is not disclosed, but one of his letters
to his father ran something like this : "Dear
pop: Say, I do like it out here more every
day. Say, I am getting along just grand.

153 Tales of The
Say, they put it all over the Dutch out here.
These people know how to hustle. Say, I will
be out here one year today a week, but I guess
it will be another year or two before I can
spare the time to come east. Give my best
love to mom and all the rest. Yours, Lot."
He went out of his boarding house to drop
the letter in the box. It was about ten in the
evening. On his way back an uncontrollable
desire seized him to go east. He had just
posted a letter saying he wouldn't do so for
a year or two, and now he was filled -with the
desire to start at once. He wasn't homesick,
not he, there wasn't an ounce of sentiment
in his body. He was as stolid as quartz. He
could not check himself from continuing his
walk to the railroad station where he found
that a through train for St. Paul and Chicago
would pass through town at 1:15 that morn
ing. He found himself walking briskly to
his boarding house, where he packed his he-
loBgings, and scribbled a note to the general
manager of his office, saying that he had been
culled east on urgent business, but would re
turn as soon as pocsible. He paid his board

Bald Eagle Mountains 153
bill, and asked the landlady's son who was
a chum of his, to deliver the note for him in
the morning. He got to the station before
midnight, but the wait seemed of no moment,
he was so determined to go. All the way to
the east he was in a state of dazed exulta
tion. He did not know why he was bound
east, but he was glad to be going there. It
was almost dark when he got off the east-
bound train, "number sixty-eight," at Antes
Fort. He realized that he was carrying the
same suitcase, it was considerably heavier
than when he v/ent away; but on his head
was a new and more up-to-date derby. Carry
ing the heavy case he started out the road
leading to Antes Gap, rie passed the bright
ly Ughted hotel ; it was a temptation to watch
the jolly crowd through the bar-room win
dows. But he was east on "urgent business"
and could not tarry. He came to the suspen
sion bridge, and crossed it, starting out the
forest path, just as he had one year ago that
night. He could not reason with himself why
he was doing this ; all he knew v/as he mtist.
He saw the "Indian oak" rising like a sable

154 Tales of The
cloak against the reflected lights of Lock
Haven. From behind it emerged a tall slim
figure, with a quick nervous step, just as
he had seen it a year ago. The appari
tion came near, and held out his open hand,
as if he wanted something. Lot Clingerman
came to his senses, "What in heU am I doing
here!" he said aloud. His uncouth words
shocked the effete shadow and he vanished.
The thought flashed through the young man's
head "shall I keep on and see that girl?" But
another voice answered no, and began nam
ing over a dozen girls in Butte whom he
liked better, "Shall I go out the Gap and
see the folks for a day?" Again a voice
said no, "they'd think it queer to see you
after sending you that letter that you would
not be east for a year or two".
He was feeling more sound and sane than
he had in a year, he wondered why. There was
nothing else to do but to wander back to Antes
Fort and wait for the west bound mail due
about seven-fifteen the next morning. On the
way he stopped at the little hotel at the be
ginning of the Gap, Like all the rest, he

Bald Eagle Mountains 155
ordered a drink of whisky, eyed the crov/d
critically and then blurted out, "boys, oh,
boys, I've seen a spook, what do you knov/
about it?" A good many of those present
knew a good deal, some more than they cared
to tell.
One old tottering clean-shaven German,
who would have looked better if he had a set
of false teeth, got up from a chair in the cor
ner, and flourishing his heavy sassafras cane,
exclaimed, "Poys, I feels tam sorry for that
spook ; he vants to gif folks somesing, ven he
e&n do dat, he'll come no more," But in the
general talk that followed it was agreed that
it would be pretty difficult for an airy form
to hold or give out anything material, which
sliows that a bar-room can contain metaphy
sicians, "Put if he tidn't make efferbotty
dot sees him come back von year from date,
ve'd forgive de rest", broke in the old Ger
man, Lot, who was draining a heavy schoon
er of beer, hit the glass on the bar with a
tliud, "So that's why", he said to himself,
gritting his teeth, "I had to come back to
this God-forsaken region tonight."

VIII,

CAVES OF THE BALD EAGLES
(Story of Aughanbaugh Mountain)
HILIP TOMB was very fond
of telling about a wonderful
cave which he discovered
while on one of his hunt
ing trips. It contained many
square rooms, stone bench
es, tables and altars, bear
ing unmistakable signs of
having been cut by hand.
He was very explicit in his descriptions of
the interior of the cavern, but equally reticent
concerning its exact location. Sometimes he
would say it was "up Pine Creek," which
is a pretty extensive territory, on other occa
sions "on Tumbling Run." As there are four
or five Tumbling Runs in the State, it would
lead to further mystification.
There is an old legend that the Indians
who mined silver in the Bald Eagle Moun
tains had a cavern where they concealed
156

Bald Eagle Mountains 157
themselves when pursued by white eaves
droppers, and this was probably the cave vis
ited by Philip Tomb, He evidently thought
he would discover some of the silver bars and
for that reason wished to keep the exact loca
tion secret.
This Cave of the silver-mining Indians is
situated in the side of the westerly mountain
at Aughanbaugh Gap, near a stream which
was once known locally as Tumbling Run,
The name has since been changed several
times, and it is now shrunken to a tiny rivu
let; even the Springs in the famous Little
Valley which helped feed it, seem to have
lost their pristine fullness. It never tum
bles over the rocks as in the old days; the
only thing that tumbles now are the rocks
as they roll dov/n the chute into the hopper
of the big stone-crusher.
Poor Aughanbaugh Mountain, stripped of
its timber and water-courses, and the quar-
riers delving deep into its sides! Sooner or
later, if they extend their operations at the
present rate, the Indians' cave will be uncov
ered, and new light thrown on this strangest

158 Tales of The
01 antiquities. Evidently the redmen had
been mining silver for centuries, and success
fully, else they would not have constructed
such a solid and spacious underground laby
rinth. It was first built as a council chamber
for the chiefs and captains, and from this de
veloped into a store-house for the silver be
fore it was apportioned out at the close of
every twenty moons. When the white men
arrived, and began to harrass the Indians,
and later got an inkling of their mining oper
ations, it was used as a haven of refuge.
Skillful in darting through the trackless
forests and dropping out of sight, they could
run to cover, when surprised by their jeal
ous white supplanters. Several Indian min
ers were captured and tortured fiendishly,
but they would not reveal the secrets of the
mines. The barbarous manner in which thev
were treated by these whites explains why
the Bald Eagle silver m.ines got no further
than into legendary history. But the last In
dian died with the secret, and Philip Tomb,
and one other white man, were the only repre-

Bald Eagle Mountains 159
sentatives of the pale faces who stumbled
into this subterranean fastness.
An Indian whom we shall call Huntsman's
Cup, was the last chief who carried on the
mining operations on a large scale. In the
midst of his labors he was summoned to New
York State to join in a general defense of his
tribe, but somewhere, near the border, he was
surprised at his camp fire by a band of cross-
grained Germans, and with his entire party
perished. The Germans, who were on their way to
make a settlement in Chemung County, New
York, did not know the mining story, and
after the massacre made no effort to find the
ores the Indians were transporting. Possi
bly the rich silver bars are lying somewhere
in the woods on the headwaters of Babb's
Creek. For years afterwards Indians camped near
the mouth of Pine Creek annually, and were
said to be carrying on silver mining. They
were importuned and annoyed, but kept at
their work manfully. When they did stop
coming, th^ said it was only because of the

160 Tales of The
angry ghosts they encountered ; at least, that
is the story told by a younger Indian named
Billy Douty who was brought to the moun
tains at a later date to try and re-discover the
mines. The writer visited the reservation
along the Alleghany River in May, 1908, but
learned that poor Billy had been hit by an
Erie midnight flyer while returning from a
roystering bout at Salamanca, a couple of
weeks before. That ended any chances of
learning the ghost story from him.
But there was the one other white man, be
sides PhUip Tomb, mentioned earlier in this
story, who chanced into the cave. He was
glad to get out, and said that he knew whj'
Philip Tomb had been so chary about renew
ing his acquaintance with the place. But
there are reasons why he was prejudiced.
He was a Civil War renegade. When hostili
ties between North and South had reached a
fever heat, and every man available, even
grandfathers, was wanted for service in the
field, the draft was instituted to enforce pa
triotism. In Pennsylvania, some whose du
ties at home made them dubious about enlist-

Bald Eagle Mountains 161
ment, submitted cheerfully when their names
were drawn, but others wath little or no ex
cuses, rebelled against the system. Some
even crippled themselves, others took to the
woods or went west, and one worthy after
filling up with hard cider got into bed, and
sat there with loaded shot-gun in hand, ready
to "pepper" any draft officers that chanced
his way. In the wilder regions, several mar
shals and officers were shot, and considerable
ill feeling was engendered among persons
with "copperhead" tendencies.
The renegade in question said he had a
big family to support, and wouldn't enlist.
All he had was a wife and one half grown
daughter, a girl old enough to be learning
dressmaking. He had a next door neighbor
who went to the front in 1861, leaving a wife
with eight children, besides an aged father
and mother, dependent on him. But that
made no matter with the renegade, his fam
ily was big in his eyes; he wrouldn't fight in
any war that had been caused by a squabble
over what he called "niggers," "A man's
a fool to fight for Uncle Sam; the country

162 Tales of The
never was run right, let it go to smash now
and begin over again", was another of his
anti-enlistment broadsides. But maybe on
account of this loud talk at night around the
post-office, or at the railroad station, when
the evening train came in, he became a mark
ed man with the draft officials. It was not
long before his name was drawn, and a no
tice sent to him to report on a certain date
at Williamsport, Two men about his own age,
neighbors, were drawn at the same time ; the
draft had fallen heavily in the little moun
tain hamlet. Bright and early the chosen
three were at the station. Two of them were
surrounded by weeping mothers, wives and
children, while the third stood nearby chew
ing tobacco and whittling a stick of white
pine. His cool demeanor wasn't noticed until
after the train came in, and the two men
climbed on board, "Aren't you coming along,
Mike?" yeUed one of the conscripts, as the
conductor gave the signal to start. "Hell,
no," he answered, "let 'em send for me."
There were enough copperheads in the crowd
to enable, him to sneak away unmolested, and

Bald Eagle Mountains 163
the train started down the valley, carrying
the tv/o brave-hearted patriots,
VvTien they reported at the recruiting of
fice, the absence of the third party from
Mountainburg was noticed. The conscripts
admitted they had seen him at the station,
but said he had shown no inclination to ac
company them, A telegraphic message was
sent, ordering him to come down on the even
ing train, but he did not put in an appear
ance. A sergeant was at the station when the
train arrived, and as the recruit did not get
off, he boarded the west-bound train which
left five minutes later. Arriving at Moun
tainburg, he was told that his man had left
the station fifteen minutes earlier, saying he
was going home. The agent declared that he
handed him the message personally, Tha
sergeant was incensed clean through, and
requisitioned a horse and carryall that was
tied back of the station, to quicken his speed
to the renegade's home.
The fellow's cabin stood at the edge of the
pine forest, and all the windows were bright
ly lit as the officer approached. He knocked

164 Tales of The
at the door which was opened by a half -grown
girl. "Where's your pop?" demanded the
sergeant. "He's gone to Williamsport to be
a soldier," said the girl looking him squarely
in the eyes. For a minute the sergeant was
puzzled ; he might have missed the man in the
crowd at the depot, but on the other hand, he
had been told by half a dozen reliable people
at Mountainburg that he had not boarded
the train. Then he realized he was being
hoaxed. He angrily demanded that the girl
tell the real whereabouts of her father, but
she remained firm. Then he commenced a
search of the shanty, but he only found the
renegade's wife, sitting calmly on the back
steps smoking her pipe, listening to the katy
dids. Threatening wife and daughter -with
arrest, he left for the station, a baffled man.
Afterwards he was told that while he was
arguing with the girl at the front door, a dark
figure, carrying a rifle under his coat,
emerged from the chicken-house at the back
of the yard, and disappeared into the inky
depths of the pinewood. The sergeant re
turned to Williamsport on the midnight train,

Bald Eagle Mountains 165
and a reward was at once offered for the con
script. It would seem like money easily earn
ed, but some of the natives sympathized -with
the wretch, and warned him whenever the
trail grew hot. Besides he knew the moun
tain paths, his pursuers did not; perhaps the
sympathetic natives mystified them at times.
But every day it became harder and harder
to get provisions to him; his family were
under surveilance and couldn't go, and it was
often difficult for others to spare the time to
carry his dinner bucket over seven or
eight miles of mountain bjrways,
Down on Aughanbaugh Mountain the ever
green timber grew thicker and blacker than
on any other mountain in the chain of the
Bald Eagles, Even today, what few of the
"black-tops" that survived the lumbermen
richly deser\'^e their picturesque appelation
as they rear their sombre heads from among
the other trees. It was here that the rene
gade made his headquarters ; few would trail
him into this deserted region.
He was frightfully lonesome, and some of
the nights were very cold, as he bivouacked in

166 Tales of The
the jungle, too hungry to find much comfort
at having cheated Uncle Sam, His conscience
began troubling him, and that added consid
erably to his woes. It was hard to put in
the time, the days and nights seemed inter
minable ; sleep appeared to have deserted him,
hunger alone kept pace in the solitude. His
friends left pails of provisions as regularly
as they could, but he often had to go without
two of his three meals. This empty feeling
may have helped the birth of his conscience ;
it often does. He saw lots of game but was
afraid to shoot, fearing the shots would be
tray him. He was even afraid to kindle a
fire. He imagined he was getting all manner
of diseases, every cracking twig was a cap
tor approaching, every shudder of the leaves
an accusing voice. His mental state was hid
eous, stumbling about in the hemlock glades,
trying to figure out what to do next.
Late one afternoon, worn out from his
aimless travels, he sat down on a rock, watch
ing some yellow birch leaves floating on the
glassy surface of a small pool. He buried
his face in his hands, cursing himself and

Bald Eagle Mountains 167
his luck with an endless stream of blasphe
mies. In the midst of his lamentations he
felt a cold breath on the back of his neck,
like a breeze from some underground vault.
He looked around, the air seemed to issue
from a crevice between two upright rocks,
weatherbeaten and lichen covered. He cut a
stout pole and was able to pry one of the
rocks aside. It disclosed an opening into the
side of the mountain, sufficiently large for a
man to crawl through. At the sight of this
the outlaw forgot most of his troubles, even
conscience became temporarily diverted.
Then he got down on his hands and knees
and crawled into the opening. At most he
expected to find the den of some wild animal,
probably a large black bear. He had not
moved more than a hundred feet, when he
found himself in a vast room, the ceiling of
which was at least twenty feet high. It was
square in form, and neatly walled up, the
work of skilled masons.
Beyond was a doorway which apparently
led into another similar chamber. But he
was too much surprised by this one room to

168 Tales of The
want to venture further just yet. At the far
end, in one corner, was a pedestal cut out of
granite or ganister, that looked like a sacri
ficial altar. In the centre of the room was a
square table, cut from a solid block of gray
rock. Grouped around it were a dozen or
more stone seats. Along one wall was a stone
couch, or reclining chair. The atmosphere
of the place was soothing and cozy, and not
too cool, so the ¦visitor seated himself on the
reclining bench, to make out whether or not
he was dreaming. If he wasn't, then he was
face to face with one of the greatest of curi
osities. It must be of Indian origin, he rea
soned, but what Indians were such skillful
masons and stone-cutters? They must have
been a race far superior to the redmen he
used to hear his grandfather tell about. These
had considerable trouble to chip an arrow
head evenly. He took off his hea^vy hunting
coat and put it back of him as a pillow. His
torch began to burn down to the end, but
somehow he was oblivious. He heard air-
currents, almost musical in their vibrations
in the inner recesses of the cave. He would

Bald Eagle Mountains 169
go and explore every foot, but he didn't, he
just sat and speculated. One of the air cur
rents took an unexpected course and blew
out the torch altogether. He fell sound asleep
the same instant the light was extinguished.
He must have slept several hours, that is how
he figured it out. In the midst of a sweet
dream about being home, and free from dis
grace, he was roughly awakened by a hard
firm hand, shaking him by the shoulder. He
opened his eyes, and looked up. The gloomy
cave was illuminated by a silvery light, like
fox-fire of many candle power.
Close by him loomed the figure of an In
dian chief, fully seven feet tall, silver-grey
in color too, like fox-fire. Around him were
grouped other Indians, some more vague of
outline than others with clenched fists and
m.enacing expressions. The whole scene was
enough to have made him die of fright; it
was worse than a hundred Southern battle
fields. He did not die of fright, or even faint, his
ancestors had been brave men, and what was
strongest in his make-up sustained him now.

170 Tales of The
He gazed boldly at this army of sepulchral
inquisitors. The tall Indian chief began to
speak to him in a strange tongue, but soon
the words seemed to find equivalents in his
brain. He may have jumped at the purport
of the speech from the tone of the voice and
the movement of the lips. At any rate he
knew the meanings, George Moore says
"The Gods speak not in any mortal lan
guage, one becomes aware of their immor
tal Presence." But at first he was too dazed
to act on the demands. Seeing this, the
huge Indian seized him again by the
shoulder, and tried to shove him off the
bench. The hea-vy hand pressure lacked
something; we are not impelled forward
by a fog. All the while the Indian was talk
ing angrily. "Get out of this place", he
seemed to say, "you are a vile coward, a ren
egade, a runaway, a poltroon. This cavern
never sheltered one of your kind before, you
are making it an unfit place even for the
matchless spirits of brave warriors who lived
long ago. Begone, wretched craven, do not

Bald Eagle Mountains 171
pollute this pure atmosphere with your foul
presence, begone!"
With these last words he strove harder thars
ever to dislodge the half-dazed, half -stubborn
intruder. All efforts might have failed had
not the other Indian shades swept forward,
and their combined effort, like a night-wind,
tumbled him from the couch. He fell to the
stone floor, cutting an ugly gash in his fore
head. Stumbling to his feet, he lunged
tov/ards the opening as best he could. He
plunged out into the darkness, and as he did
so he heard tlie tall gate-rock which he had
disiCf^ged fall back into position.
He fell into the pool, extracting himself
with difficulty. He sat for some time by the
pond, gradually coming to his senses as he
saw shafts of light sifting through vague
openings in the tall trees. But these soon
closed up, giving way to a drizzling rain. As
the drops touched his face, he got up, burn
ing with a new resolve. Wiping the clotted
blood from his brow, he started down the
hillside, over the jagged rocks, and along a

172 Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains
trail, which followed Tumbling Run to the
river. When he came in sight of the railroad
track, he stopped, and stripped off his red
shirt. He threw it over one shoulder and
leaned against an original white pine tree,
which until it was felled a few years ago, by
the contractors who built the double track,
was known as "the deserter's tree", and wait
ed. In the distance he heard the treble whis
tle of the morning train, coming through the
mist. He got out on the ties, and began
waving the red shirt frantically. The engine
was almost upon him when the crew noticed
the demonstration and threw on the brakes.
The renegade climbed into the coach, and
dropped heavily into one of the rickety seats.
The conductor appeared for the ticket, but
was told that Uncle Sam would pay the
freight. This angered the conductor who
started to pull the bell rope. The impudent
passenger grabbed his arm whispering, "Say
brother don't do it, I reckon you'll get reward
enough by carrying a damned deserter into
Billsport".

IX.

PATHFINDER'S CHILD
(Story of the Round Top)
0 Levi Comprobst everything
Indian was detestable, ex
cept the beauty of some of
their women. And these he
regarded more as a chattel,
than as rational, feeling,
human beings. He may
have had a sense of honor
in regard to his relations
with white girls, he said he had at any rate,
but he would deceive an Indian girl without
a qualm. His constant motto was, "The soon
er the Indians are gone, the better for the
country." Wrecking the lives of Indian girls
was helping along the demolition of the race,
and affording him pleasure as well. It was
a labor of "love," put plainly. Being good-
looking and stalwart, his campaign against
Indian women was assured of success, A
homely man could have butchered warriors 173

174 Tales of The
and old squaws to his heart's content, but
the copper-colored girls would have turned
their backs on him, and disappeared into the
forests, Levi's good looks was a fatal mag
net that drew the m.aidens to their destruc
tion. There always was a peculiar fascina
tion about handsome white men on the part of
Indian girls. Nine times out of ten they pre
ferred a sturdy Scotch-Irishman or German
to any sinewy member of their o^wn race.
Few of these respected them individually or
as a race, consequently their attachments
were foreordained to end in physical ruin and
suicide. No Indian girl could stand the taunts
of her jealous sisters or former lovers when
betrayed by a white man. She would invari
ably wander off to some cave, like a wood-
nymph, and stab herself in the breast •with a
poisoned arrow, or else tie a heavy rock about
her neck, and leap off a ledge into the bowl
below a waterfall. She would emerge a frail
and willowy spirit, to fiit about on moonless
nights awhile and sob, and then become a part
of the elements from which her soul origin
ated.

Bald Eagle Mountains 175
"The Indians are here to be killed, and their
women folks to be loved", was Levi's cede
of justification. His parents said that he had
been born in the Palatinate, but this he al
ways denied indignantly. He knew where he
was bom, he said, it was right in the shadow
of Fort Dietrich Snyder, in Schuylkill Coun
ty, Wasn't his godmother Dolly Hope, who
later became the bride of the fearless Sny
der himself? German or not as he may have
been, Levi Comprobst was often taken for
young James Brady, who met with such a
m.elancholy death at the hands of the red-
men. It is related that a week after the burial
of the "Young Captain of the Susquehanna,"
a party of backwoodsmen met Levi walking
near the Bull Run graveyard and took to
their heels, thinking it was the gallant hero
risen from the dead. But the resemblance,
if it existed, was superficial, as Comprobst
was altogether lacking in those noble qualities
of mind and heart so noticeable in this young
martyr of the West Branch. Levi was vei-y
proud of his cumbersome German rifle, and

176 Tales of The
on the walnut stock had cut five nicks, which
meant five redmen had fallen to his unerring
aim. Six was his lucky number, he contend
ed, he must get one more before peace was
declared, "Damn those Quakers", he would
say, "they're trying to smooth things over
while we are working to rid the country of
the Indians, why can't they let us alone?"
Despite the five nicks on his rifle-stock, the
Indian girls still "made up him," ties of
blood did not matter much when a handsome,
six-foot frontiersman was within call, "After
a man's known a hundred Indian girls, then
it's time to find a white wife", he would say.
It was down in Dry Valley that he first ran
across Poly-galah. She was the most win
some Indian girl who ever crossed his path,
"I'll bet she had a white man for a father",
was the highest compliment he paid her. But
that is doubtful, as apart from a light or
pinkish complexion, she was a Monsey maid
in every particular. Her father, Greatshot,
was a noted hunter, and sometime warrior,
and at the period when Levi met his daugh
ter, he was encamped trying to heal a bad

THE RIVER AND THE ROUND TOP
Photo by H. W. Swope, Lock Haven. Pa.

Bald Eagle Mountains 177
gun wound in one of his feet. As he could
not travel and fight he professed the great
est friendliness for all the white men in the
neighborhood, and there was not one but
who helped him in his trouble. But the wound
v/ould not heal, "Some white devil's put a
spell on me", was the way he summed up his
ailment when none of the secretly hated race
were present, Levi somehow managed to get
together a lot of salves and medicines in his
cabin, and these he doled out in small quan
tities, provided Poly-galah came after them.
He could have given all the stuff to the
wounded warrior at once, or taken it to him
daily, as he lived but half a mile away, but
he wanted to lure the maiden, that was cer
tain. From Poly-galah's point of -view, she would
have been deeply disappointed if there was
no medicine to go after ; she felt enough mod
esty to make her want an excuse for going
often to the young pathfinder's shack. She
v/as a medium-sized girl, neatly formed, with
features clearly defined. Her hair was of
softer texture than the "manes" of most In-

178 Tales of The
dian girls. She was not "flat-faced," a noted
Indian peculiarity. Levi noticed this; if she
had been flat-faced a single night in her com
pany would have sufficed, "When I meet a
pie-face", he once said, "I shut my eyes and
think of the most beautiful girl I have ever
seen." With Poly-galah it was different, he
looked on her with open-eyed admiration. He
could not see enough of her clean cut mouth
and nose, her dancing hazel eyes.
The Indian girl was wildly infatuated with
him, never had she beheld such a handsome
man. She would have laid do-wn her life for
him gladly, at that time. Levi was then close
to twenty-one years of age, over six feet in
height, powerfully made, with aquiline fea
tures and a shock of stiff, dark red hair. He
bunched it together at the back of his neck,
and tied it with a piece of black ribbon, Poly-
galah always liked to stroke his hair when she
called ; if possible she would put a fresh twist
to the ribbon, under the pretext that it was
coming undone.
Levi was like a catamount watching for his
prey, when he got her where he wanted, he

Bald Eagle Mountains 179
pounced on her, after that everything was
easy. During the hegira of the romance,
Poly-galah forgot there was such a thing as
marriage or duty. She was prostrate, smitten,
helpless. She stayed so long on her visits to
the pathfinder's shack, that old Greatshot
fussed and fumed, which did his wound no
good. But in his dependent state, he feared
to forbid his daughter's -visits, else trouble
might result, Levi was too big and too ugly a
customer to trifle with. "When I get well,
I'll ambush and kill him", was the way
the old deerslayer mapped out the future of
the youth he should have been angling for as
son-in-law. These were the happiest days of the fair
Indian girl's career. The very fact that her
lover made no promises, in fact never once
discussed the future, left her in a delightful
state of uncertainty. She was always fear
ing that some morning she would find him
gone. Literally she wanted the man because
she could not have him.
There had been a young warrior tenting
with her father during the early days of his

180 Tales of The
mishap, named Little Johnny Brokenstraw,
but Poly-galah's rudeness to him had driven
him to parts unknown. The young Indian,
when he left, vowed vengeance on every white
man. Poly-galah never cared for Indian youths
when white men were about, and Little
Johnny Brokenstraw labored under the dou
ble disadvantage of being a homely Indian.
That was absolutely inexcusable. But he had
loved Poly-galah with all his heart, and could
have been good to her, and knew it. Hence
his sulks for weeks in the depths of the tall
timber after his departure.
Meanwhile Poly-galah's sojourns at Levi's
hut were longer and more impassioned. Some
of the frontiersmen started the story that she
had deserted her parents and gone to keep
house for the pathfinder. But she was occa
sionally found about the parental tepee,
do-wncast and sullen. At Levi's shack she
was all affection and smiles. At length came
a time when the glum countenance she wore
at home was extended to her hours at the
abode of her lover. Things had gone amiss ;

Bald Eagle Mountains 181
she had been compelled to confess to him that
she was to have a child. This angered the
young man, and it is said he struck her down
when he first heard the news. Whether he did
so or not cannot be proved, but this much is
certain, he tried to discourage her visits from
that time on. But she continued coming on
one excuse or another, despite his abusive
treatment whenever she put in an appear
ance. One morning she arrived to find the inevit
able had happened. Levi had stripped the
shack of everything of value during the night
and disappeared, Poly-galah sat down on the
doorstep and wept; she had lost her lover,
now she would be taunted almost to death. She
thought of the poisoned arrow, of the leap
over the waterfall, but she also remembered
her stricken father, whose gangrenous foot
was daily growing worse, Indians being
Spartans, she decided to go back and confess
everything. Indian children were often born
out of wedlock, and she was to have one by
a really handsome white man.

182 Tales of The
Old Greatshot took the news unflinchingly,
as did his squaw. Under his breath the old
huntsman muttered "Great Spirit, give me
strength to get well and ambush and kill that
dog." To her surprise Poly-galah received
very few taunts. The neighboring Indians
pitied her on account of her father's condi
tion. They would not add to her burdens.
A week before her child was bom. Little
Johnny Brokenstraw, who had heard every
thing, appeared on the scene and offered mar
riage. He had built himself a grand lodge-
house on the north slope of the Round Top,
a beautiful mountain in the Bald Eagle
range, in a region that abounded with game,
and where white men were few and generally
inoffensive. But Poly-galah indignantly re
fused him. She would rather be the castoff
plaything of a handsome white man than the
wife of a homely, undersized Indian. Little
Johnny Brokenstraw, repulsed a second time,
"gathered up his tent and silently stole
away," The chUd, a fine boy, was born, and two
days later Greatshot breathed his last. The

Bald Eagle Mountains 183
baby was called Little Levi Greatshot, acci
dentally putting a part of Little Johnny Bro-
kenstraw's name into the composite cogno
men. Dry Valley was a poor place for three
unprotected squaws to live, there was a
younger daughter. Orchis, also a pretty girl,
so they yielded to the entreaties of some of
Greatshot's former comrades, and moved
west with them, happening to camp in one of
the mountain ridges directly south of the
Round Top.
But Little Johnny Brokenstraw did not
come to see her. He was devoting all his time
to seining shad and trapping wild pigeons.
He liked to see how many he could destroy in
a day, for the ruthless love of killing. He
must have imagined each one a miniature
Levi Comprobst, But fresh and more seri
ous hostilities broke out between white set
tlers and Indians, and Little Johnny gave
up killing shad and wild pigeons for the more
edifying slaughter of white men. He had an
especial antipathy against Germans. Some
how or other in days of truce he had acquired

184 Tales of The
a heavy German rifle, and with the renewed
hostilities, was able to cut five nicks in the
•walnut stock. In addition he had five scalps,
four red and one black, as proof positive of
his pro-tvfess. On some fine days he wore these
as a cape- around his massive shoulders, the
black ''sGalp_ in the centre, "I'd like to make
it"'an^-9en &ix?-; he oft confided to his brothers-
in-criSie. Tiiey knew what he meant by this,
he had his^y-e: open for Levi Comprobst, But
it was for the\ young German to make the
first move in this game of life. He had track-
edJ^ittle Johtffiy3Br6kenstraw with the same
£vi(Jity- as-the Ii8dian4iad trailed him, but for
a different motive,' HT6 blamed the Indian for
putting f false -notions- in Poly-galah's head,
without him, she Would Jhave given less trou
ble %hen-she found-she was to be a mother.
But^ll-'tfeis was UtterlyAinfounded,
Onefbright mOrningJiin-the Indian summer.
Little Johrffiy Bi-olcenstraw was sitting in the
grass in ait open&pace' where there had been
a windfall, w^arsaing himself -in the fitful sun
light. The !^ woods about '¦*[im were a riot of
bright yellows, pinks, crimsons and purples.

Bald Eagle Mountains 1S5
Nature seemed to tell her glory in the hickor
ies, tulips, lindens, gums and maples. The
breezes swayed the scarlet garlands of the
woodbine, like Greek dancers. The dark pines
and hemlocks were like sombre Quakers who
took no part in Nature's Mardi Gras. The
tall tree trunks were alive with squirrels, red,
grey and black, seemingly in harmony on this
occasion, gathering their winter's store. The
creek nearby had been rejuvenated by the fall
rains, and spread foam broadcast, as it swept
over the stoneb and driftwood, A belated
dove was reiterating to an obstinate loved-
one the plaint a-coo, coo, coo. Rejected, after
the long courtship it hurled itself across the
open space with the velocity of a catapult.
A few flickers, perched perpendicularly, were
calling peremptorily to one another, "quit,
quit, quit, quit, quit!" There was a pale blue
haze over everything, like sunlight in half-
mourning, especially over the conelike oufe
lines of the distant Round Top.
Little Johnny Brokenstraw, though dreamy
like his surroundings, was awake to danger.
When he heard a soft tread in the woods, very

186 Tales of The
different from a startled deer, he looked
ahead, all attention. The German rifle lay
ten feet away, that was his one act of care
lessness. He rued it when he saw the tall
form of Levi Comprobst emerge from the
timber on the opposite side of the creek. It
was probable that he saw Levi first, but it
was by a close margin, if any. The path
finder raised his rifle, and the Indian had only
time to take to flight, unarmed, to escape the
bullet sent after him. That was the begin
ning of a chase which lasted all that sunshiny
autumn morning. Little Johnny Brokenstraw
was noted for his fleetness, but on this occa
sion he had met his match. Even though the
white man stopped several times to re-load
his rifle, the Indian could not elude him. The
shots missed every time, but the quarry v/as
becoming exhausted. He stopped for breath
every time Levi did, but he noted that his
pursuer gained more from these rests
than he. He knew that the rifle was loaded,
once he gave up, he was a "good Indian", and
everyone knows what that means. On one
occasion when he fell over a big log, for an

Bald Eagle Mountains 187
instant he lacked the initiative to get up.
He had some reserve force, so he sprang to
his feet, redoubling his efforts. But his lungs
pained like molten lead, he was burning up
inside. His tongue hung out, he thought his
distended eyeballs would drop from the sock
ets. His feet ached, every muscle was sore.
He wondered what condition his foe could
be in, running as fast and far, and carrying
a hea-vy German rifle as well. He had cross
ed several ridges, and bounded through Love
Run Gap, and then to further tire his pur
suer, cut across the eastern slope of the
Round Top.
As he was running do-wn the mountain side,
in the direction of the river, with a vain idea
of swimming to safety, he suddenly came
upon an Indian encampment. It hadn't been
there the day before; evidently they were
homeless savages, driven hither and thither
by the warfare. His bloodshot eyes noted only
squaws, a dozen or more of them. Then he
tripped over a basket, and fell to his knees,
waving his long arms, and trying to articulate
a cry of defeat and fear. An old squaw was

188 Tales of The
seated by a pile of stones which had been
heaped up to make a hearth for the camp
fire; near her, resting on a stump, was a
loaded musket.
Levi Comprobst, rifle in hand, a half min-
ilte later, appeared on the edge of the camp,
his face fiery red from overexertion and an
ger. Trembling as he was, he raised his fire
arm, to aim at the kneeling figure of Little
Johnny Brokenstraw, At this moment, the
figure of a young squaw, fairer of complex
ion, daintier and more slender than the rest,
bearing in her arms a lusty, chubby baby boy,
it was none other than Poly-galah, threw the
child and herself between Little Johnny
Brokenstraw and the bloodthirsty pathfinder.
Holding aloft the child, she silently dared him
shoot. He let his hand slide along the barrel,
until he held the rifie at the tip ; could he kill
Little Johnny Brokenstraw without endan
gering this child? He was not given much
time for reflexion, as the old squaw, who was
sitting near the loaded gun, slipped her hand
to the trigger, and fired. Shot through the
abdomen, Levi fell forward, groaning and

Bald Eagle Mountains 189
twisting with agony. Little Johnny Broken
straw rose to his feet shouting "I've got my
sixth scalp at last," But there is no record
that Poly-galah ever married Little Johnny
Brokenstraw,

X.

CONRAD'S BROOM
(Story of Lower McElhattan Mountain)

T is difficult to view the north
slope of the lower Bald
Eagle mountain at McEl
hattan without catching a
glimpse of the Crispin
Fields, A great circular
clearing carved out on the
mountain side one third of
the distance from the sum
mit, it is a conspicuous landmark for miles.
At a distance it gives the impression of be
ing well-kept and smooth, but if you -visit
the ground, it will be found to be fast grow
ing up with young Pinus rigida, sumachs and
blackberry vines. To all intents it is a part
of the surrounding woods, for the fences
have rotted or fallen down, A short distance
below the western corner of the fields is the
famous "lower gum-stump spring" a source
of sweet pure water, which increases into a
190

Bald Eagle Mountains 191
stream of no mean proportions, a much larger
stream than that which flows from the "main
gum-stump spring" about a quarter of a mile
further west.
It was near the "lower gum-stump spring"
that William Crispin, a settler from New
Jersey, said to be of English descent, erected
his log cabin, and commenced clearing the
surrounding land. His former home was in
the northern part of his native state,
where mountains abounded, hence his selec
tion of a hillside plantation in Central Penn
sylvania, when river-bottom lands could have
been purchased cheaply. On his way up the
state, it was a tedious journey in those days,
when farming implements and household
goods had to be transported in ox-carts or
horse-drawn wagons over rocky or muddy
roads, he met, wooed and wed an attractive
German girl whose home was near Weisers-
burg, afterwards called Selinsgrove. A good-
sized family were born to them, all handsome
and healthy, of whom the oldest son was
named Conrad, after the immortal Col, Con-

192 Tales of The
rad Weiser, about whom Crispin's wife had
heard so much in her youth.
The section now known as McElhattan was
a v/ilderness even in the early years of the
nineteenth century; it has retained much of
its delicious old-time flavor still, but then it
vvras a primitive Arcadia, Once Conrad told
ills father that every morning a large black
dog followed his three little sisters and him
self to school, V^'lien it came too close and
showed its teeth, they drove it away by
throwing pine-knots at it. One morning
after a snowfall the father accompanied the
children to school; he wanted to see the dog
himself. He was able to see it and shoot it;
the familiar dog turned out to be a big black
wolf. It was just when the hardy pioneer
had gotten a nice farm tilled ; he had to grub
out and burn hundreds of trees to do so,
to say nothing of piling up countless rocks,
that he caught a hea-vy cold which developed
into pneumonia, and he died at the early age
of forty-five,
Conrad, who was fifteen years old, at the
time, became the head of the household, and

Bald Eagle Mountains 193
the continuer of the farming enterprise. He
was a stout boy for his years, willing, alert
and cheerful. He took up the tasks with a
vim, aiming to leave nothing unfinished that
his father had commenced. He was his moth
er's idol, like are most boys who make good
in any sphere. By the time he was twenty
he had the farm and livestock in good order,
so much so that the sentimental German
mother was continually saying "Oh, if your
father could only have lived to see all this !"
Chief among the stock was a large flock
of sheep, and it was told with especial pride
that there had not been a single one taken
by a wolf or panther since good William
Crispin's death. This spoke volumes for the
watchfulness of Conrad and his younger
brothers. In the yard, about the comfort
able cabin, were a goodly number of chickens,
of the oldtime breeds, Creeleys, bunties,
sprucies, topples, as well as brown ducks and
white geese with black heads. The little girls
vied with their brothers in keeping the foxes
and weasels from destroying these, and
guarded them well.

194 Tales of The
During the long winters Conrad practiced
other accomplishments. He was an expert
basket-maker with oak or willow withes, and
grew some broom com back of the house,
from which he made some excellent besoms.
He also was proficient in carving out hick
ory axe handles. At the time of the young
man's twentieth birthday there were about
ten families li-ving on the fertile plain, -within
the semi-circle of mountains, now included in
the boundaries of Wayne Township, Most
of the families were of Scotch-Irish origin,
but there were several "mixed-households"
where the husbands were Scotch-Irish and
the wives German.
On the sloping river bank, near the "big
bend," and close to Spook Hill with its crum
bling palisade of Fort Horn, lived a German
couple named St. Galmier, While their name
sounded more French than German, they
spoke the tongue of the Fatherland, in fact
could speak but a very few words of Eng
lish. They were most probably of Huguenot
extraction, coming from ancestors who had
fled to Germany from France during the

Bald Eagle Mountains 195
massacre on St, Bartholomew's Day, They
were past middle age, and childless, when the
Crispins appeared and began clearing their
farm near the lower gum-stump spring. Old
Christ St. Galmier, it was said was a butcher
by trade, but he had long since abandoned
everything except tilling a small garden
patch, and eternally fishing for shad and sal
mon, A few stalks of tobacco grew in his
meagre front yard, from this he made his own
smoking materials. He was an unsociable
fellow, sullen and uncommunicative, and his
wife, who was his counterpart, was further
cut off from friendly intercourse by almost
total deafness,
A couple of years after the birth of the
Crispins' first-born, Conrad, old "Mammy"
St, Galmier became the mother of a girl. At
least she said she did, and proudly exhibited a
very beautiful infant. Local gossips were
limited to one or two individuals in such a
small community, but these could not hint at
the baby's parentage, if it had been a found
ling. As Conrad Crispin grew sturdy and
strong, the little St, Galmier girl, who was

196 Tales of The
named Elizabeth, developed slight, blonde and
winsome. No such beautiful child had ever
been seen in the West Branch Valley, Vashti
McElhattan of an earlier generation, who
ran off with an Indian, not excepted,
Vashti was also a blonde, of much the same
type; there have been no blonde girls in
Wayne Township since, not one. At school,
and in the outdoor religious festivals, the mu
tual fondness of Conrad Crispin and Eliza
beth St. Galmier was noticed and commented
upon. The St. Galmiers were pleased, but the
thought of it struck terror to good Mother
Crispin, She had always feared the elder St.
Galmiers, with their dark mysterious past,
and their supposed daughter so ethereally
beautiful belonged to the world of black art,
in her eyes.
Down at Weisersburg there was an old
woman, a witch, who had the Black Book, the
"sixth and seventh books of Moses," and she
fancied she saw an affinity between the fair
young girl and this awful old "hex" of the
long ago. What the resemblance was she
never would tell, but she kept warning Con-

Bald Eagle Mountains 197
rad to beware, beware. This opposition only
fanned his interest, and as he was such a
good boy in every other respect, his mother
did not like to make it too hard for him.
But when mother and son, as they sat side
by side on the doorstep, watching the sunset
behind Mt. Pipsisseway, indulged in heart
to heart talks, the demoniac origin of Eliza
beth was never neglected, "That girl was
not born to that old woman", the good
mother would say, "she is a she-devil, that
took the form of a beautiful girl, deceiving
the old couple and coming into this world to
do mischief. You could not keep her if you
married her, anymore than if you tried to
keep the snow on the roof from melljing
when Spring approaches," "How do you
know all this, mother?" the young man would
plead. "Never mind, son, I know more than
you think, some day I will prove it to you."
Then, the sun ha-ving sunk behind the majes
tic peak, they would get up, to go about their
duties. But these words always threw a pall
of gloom over Conrad's otherwise happy and
hopeful nature.

198 Tales of The
Whisperings of Mother Crispin's opposi
tion, and the causes of it, spread about the
settlements, keeping many friends away from
Elizabeth. It had one advantage to Conrad,
no other lads noticed the exquisite girl; he
did not have the annoyance of rivals. He
would have won out, though there were a
dozen, as the girl cared for him alone. It
seemed as if her destiny directed her to him.
Twenty years old in the backwoods was
accounted a good age, much was done by boys
and girls of that age, and younger. To cele
brate the occasion. Mother Crispin asked
Conrad, as his birthday drew near, to name
a wish, and she would grant it if in her
power, "I'm going to marry Elizabeth some
day, mother", he replied, "I want you to really
know her, can't I have her here for supper
on my birthday?" The mother would al
most as soon have entertained one of the
black wolves from the forest, but she loved
her son, and he should have his way. Be
sides "the day of reckoning was drawing
near." A wolf in sheep's clothing could only
play the farce a certain length of time before

Bald Eagle Mountains 199
blowing up like a bubble, Conrad invited
Elizabeth in the presence of her parents.
They beamed at this compliment to their
strangely neglected beauty-child. "You will
have a grand time", they said, "Conrad's
mother is such a great cook,"
Elizabeth had passed her sixteenth birth
day two months before, was tall, and graceful
like a dryad, with hair of a peculiar golden
tint, and blue eyes kept ever at "half-mast"
to hide the mystery of her soul. She had
marked peculiarities for one so young. Even
if there wasn't a story extant oi her ghostly
origin, she was different from girls of her
age, so much so that during her brief school
days, her fellow pupils dubbed her "Cracky."
The Irish schoolmaster, a drunken lout with
a Dublin University degree, predicted she'd
"go to the devil or marry the President." She
would not learn, though she was naturally
clevgr. There is much potential energy in
such young persons, though the devil often
does inherit most of it.
Conrad's birthday da-wned bright and clear,
an ideal day in late Summer, As the after-

200 Tales of The
noon advanced the Round Top and the lower
McElhattan Mountain assumed the tone of
dark heliotrope, while the air smelled like tha*
exquisite flower. There was a pale gold man
tle above the crest of Mt. Pipsisseway,
Mother Crispin outdid herself -with the sup
per; it was all in readiness for the arrival
of the ethereal guest, Conrad seated him
self on the door-step, within call of his moth
er, looking across the clearings, in the direc
tion from which Elizabeth would come. As
he sat there, the good v/oman came out, bear
ing one of the brooms which he had made
the winter before, but had never been used,
"Let me sv/eep off the steps," she said, so
the young man arose, while she swept indus
triously. He was leaning against the house,
when far in the distance, he espied his sweet
heart. Mother Crispin saw her the same mo
ment. "Conrad", she cried, "I told you that
Elizabeth St. Galmier is a devil, a witch;
now to prove it, put this broom under the
steps, and you'll see she will not be able to
walk over it." "Oh, mother," said Conrad,
ruefully, "how can you say such a thing,

Bald Eagle Mountains 201
it would be av/ful to do that, you might as
well scatter mustard seeds or put a sieve on
the steps; if she were a ghost she'd have to
count the seeds or the holes in the sieve be
fore she could proceed." "I am right, Con
rad", said the mother forcibly, "I know that
girl's secret; hurry, put this broom under the
steps." Conrad was hesitating. "You do
it, mother, if you wish, I can't," "It would
not do any good if I put it there, a witch's
lover must do it, if the truth is to be shown."
Elizabeth v/as still too far off to see them,
and there was a fringe of paw-paw trees
along the fence which hid the cottage. There
was time to make the test, to prove for all
time the fair vision's innocence or guilt.
Quickly seizing the broom from his mother's
hand, he thrust it under the steps, and ran
down the path in the direction of his loved
one. Both looked happy and beaming as they
drew near the cabin. Mother Crispin was at
the door to greet them. As they came in
front of the steps, Elizabeth suddenly paused.
For a bare instant the bright young smile
vanished off her lips; her eyes never smiled

202 Tales of The
as far back as anyone remembered. She
stooped down, and drew the new broom from
out its hiding place. "Oh, Mother Crispin",
said she, the old gaiety of her voice fully re
turned, "how did this fine new broom
get under the steps"? She rested it
against the house, went up the steps, in
side the cabin, and the little supper party
proceeded. But before grace was said
Elizabeth presented her lover vdth a pair of
mittens and a pair of beaded deerskin mocca
sins of her own knitting. Never had she
seemed gayer, or more witty. Conrad felt
sick at heart, but he had to laugh at her jests,
he could not be glum in the presence of such
a radiant object. Mother Crispin was also
in good humor, hers was the elation of vic
tory; while the other children were joyous
because they were young and the supper tast
ed good. Altogether it was a most successful
party; they sat at table a good hour and a
half, partly joking and bantering. There
were many sincere good wishes for Conrad's
future happiness, and Elizabeth's,

Bald Eagle Mountains 203
About ten o'clock, a late hour for moun
taineers, the young girl started homeward^
accompanied by her lover. There was a young
moon, with its horns pointed to the east,
"Don't they look like the devil's horns", said
Elizabeth as they emerged from the wood,
Conrad thought that very strange talk, but
said nothing. All was congenial and gay, and
they kissed a long lingering good-night as
they parted at the St. Galmier cabin. When
she opened the door, her pet cat, a huge brin
dled creature, with six toes on each foot trot
ted out and rubbed himself against her skirts.
The young moon, reflected horns downward,
was dancing on the calm river when the
young lover started back to the mountain.
"EUzabeth, oh, Elizabeth, was there ever
anyone like you in the world", he kept repeat
ing as he treaded his lonely way. A great
horned owl perched in a white pine tree with
supernaturally long branches insisted on an
swering "no, no, no, no, no!" Whether from
the elation of the entire affair, or the broom
stick episode, Conrad could not sleep that
night. Through the closed vdndow he could

204 Tales of The
still hear the owl re-iterate "no, no, no, no,
no-o-o," He dozen off a little while just be
fore daybreak.
At six o'clock there was a knocking at the
door. Conrad opened it, and found old Christ
St, Galmier waiting outside. There had been
a white frost, and the old man's face looked
as ashen as the dew-enameled grass. "Eliza
beth's very sick, she wants to see you at once",
said the old man in German. Without wait
ing to find his cap the young lad followed him
to the cabin by the river-side. He found the
girl in bed, breathing heavily, and only partly
conscious. He could not be sure if she recog
nized him or not. All day and all night he
remained with her, the old couple meanwhile
plying her with herb remedies. By the fol
lowing morning she seemed to improve, and
opened her droopy eyelids, smiling sweetly
with her smooth, arched lips. But she never
uttered a syllable. Conrad felt he should go
home for a few hours, so taking advantage
of her favorable condition, he started away.
When he was returning, after dinner, he
m.et old St. Galmier half way, "Elizabeth'r.

Bald Eagle Mountains 205
dead", the old man muttered, "she passed
away suddenly fifteen minutes ago, just after
she had begun talking to us so nicely."
"What were her last words?" said Conrad.
"Oh, something about she wished you'd al
ways believe in her," The rest of the way,
the two men walked in silence.
Conrad was ushered into the presence of
the dead, but great was his surprise. Though
life had only vanished a brief half hour, every
trace of her former beauty was missing. It
seemed like the corpse of an old weazened,
wrinkled woman, and not a sixteen year old
girl. The bright gold hair had faded to an
ash or silver color. Even the teeth had fall
en out, Conrad was shocked, but made no
comment. In the ensuing hours he helped old
St, Galmier construct a coffin out of pine
boards, which the aged man had recently
bought at young Billy McElhattan's water-
mill to build a bed. Several neighbors called
during the afternoon, and left, shaking their
heads, after viewing the remains.
At nightfall the young man felt he ought
to sit up with the dead, but duty to his moth-

206 Tales of The
er called him homeward. One of his good
friends, Hugh McMahon, offered to do the
office for him. On his way home a screech-
owl chasing a mouse scurried across the path
in front of him, flapping its big flat wings.
He should have turned back as it meant bad
luck, but didn't. That night he slept, but
had troubled dreams. Though it was chilly
he always kept the window of his room open.
It seemed he saw a female figure astride a
broomstick flying across the horned moon, a
cat upon her back.
At dawn he started for the house of sorrow.
Midway he met old Christ, leaning on a staff,
and puffing for breath, as he hobbled along,
"My God, Conrad," he exclaimed, "Hugh went
out for a drink of water about midnight, and
someone stole our corpse; the pet cat, over
come with grief, has also disappeared." Con
rad turned white as the hoar frost, and trem
bled like an aspen. The truth was now re
vealed, though he dared not offend the old
man by telling it to him. He hurried to the
cabin, carefully examining the premises, but
could see no earthly way that the body could

Bald Eagle Mountains 207
have been removed, McMahon, sobbing like
a child, sat on a log by the river; surely he
was not to blame. The only charitable thing
to do was to say that the body had been
stolen by persons unknown. After consoling
the grief-stricken couple as best he could,
Conrad returned home.
His mother met him at the door. "My God,
Conrad son," she said, when he had told her
everything, "I knew it was so, and to further
prove it that new broom has vanished," The
young man made a search, it was nowhere
to be found, and gone also were the mocca
sins and mittens given him by Elizabeth, "It
must have been she I saw last night riding
athwart of the moon", he mused sadly.

XI.

THE GIANTESS
(Story of McElhattan Mountain)
HEN the great flood of St,
Patrick's Day, 1865, laid
bare, in the bed of McElhat
tan Creek, the gigantic
statue of a giantess carved
out of black flint, the old
settlers, and the few In
dians who remained at
Nichols's Run, predicted a
series of disasters to the neighborhood.
Every time the swarthy monster, with its sul
len, angry, but not unlovely countenance, her
form enveloped in a loose mantle, was dis
closed to view, wars, pestilences, famines,
floods, general misery ensued. And all this
in less than three hundred years as the figure
was carved from the stone during the last
years of the sixteenth century. When it was
uncovered by the flood of 1865, the accounts
which appeared in the Clinton County news-
208

Bald Eagle Mountains 209
papers heralded it as a relic of remote an
tiquity, and it would have been generally ac
cepted as such, had it not been for the "old
timers" who knew the legend of its compara
tively recent origin. For once in its career
it was only a seven days wonder. The para
graphs in the papers attracted a few anti
quarians to the scene and the native moun
taineers marvelled and brought their families,
but the closing events of the Civil War and
Lincoln's assassination soon overshadowed it.
A freshet in September broke the drift
pile which had diverted the stream from its
original course, and the "Giantess of McEl
hattan", as she was called, was covered
once more by the rushing current. For a
few weeks those who passed over a prostrate
beech tree which served as a footbridge near
by, could see the angry, revengeful features
of the giantess peering up at them through
the clear water, but sand, and pebbles and
branches of trees drifted across it, and were
giving it a brand new shroud. With the
Spring of the next year, the face was en
tirely covered, and only the sable outlines of

210 Tales of The

the breasts were reflected through the limpid
depths. In another year these were covered,
and with it went the last memory of the
Giantess, to rest until Destiny sends her forth
again. The old men when they flrst saw the
flgure shook their heads muttering "there's
never going to be an end to the war." That
was the direst prediction they could make.
When the death of the saintly Lincoln was
reported in the little mountain community,
the old men raised their knotted forefingers
and whispered, "see it's coming true, there's
never going to be an end to the war now,"
But hostilities did not break out afresh, and
the last Confederate forces surrendered with
in the next couple of months. When the ruin
of everything didn't happen, the -wiseacres
laid it to the fact that the stream having re
sumed its old course had put the Giantess
where she could do no mischief. And how
time flies!
The floods of nearly half a century have
swept over this strange figure since she was
last seen ; the old men who knew her story are
all dead, and but few of them passed it on to

Bald Eagle Mountains 211
succeeding generations. The essence of a
living thing is within, an inanimate object
without. Death releases the spirit of a living
thing; with one of iron, or bronze, or stone, it
lives from generation to generation, by word
of mouth. And now will be told the story of
the black-flint giantess, as nearly as it was
related by the Indians to the old men, and by
the old men to appreciative juniors.
Like most of the great works in Central
Pennsylvania, that date back to Indian times,
the Giantess was an emanation of Pipsisse
way, the great king of the Susquehanahs.
He was the bravest of warriors, the joiner
together of kingdoms, the mighty peacemax-
er, the patron of legendary history, of arts,
of agriculture; the one rounded-out person
ality in an otherwise unflnished and undevel
oped period. Unfortunately this humble
chronicler of the greatest of Pennsylvania In
dians does not icnow his real name. He called
him Pipsisseway in several other stories be
cause he liked the sound of it, because it had
a distinctive flavor. The old settlers and the
few Indians he knew, spoke of him as the

212 Tales of The
"great king of the Susquehanah Indians," but
nowhere was the real name obtainable. But
he was an actual man nevertheless, and his
deeds are a better immortality than a high-
sounding name. We know Shakespeare's
name, but little of his life; we know of this
Indian King's life, but nothing of his name.
But at any rate, the "great king" was the in
ception of the Giantess.
In his early youth, probably when he was
eighteen years of age, he had made a hunting
trip to the Ohio river, to chase the fleet herds
of antelopes in company with several other
Indian princes of about his o-wn age. The
chase took place in the realm of a western
chieftain, whose son was Pipsisseway's par
ticular friend. The young heir to the king
dom of the Susquehanahs was too impres
sionable in those days to make a good hunter.
He would start out boldly enough. But a beau
tiful view, or sunset, or waterfall would di
vert his attention from the fleeing objects.
It was during the frenzy of the hunt that
he stopped to make the acquaintance of a
beautiful young girl, of noble blood, a rela-

Bald Eagle Mountains 213
tive of some kind to the young prince whom
he was visiting. She seemed to him the most
exquisite object he had ever gazed upon, and
it is a known fact that we never see anyone
more lovely than those who charm us at
eighteen. Our standard of perfection is
formed then ; heaven help him who aims low,
for he can never go higher in the future.
This Indian beauty was famed all through
the valleys that opened into the great basin
of the Mississippi, None could equal her
charms of person or mind, she was a star of
the first magnitude, Pipsisseway was ardent
in those days, and he wooed and thought he'd
won this fair idol of the west.
He returned to the Susquehanah coun
try to tell his father and brothers of his con
quest. Just after he had obtained the old
monarch's consent he heard the news of her
marriage to a young warrior in the west. The
blow was a crushing one to the proud spirit of
Pipsisseway. He could have stood it better if
it had been something hidden away in his
own heart, but he had informed his family
of his romance, and they must watch him

214 Tales of The
every day recovering from it. Tiiat is why
persons suffer who are crossed in love, it is
the half-pitying, curiously interested faces of
those about who probe the wounds deeper,
A wounded animal hides in a cave, a wound
ed love should be hidden in the caverns of
our soul, A trip into some distant region,
like the Great Lakes, or the New England
coast might have enabled the humiliated
prince to escape all this but he deemed it cow
ardly to run away, and affairs of state, in
which he assisted his father, required his
presence at home. Besides he had observed
that when persons get on flre they invariably
start running, but the flames burn no less
fiercely. He might escape espionage at the
Great Lakes, but find his sorrow burning into
him just the same.
The royal lodge-houses were erected where
the village of McElhattan now stands, the
one occupied by the King of the Susquehan
ahs stood on the present site of the railroad
station. The unmarried sons, surrounded by
their retainers lived in their own encamp
ments, that of Pipsisseway being where

Bald Eagle Mountains 215
Youngdale now flourishes. It seems strange
what attracts village-building to certain lo
calities, and religiously passes others by. For
centuries the Susquehanah kings lived where
stand the group of houses at McElhattan sta
tion. When the Indians retired and the whites
took up the ground, the site had to be favored
above all others.
For years the eldest sons of the Kings lived
on the site of Youngdale; it too became the
choice of the whites for a -village and ship
ping point. The captain of the warriors, or
rather the second in command to the king,
usually maintained his war-lodge at McElhat
tan Springs, Though there has been no per
manent settlement there, it has proved a pop
ular tenting place and resort for the whites,
Man feels inherently lonesome, because of the
mystery of life, he likes to live where others
have been before ; it gives him a certain spir
itual sense of security.
Half a mile further up the beautiful stream
now called McElhattan Run, at the foot of
the "High Banks" where there is an inex
haustible supply of fire-clay, were situated

216 Tales of The
the royal pottery works. They were part of
the kingly perquisite, and were superintended
usually by the rulers' brothers. No one could
make, or even buy pottery from any other
source; it was for generations a most profit
able monopoly. Some beautiful work was
turned out, and had it been less perishable.
would have been the most attractive souvenir
of the vanished Susquehanahs. In Pipsisse
way's reign it had attained a state of perfec
tion, and bowls, pots, kettles and ornamental
pieces from this plant were bartered for as
far west aa the Missouri River, Susquehanah
pottery had as respected a name as Wedge-
wood, A short distance beyond the pottery works,
in a cave dug in the side of the big McElhat
tan mountain, lived an Indian sculptor. He
had been captured by Pipsisseway's father
in one of his expeditions to the South, and
put to doing menial work around his lodge-
house. With only the crudest tools he had
carved some figures of animals out of soap-
stone and these had given the young Pipsisse
way his first inclination towards art and

Bald Eagle Mountains 217
sculpture, of which he later became such a
conspicuous patron. He had obtained the
slave's freedom, installed him in a roomy cave
to carry on his work, liberally providing him
with necessary implements and materials.
He openly said he preferred sculpture to pot
tery making, which angered the potters who
had given the best years of their lives to per
fecting the plastic art. After executing nu
merous smaller pieces, the ex-slave was com
missioned to carve a huge female figure out
of black flint. It was to resemble as closely
as Pipsisseway's descriptions could convey,
the beautous but false Indian maid on the
banks of the Ohio, who had saddened his
young life. When it was finished the young
prince pronounced it a complete success, ex
cept that it looked more severe and ill-na
tured than the original. The sculptor worked
for weeks trying to soften the expression, but
of no avail, he only made it more sullen, more
forbidding, Pipsisseway was disappointed, as
he wanted the figure to v/ear the benign and
smiling expression that had captivated him.
The old sculptor explained that if he could

218 Tales of The
have seen the living model all would have
been different; under the circumstances he
had done his best.
A date for the erection of the statue was
aet, Pipsisseway had been utilizing a num
ber of hostages in building a pathway from
the Seven Springs to the summit of the upper
or "big" mountain, and this was now com
pleted two thirds of the distance. The young
prince was seized -with the idea of having the
statue set up at that point which would make
it a place of resort for his subjects, being
such a great artistic wonder, and at a place
where the view was expansive and ennobling.
Before the figure could be moved from the
studio, the sculptor was waylaid one evening
and foully beaten to death by artisans from
the pottery works. He had escorted the prince
who had been visiting him, to his lodge house
and was returning to his cave when set upon
by these fellows. They were jealous of the
attentions he received from the prince and
from the fact that Pipsisseway and his suite
no longer visited the clay works. The guilty

Bald Eagle Mountains ^19
parties were soon apprehended, flayed alive
and roasted to deatli by slow fires.
The gigantic statue, drawn on a truck by
five hundred slaves and prisoners of war,
was placed in position at the head of the
mountain path. It was regarded as strange
that all the trees near the statue died ol
blight in a few days, leaving it in the centre
of a patch of desert. To this day vegetation
will not grow there, it is a conspicuous sight
for miles, known locally as the "little bare
place," The following Spring all seeds plant
ed in the valley refused to sprout, and a ter
rible famine was promised.
Ironwood, the old king, consulted his sooth
sayers and they said that this trouble was
caused by a curse put on the statue by the
^ing potters, and advised hauling it off the
mountain, at once and burying it, out of mis
chief, in the bed of the creek, Pipsisseway
felt badly, but was an obedient son, and him
self superintended the lowering of his favorite
effigy. Even as his minions were diverting
the course of the creek to prepare a proper
burial place, there descended a plague of

220 Tales of The
wild pigeons. These birds, by countless bil
lions, flew so swift and in some places so low,
that they beheaded such men, women and
children who were not quick enough to find
shelter. The tops of most of the trees for
a space ten miles in -width were cut off as
neatly as if done by axes. For three days
the earth was inky black under this canopy
of the winged multitudes. As soon as the
plague subsided, the work in the stream was
quickly completed, and the statue smothered
beneath rock and gravel.
After that the affairs of the kingdom
moved smoothly; good crops, good weather,
good cheer were the watchwords. In course
of time King Ironwood passed away, and his
eldest son, Pipsisseway was crowned as his
successor. Then began in earnest the golden
age of Indian art and sculpture. Many co
lossal statues were constructed, but none
seemed to have the innate perfection and dig
nity of the disgraced and buried Giantess,
Despite her forbidding countenance and un
lucky associations, she was an artistic gem;
it was a shame to let her lie submerged to

Bald Eagle Mountains 221
gratify a superstitious idea. Pipsisseway or
dered her dug out of the bed of the creek and
set up on the site of the home of the name
less sculptor whc modelled her. The night
after she was in place came a cloudburst and
a terrifying flood. The Indian towns were
washed away, there was a hea-vy loss of life;
courtiers and soldiery escaped drowning by
climbing the trees. When it stopped raining
after the fourth day, the Susquehanna River
reached from m.ountain to mountain, Pip
sisseway and his queen. Meadow Sweet, with
their infant son, were away at the time, or
they might have fared badly. When the wat
ers subsided, a wet, marasmus slime lay all
over the fertile plain. Fever broke out among
the natives, more dying from it than had per
ished in the flood. Most of the courtiers and
royal serving maidens were stricken, and
Death seemed to have taken his permanent
abode in the kingly circle, Pipsisseway had
sent his queen and the son and heir to his
mountain retreat on the high pinnacle which
overlooks Quinn's Run, the mountain that the
sun sets behind in such regal splendor. They

222 Tales of The
remained in good health, and the king him
self seemed to be able to ward off the dread
ful malady. He boasted of his vigor, in fact.
Unfortunately for him he stuck too closely to
the flood country, superintending the drain
age work and the rebuilding of his towns.
When everything was pronounced safe, he
sent for his family and celebrated their
homecoming by a grand review of his war
riors on the plain in front of the new "cas
tle." That night he complained of feeling
badly. The medicine men were summoned,
and pronounced his disease the dreaded
"swamp-fever," Pipsisseway being less than
thirty-five years of age, of powerful physique,
should have had no trouble in recovering. He
had, however, worked hard during the twelve
years of his reign, and perhaps was what
modern physicians call "run do-wn." In any
event he lost strength steadily, despite all
that medical skill could accomplish.
Wise men and fortune-tellers were finally
called into consultation. They decided unani
mously that the rehabilitation of the black
flint Giantess, was not only the cause of the

Bald Eagle Mountains 223
late "flood but of the King's illness as well.
They recommended that unless the figure was
immediately submerged again, the royal suf
ferer would succumb, .accordingly the mam
moth piece of sculpture was buried a second
time, but with more dispatch than ceremony.
Pipsisseway's condition seemed to improve
slightly after this; but only temporarily, his
vitality was gone, and he died two months
afterwards. The -wise men who predicted
their monarch's recovery if the statue was re-
buried, were frightfully tortured, but that
could not bring back the departed spirit. But
from princes to slaves, all were agreed to
leave the black Giantess lie at the bottom of
McElhattan Run.
Over two hundred and fifty years passed
away, a flood opened the sepulchre, and white
faces peered down on the revengeful coun
tenance of the flint colossus ! Then as if back
to dreamland from a half-awakening, she re
turned, and when she wakes again what -will
be the change that greets her vision !

XIII.

THE FATE OF ATOKA
(Story of Mill Hall Mountain)
MONG the earliest settlers in
the Bald Eagle Mountain
region was a young man
namea Constant Iba. He
came from that portion of
Lancaster which is now in
cluded in the County of Leb
anon, from the vicinity of
old Heidelberg or Shaeffers-
town. He was descended from the hardy
band of Jewish missionaries, who having
beard that the Indians were the lost tribe
of Israel, penetrated into the wilderness to
re-convert them to the old faith.
They laid the foundations for their first
synagogue about 1704, nearly a third of a
century before the Germans, Huguenots and
Welsh appeared in the fertile Lebanon val
leys. They may have given the name of Leb
anon to the county, and the seat of justice,
224

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS
photo by- H. W. Swope, Lock Haven, Pa.

Bald Eagle Mountains 225
who knows, but at any rate there are villages
in Lebanon, Lancaster and Berks today which
possess names more Jewish than German,
such as Hummelstown, Newmansto-wn, Roth-
ville, Lauterbach's, Goodhart's, Steinsville,
Klinesville, Straustown and Shubert.
Jewish surnames are everywhere, though
their bearers, through the intermarriage of
their ancestors are strong adherents of the
Lutheran or Reformed congregations. And
their dark, strong, passionate features may
have found their most notable exponents in
the strain called the "Black Dutch,"
But the Jewish missionaries were flat fail
ures, the Indians instinctively wanted to
trade with them rather than hear the story
of Moses, they became imbued with the ma
terial possibilities of the new land, they scat
tered to the four winds.
Intermarriage seemed to be their new
watchword, their sons and daughters made
light of the Jewish tradition. Though Con
stant Iba was clever like his race at barter
and trade, he was more of an artistic nature
than his generation generally produced.

226 Tales of The
That was inherited from his father who was
the Cantor of the congregation. He composed
many touching chants on the long sea jour
ney to Pennsylvania, hymns that everyone
from the Captain of the ship to the young
Rabbi overseer predicted would bring the
stolidest redskin to the verge of conversion.
The Cantor was speedily discouraged, and
tried farming with better success. There
were not enough Jewish girls to go 'round, so
he wandered down to the lower reaches of the
Schuylkill and wooed and wed a Swedish
maid. The son, Constant, looked more like
his mother than his father, but he had the
dreamy, artistic spirit of the Semitic parent.
Like some artistic souls must, he was disap
pointed in love.
The story that the Jews were supposed to
be different and inferior to other folks was a
new notion that was brought into the seclud
ed valleys by the German immigrants. How
this could be was not explained but it was ex
pounded as gospel fact. Consequently when
Constant, handsomer and brighter than the
other lads of the neighborhood, paid court

Bald Eagle Mountains 227
to a pretty German girl, the stern father
said to him one night, "I hear you are not
a good Christian, I want my daughters to
marry good Christians, I don't want anybody
else coming to see them," As the girl re
mained silent throughout. Constant never
went to see her again.
A month later he struck out for the wilder
ness above Shamokin, Either he nursed a
deep hurt or wanted to feed his artistic incli
nations; at any rate he selected about as re
tired a spot as could be possibly located. He
erected his one-roomed log-cabin a mile west
of the present town of Mill Hall, in a gully
near a good spring, at the foot of the moun
tain. There was no view, very little breeze,
and the land nearby was so rocky that it has
never been cleared to this day. Here the
young man settled down to lead the life of a
hunter and trapper. The ground about him
being so poor he cleared a small garden patch
along the banks of the Bald Eagle Creek, and
there he went daily to work while the weath
er was good. He set out som^e grape vines,
and old settlers remembered his as the first

228 Tales of The
vineyard in the neighborhood. He may have
inherited this taste from his ancestors in
Asia Minor. He had no sheep nor goats,
however, but at one time a string of sixty-
five wolf hides sunning near his cabin, showed
how futile it would have been to emulate the
herdsmen of old.
If he cherished a grievance of any kind it
was deep buried in his heart, for he made a
most cheerful companion. Hunters, red and
white liked to get him to join their parties
and his happy demeanor and uniform cour
tesy put added zest into the chase. Most of the
hunters were very young men — they were the
"old hunters" with the prolific reminiscences
of the next generation; they truly enjoyed
life to its fullest extent. The word "old hunt
er" is a misnomer, all the great hunting is
done by men when they are young. Hunting
was a stern necessity but that generation of
nimrods made it also a perpetual lark.
During the spring and summer months
practically all the white hunters went to their
homes "down country," as permanent settle
ments had hardly begun to any extent, and

Bald Eagle Mountains 229
during this period the Indians were Con
stant's companions. They thought so much
of him, he might have converted them all to
Judaism, but he cared little for the old faith,
or any faith, for that matter, "There must
be a Good Man who rules us. He gives us all
a fair show", was the only religious comment
he was ever known to uttpr.
Solitude developed rather than retarded the
growth of his personality and by the time
he was eight and twenty there was a beau
tiful light in his soft grey eyes, the token of
a developed and well-finished individuality.
He had good looks, courage and honesty. He
had never found the necessity to tell a lie;
with such attributes he was "master of his
fate". Sometimes as he sat before his cabin
door on calm summer afternoons in the "gold
en hour," with the forest silent save when in
terrupted by the "bang, bang, bang" of the
pileated woodpecker breaking through the
bark of a hemlock tree to extract the injuri
ous beetles, he would think over his lot, and
consider it a just one, "If I had a wife",
he would reason, "I would have to leave this

230 Tales of The
life; after ten years of it, I am fitted for
nothing else, I could not make her comfort
able in a town, nor here. I am well off as I
am." Then the giant woodpecker would answer
with his loud "bang, bang, bang" as if in affir
mation. Then he would laugh to himself,
"that bird knows me by heart, I wouldn't
shoot him for that reason." Constant loved
birds, and even the animals — he could not kill
a deer, and even hesitated over a buffalo.
The Indians would say to him when they
started on their expeditions "we will kill the
elks, buffaloes and deer, you can slay the pan
thers, wolves and bears."
He once had a peculiar experience with a
bear. One evening he heard a cough, strange
ly human, outside his cabin, and lighting his
rushlight went out to investigate. He found
a huge bear, sitting on his haunches, with a
bullet wound in the region of the lungs, vain
ly trying to cough up the lead. Being fear
less, he stroked bruin's head, and the animal
became docile. There were no "-wild ani
mals" in those days.. It took a hundred years

Bald Eagle Mountains 231
of dogs, repeating rifles, poisons and traps
to make them wild in this country. He gave
the beast a large dose of snuff and red pep
per, it sneezed and retched violently, and
although the bullet did not appear it lodged
more comfortably, and the bear suffered no
longer. The grateful animal lingered around
the cabin for days, until an Indian's dog ap
peared and it took the cue to drop out of sight.
A couple of years after this episode, he
always said that it was in November, 1758,
he was cooking some supper in the big open
fireplace when he heard a sound like a cough
outside. It wasn't quite the same as the bear's,
but he laughed to himself, "that bear's back
again with another bullet, as sure as any
thing, he can't cough as loud because he's
older ; he'll have to wait until I'm ready to go
out and doctor him." He heard the cough
again a couple of times ; he listened more in
tently, he concluded it came from a human
being. He opened the door and looked out,
but saw no one. There had been a skiff of
snow the night before. The day's sunlight
had not served to melt it all, and cold dark-

232 Tales of The
ness was settling in. He heard the cough
again, it was not more than fifty feet away in
a cedar thicket. Hurrying to the spot, he be
held a beautiful, but very pallid young girl
sitting on a moss-covered hemlock log, hold
ing her body erect with her hands, and oh, so
sick, weak, and dejected looking. As she saw
him she opened her large grey eyes in sur
prise, tried to speak, but could only cough.
Dressed in a badly soiled costume of buck
skin, trimmed with beads, with a fisher's skin
for a collar, and the skirt badly ripped from a
long tramp in the forest, she might have
passed for an Indian girl, but for her dun-
colored hair, light eyes, and rather fair com
plexion. Constant was trying to think of
something to say to her, but before he could
do so, her arms gave way and she fell for
ward in a swoon.
The young man picked up the precious
burden and carried her to his cabin, and laid
her on his comfortable couch among the buf
falo hides. Then he poured a drink of rum
do-wn her throat to revive her. He no
ticed that the soles of her moccasins were

Bald Eagle Mountains 233
worn through in places, and her pretty feet
were rough from the uneven ground. She
wore a frayed pair of military leggings, prob
ably a gift from some white man. He took a
couple of warm stones from the back of the
fireplace, and put them at her feet, which
seemed to "bring her to" more than anything
else. He rubbed her white hands and gradu
ally consciousness returned. She seemed
thankful to be in such comfortable surround
ings, but no word escaped her lips as to where
she had come from, and Constant, consider
ing himself favored to have such a visitor was
careful not to ask. Maybe she had dropped
from the clouds, then it would have been
sacrilege to inquire! She did not sleep well
that night, but tossed about, moaning and
coughing intermittently. The young trapper
knew a thing or two about the ancient reme
dies and brewed some Blue Mountain tea,
but it did not relieve her cough very much.
The next day she was quite weak and sev
eral times he thought she would turn into a
fair spirit on his hands. But he was a care
ful nurse, it was a labor of love, and he kept

234 Tales of The
jier alive by the sheer persistence of his at
tentions. He violated his scruples and shot
a young deer, and some grouse and quail that
she might have delicacies. At the end of ten
days she began to improve, and evidently
liking her physician, told a few things about
herself. At least she told her name, and
where she came from.
She was none other than Atoka Strahan,
the beautiful half-breed girl, and foster
daughter of the old Mingo chief, Arrow-
Wood, — whose stronghold was high up in the
Sugar Valley Mountains, Constant had often
heard of her, what a prize to have come to
him, when every white pioneer and all the
Indians of rank who saw her aspired to
her favor. She seemed so satisfied in Con
stant's cabin, that he began to lose all fear
she would want to return homeward. Wheth
er she would have or not was settled by Des
tiny, which sent, when she was well enough
to move about, a blizzard of unprecedented
ferocity and duration.
The c^bin, situated as it was in a gully,
was buried to its roof— the inmates would

Bald Eagle Mountains 235
have smothered had it not been for the gener
ous stone chimney. Atoka made no attempt
to go now, slie was storm bound until Spring.
Her manners were easy and gentle and there
was a charming frankness to her voice, all
of which added to the irresistibility of her
physical beauty. Any man who saw her half
a mile oft' would have loved her, let alone
being stormbound with her in a lonely cabin.
Constant had a hunting dog before the
snow began, but he never found out if the
poor animal was buried in it, or escaped be
fore it was too late. So they were the only
two living things about. Luckily there were
plenty of provisions in the cabin, and a path
was dug to the woodpile, so they neither
wanted for food nor fuel. Every time the
snow melted a little and Constant feared his
fair captive might grow restless, a fresh bliz
zard ensued, and her stay was reinforced. It
seemed to him the Snow God favored his suit,
that it knew from his first glimpse of her
that he loved Atoka, He could not compare
it -with that weak attachment for the Ger
man girl on the Swatara, this ¦\vas greater,

236 Tales of The
grander, permanent. He was glad he wasn't
a Christian for if he was he might have mar
ried the German girl, and never have been
stormbound with Atoka.
This half-breed girl could speak German,
although her father had been a Scotchman
and her mother a Lenni Lenape, whose sec
ond husband was Chief Arrow- Wood, She
had picked up the German she said, in her
early childhood in Lancaster county, and
it formed the medium of conversation be
tween her and her new protector. She
seemed so gracious, almost affectionate, in
her attitude toward him, that once after they
had been stormbound for a month, he made
bold to tell her that he loved her. She was
sitting on the bed propped up against the
wall, with one hand behind her head; he
never forgot how she looked. It was a long
while before she answered him, "I am
very sorry. Constant", she said, "no man
ever treated me as you have, or could,
but I cannot love you, I am pledged to an
other," The young man said no more, but
wondered why she seemed content to linger

Bald Eagle Mountains 237
SO long with him, if her heart belonged to
some other man. But he accepted things as
they came and their relations continued as
genial as ever.
As the days wore on he was considerably
worried about her cough; his remedies had
ceased to be efficacious, and he could get no
others. Once she had a slight hemorrhage
which increased his fears. While recovering
from this, but evidently believing she was
going to die, she told him her love story.
At Fort Augusta, where she had gone with
her mother to sell beads and feathers and
blankets, outside the palisade, she had met
Captain Morgan Evan Morgan, a handsome
young officer of the British colonial forces.
They had loved each other from the start
and later when he had been sent to a fort
near the mouth of Tiadaghton, he had dis
guised himself as an Indian (Arrow Wood
was hostile to the British) and come across
to see her at her father's fortress high up
in the elbow of Bull Run Gap, He had prom
ised to return one week from that night, but
he never did — she could not hear tell of him

238 Tales of The
again, — especially as the English soon after
evacuated the fort. She had watched and
waited, but in vain, for over a year, and one
day feeling particularly despondent started
for the Susquehanna, to try and investigate
for herself among the trappers who ranged
up and down the river. She had become cold
and tired; how she got as far West as Mill
Hall Mountain, she knew not, nor how long
she had been travelling when Constant found
her. She knew she loved Captain Morgan,
there must be some good reason why he did
not return, she could love no one else. She
wound up this confession -with a flood of
tears which set her to coughing frightfully.
If she hadn't begun to cough. Constant might
have told her something, but he hadn't the
heart, even though it might have helped his
case. At the mention of the name of Morgan
he was illuminated.
The young captain, disguised as an In
dian, was mistaken for a spy, by his own
men, and killed by them — it was probably
the very day after he visited Atoka. He was
heralded far and wide as "Morgan the Spy"

Bald Eagle Mountains 239
— many had doubted his duplicity and Con
stant vowed to himself he'd set the poor fel
low's memory straight if he lived until
Spring, But he feared to tell the delicate
girl that her lover was dead. With the grad
ual lessening of the severity of winter, her
health did not improve, as he had hoped. She
had several more serious hemorrhages, which
left her weaker and more pallid. Every day
she told Constant how much she owed to him,
and once she took him in her arms as he
leaned over the bed saying, "let me kiss you
for your goodness to me," But it was not a
kiss of love.
One rainy night while she slept a strange
looking bird fell down the chimney and flop
ped about the stone floor, wet and broken-
winged. Filled with horror. Constant opened
the door and kicked it out into the darkness.
Then he sank do-wn on his easy chair of buf
falo hides exclaiming to himself, "something's
going to happen, the worst's to happen, a bird
in the house is our family token of death,"
The next morning brought sunshine, for
the first time in weeks and Atoka seemed

240 Tales of The
stronger and brighter and more tender. She
even insisted helping him cook the dinner and
supper. After the evening meal when she
was putting the wooden dishes on the impro
vised dresser, there was a "bang, bang, bang"
outside like the triphammer bill of the pileat
ed woodpecker, breaking through the bark of
some hemlock tree. "That's unseemly", she
said, "for that bird to get busy as early as the
fourteenth of March," She had scarcely ut
tered these words when she was seized with
a violent hemorrhage and would have fallen
to the floor had not Constant caught her.
Tenderly carrying her to the couch he laid
her down among the robes. She soon pulled
herself together and wanted to sit up. She
was ghastly, yellow pale, about the hue of her
dun-colored hair, but her unearthly complex
ion made her more beautiful than words can
describe, so he always said. He had sat be
side her on the bed and held both her beauti
ful cold hands in his. They were rather large
hands as were her feet, but shapely and dex
trous; she had been noted for her basket
making. She raised her head and laid it on

Bald Eagle Mountains 241
his shoulder, saying "I want to tell you some
thing." He put his cheek against hers, while
she whispered "I love you more than I ever
loved Morgan, lots and lots more, it only came
to me recently, and I hated to tell you because
I feared you'd think me changeable, but it's
true, it's too great a thing to keep, I'll love
you forever." He was so thrilled by what
she was saying he had not noticed that her
beautiful cold hands were the temperature of
ice, and her loving stare was glazed and rigid.
With the last word her lower jaw dropped,
her head fell to one side, Atoka was no more.
Kissing again and again the dead clay-like
lips he had never touched in life, Constant
laid the beautiful image out full length and
spent the night resting beside her, never
sleeping, but watching, admiring, worship
ping the deserted tenement that had held her
rare spirit, A few days later he buried her
by the old rotting hemlock where he had first
met her.
He never moved from his cabin at the foot
of the Mill Hall Mountain; settlers came in
by droves, game became scarcer, most of the

242

Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains

old hunters he knew moved further west. But
Constant Iba remained close to the grave of
Atoka.

xn.

MARY GOES OVER THE MOUNTAIN
(Story of Castanea Mountain)
ARY would go over the moun
tain on that particular even
ing. Her best friend, or as
she called her, her "compan
ion girl" Dolly Hope, now
Dolly Snyder, had become
the mother of twins in her
cabin on the Nittany side
of the mountain and Mary
must visit her. Mary was only sixteen, but
a strong well-developed girl for her age, and
Dolly, who had been destined for a stirring
history, was but a couple of years older.
Mary, who was a daughter of old Patt Gillas-
py, the Indian fighter, lived with her parents
in their comfortable cabin by the creek.
Above them loomed the "dark and sombre
ridge" of the Bald Eagle Mountain, inscruta
ble and silent, hiding the mystery and rage

243

244 Tales of The
and rancor of the Indian hordes who ranged
behind it.
The Gillaspys had only recently moved "up
country," having abandoned a well-cleared
farm in Buffalo Valley because the old fighter
thought the country there was much too slow.
His wife and older children protested, but
Mary, who was bom too late to have partici
pated in Indian carnage at the old home, was
eager to move into a land of adventure. "Sure
she's more like myself than any of the boys",
was Patt's way of expressing his approval at
the position she assumed. But despite high
hopes, the Indians refused to molest the Gil-
laspy family, there was absolutely no provo
cation to shoot one down and the old man
secretly wished himself back at his comfort
able farmstead near Derrstown. "Some
day", said Mary, "we'll get all we are looking
for." What kind of Irishmen were these
old Indian fighters anyway, with such
names as Brady, Sweeny, McLaughlin,
Dougherty, Callahan, McKeehan, Costikan
and Gillaspy; they were clearly not Scotch-

Bald Eagle Mountains 245

Irishmen, but if they came of CathoKc stock,
what became of their Catholicism? Old Patt
Gillaspy once was seen inside a Lutheran
Church in Dry Valley at some special services,
but that was the only time it could be "laid
against him," He was a brave fighter, but
could do more harm than good in time of
peace as he loved dearly to provoke the red-
men's ire.
It took fully a year before he could pick a
fi.ght with some Indians, They were continu
ally passing up and down the creek, the path
led not fifty feet from his cabin, yet they re
fused to stop, refused to become embroiled,
even when his savage cur Links, snarled and
bit at their heels.
Sometimes when the old man, with his long
rifle across his shoulder was coming from
the landing where he kept his canoes and
would cross the path directly in front of a
file of passing savages, he whispered under
his breath remarks detrimental to the Indian
valor and morals. The tall aborigines mere
ly looked angry, their beady eyes would flash,

246 Tales of The
but further than that they made no move,
always to old Patt's discomfiture.
One night, however, the chance came, and
there was almost bloodshed. A party of eight
Indians, six men and two women camped
near the landing, without asking Patt's per
mission. He would have refused, so it is just
as well they didn't. He did not know they
were there until he noticed the red glow of
the camp fire through the tall white-pines
which lined the water's edge.
The old man was in a fury. Seizing his
trusty rifle, he declared he'd drive "the damn
ed Indians away or kill them in doing it."
In reality he had some provocation. His rye
field was only a short distance from the fire,
a spark might ignite it at any minute,
Mrs, Gillaspy understood her husband's
fiery disposition and intense antipathy to In
dians, and dreaded his -visit to the encamp
ment. She had visions of an episode, like was
performed later by a certain Frederick
Stump, when this worthy frontiersman o-wing
to trouble between some Indians and his
nephew's wife, killed the four offending war-

Bald Eagle Mountains 247
riors with six Indian women and girls for
good measure.
As luck would have it, all the Gillaspy boys
were away from home the night in question,
the older girls were afraid to go, so it de
volved on Mary to accompany the old man to
the landing to "keep him straight," The
combined strength of the household could not
prevent him from loading his rifle, and slip
ping his scalping knife in his belt, but Mary,
"his girl", as he called her, might keep him
from turning the front lawn into a slaughter
house. The Indians were seated in a circle
around the blaze of rich-pine, which must
have thrown their massive faces and fancy
costumes into bold relief, like one of Blake-
lock's paintings. Near them was a small pile
of early roasting ears and melons, which they
had probably filched from some farm further
up the creek. In a bucket, scooped from a
block of basswood one of the squaws was
stirring some beverage; evidently a high old
time was soon to begin. The sight of so
many Indians in a happy frame of mind fur
thered the choler of the old man. Sighting

248 Tales of The
his rifle at them, he approached near, and
gruffly ordered them away. Pointing to the
fire, he commanded them to put it out, but
as they were too surprised to act quickly,
he seized the bucket of brew, and threw it
into the blaze. There was a splutter, and
lots of blue smoke, for there was something
spirituous in the decoction, but the flre kept
on burning. Kicking it with his boots, the
old man separated the embers, calling the In
dians all kinds of names, as he worked. He
had forgotten the rifle, and the hot fire ignit
ed it, or else he hit it against something; at
any rate, it exploded, a bullet barely grazing
a squaw's cheek.
But the Indians, all except one big brave,
who was younger than the rest, maintained
their composure, and let the old pioneer have
his way. When tlie rifle exploded the old man
dropped it on the head of this young fellow,
who it was afterwards learned was well
known by the name of Billy Frozen Stone,
The young Indian sprang to his feet, curs
ing m English and hit the old man a sting
ing blow across the mouth with his open hand.

Bald Eagle Mountains 249
felling him to the ground, Patt yelled with
pain, and would have stabbed the redman,
but for his helpless position. Two of the
older Indians, fearing they might stir a hor
nets' nest if they hurt a member of the domi
nant Irish race, lifted Patt to his feet, and
apologized profusely for the incident.
The young Indian slunk out of sight, but
not before casting a few sharp glances at
Mary, who was witnessing the scene from a
respectful distance. The others considerably
cowed gathered together their pots and bas
kets and started in single file down the creek.
By the light of the dying embers the old man
gathered up the roasting ears and melons left
behind and took them to his house. These
were to be a slight balm for his bursted rifle.
The family breathed easier when they saw
the door opened and Mary with the old man
leaning on her shoulder, but minus his rifle,
come in. He looked pretty seedy after his
knock do-wn and was covered with ashes and
mud. But he clung tenaciously to the roast
ing ears and melons, "We'll eat these to
morrow", he repeated over and over again.

250 Tales of The
Next day he got up feeling all right and
v/alked to his nearest neighbors to tell thera
how he had been attacked and ill treated by
wandering Indians,
The report spread throughout the neigh
boring settlements and threats were made
to shoot the next Indians that appeared. This
came to the ears of the unfortunate partici
pants in the unpleasantness, who had located
themselves in Castanea Gap, about where the
reservoir is now. There were extensive beav
er dams in the creek, and they had resolved
to catch a few of these valuable animals. They
knew that the complaints might result in a
hot-headed band swooping do-wn on their
camp some night and butchering them all.
The two eldest Indians started out to make
a personal visit to the cabins of the leading
settlers to apologize and explain. They only
made matters worse by this, for when they
admitted that they were trapping beavers
in the gap, it infuriated everyone, especially
the younger pioneers. "What right have In
dians to trap those beavers?" was the con
stant rallying cry, "It's too early in the sea-

Bald Eagle Mountains 251
son, their hides aren't very good, we wanted
those hides ourselves."
But at first no active measures were taken
to stop them, as the white men were too busy
with their crops to kill a few Indians, Jacob
McCarty, a level-headed young man was dep
utized to give the redmen the hint that it
would be best for them to quit trapping and
leave the neighborhood. If they refused, it
was understood, tiiey would have to pay the
extreme penalty, "after the crops were in."
McCarty was a born diplomatist, and deliv
ered the warning with courtesy and tact.
The Indians said they were only too glad to
cease trapping and move away, but asked per
mission to finish drying their "summer
skins", as they called the beaver hides they
had taken. They had killed, all told, thirty-
nine beavers. McCarty told them there would
be no objection to this, and matters were left
that way.
There were a few settlers in Nittany Val
ley, among them Dietrich Snyder, a young
veteran of the warfare in the Blue Mountain
country, but they all shunned the pathway

252 Tales of The
through the Gap since the Indians tented
there. There was another path into Nittany,
very steep and rocky, which led up the face
of the Bald Eagle Mountain, and had its be
ginning not far from where the infirmary
now stands. It led through a forest of white
pines and white hemlocks, and was as black
in daylight as at night. There were six
copious springs between the beginning of the
path and the summit of the mountain. It
would be difficult to believe that now, as since
the timber has gone, the water courses have
dried out, and the face of the mountain is as
parched and arid as an alkali plain.
In those days it was different; in addition
to the darkness, the path was infested with
animals, every spring had a full quota, and
it seemed like passing through a zoological
garden to follow it.
Travellers with more ammunition and time
than business used to try and count how many
animals they could kill along the way. Jas
per Gillaspy^ Mary's oldest brother, held the
record for a long time with seventy-one kills.

Bald Eagle Mountains 253
which included three bears, five wolves, two
wolverines and a fisher.
When Mary Gillaspy heard that the stork
had visited her "companion girl" there was
nothing else in her mind but to visit the val
ley; her father and brothers warned her not
to attempt to go through the gap; the In
dians they thought were gone, but there
might be one or two lurking about. The
path up the mountain was less dangerous ; if
she would wait until tomorrow they would
accompany her, but Mary stamped her foot
and said she was going now. There was
no stopping her, for at sixteen she was al
ready mistress of every one in the house
except her mother. In most every household
each member has his or her particular ty
rant, Mary's mother took an especial delight
in trying to thwart everything she wanted
to do. She stormed and fumed against
Mary's proposed trip across the mountain,
but the girl had now reached a size where
she could hardly be restrained by main force,
unless her father or sisters cooperated. But
while they feared the dangers of the moun-

254 Tales of The
tain road, and sought to gently discourage
her by refusing to accompany her, they of
fered no violent opposition,
Mary went. With a red shawl around her
pretty chubby face and kindly curiosity beam
ing out of her clear brown eyes, she started
away, walking briskly as was her habit. As
she was going through the back gate, Jas
per called to her and running to where she
v/as, handed her an old navy pistol, loaded
and primed. She tlianked him for his inter
est, and as a final dig told him she would not
waste ammunition on little birds as he had
done, but would save it for no smaller game
than Indians. "Sure and she may meet some
of the gay lads", said old Patt. "If she does,
they will act pretty quiet", replied Jasper,
"they've had a couple of pretty good lessons
since they touched this locality,"
It may have been Jasper's marksmanship,
or the fact that dusk was falling, but Mary
noticed the forest was quieter than she had
ever known it before. Once a big black
squirrel ran across the path, another time a
wild turkey hen; she heard the twigs crack

Bald Eagle Mountains 255

a couple of times as if deer were near, but
that was all. The evening was so still, that
the odor of the evergreens was hea-vy and
oppressive. She stopped at a few of the
springs, as the steep climb made her perspire,
and she was a girl a little inclined to stout
ness, but she was making good time on her
journey. The top of the mountain was very dif
ferent from the sides. The summit was al
most bare of living timber, while the sides
were a jungle of forest monarchs. There
v/ere dead trees a-plenty on the top, none of
them very tall, scrub oaks, pitch pines and
hemlocks, which had given up the ghost at
an early age after their unequal battle with
the elements. They were barkless, silvery
white in color, gnarled, and twisted, and
torn into every conceivable shape. Some of
their broken limbs were supplicating, others
defiant or menacing, all the pmes and hem
locks had their tops smashed off, and stood
like an array of headless spectres. One tree
had its trunk so bent that it resembled a
human being in the attitude of prayer. They

256 Tales of The
were always creaking and complaining to the
mountain breeze, A little thin grass and
white fireweed grew at their roots, in this
golgotha of the woods.
As she emerged from the green timber, her
keen eyes detected something ahead which at
first looked like three huge brown stumps be
side the path, A second glance showed the
"brown stumps" to be three Indians wrapped
in their blankets, for it was cool on the sum
mit. One of them, the youngest, was dis
playing a keenly sharpened celt to his com
panions, who were much his senior. She
walked boldly forward and just as the sav
ages became aware of her presence, she rec
ognized the young Indian to be none other
than Billy Frozen Stone. Recognition was
mutual, and he jumped up brandishing his
weapon. His older companions grabbed at
the trimmings of his trousers, but he was
off, tearing along the path in the direction
from whence Mary was coming. The canny
girl toiik it for granted he meant no friendly
greeting, and left the path, and ran for her
life. The Indian followed and would have

Bald Eagle Mountains 257
caught her, only she stopped and from behind
a dead oak, took aim and fired at him. Her
aim was fairly good, for Billy Frozen Stone
howled with pain, and holding his hand over
his left side, wheeled about and hobbled back
to the path. Mary wandered some distance
along the summit, almost to where the ridge
dips do-wn to Castanea gap, but as it was
growing dark, she plucked up her courage
and returned to the path. To her surprise
.ind horror she found the young Indian rest
ing against a tree, with his hands vainly
trying to stay the copious flow of blood
which poured from his left side. When an
Indian is badly hurt he turns deep blue, like
a colored man turns grey, and this fellow's
complexion was the shade of the berries on
Solomon's Seal.
Mary had never taken a course in "first
aid to the injured," for such bright ideas
were unknown in those days, but she was the
equal to any emergency. She quickly tore a
thick strand off her woolen skirt, for this
mountain girl, like her modern sisters, wore
no underwear, and with the aid of a stick

258 Tales of The
made a tumiquet and bound it around the
young redman's waist. Up to this point the
wounded savage had taken little notice of
her, but the loss of blood being checked,
his mind began to co-ordinate, and he looked
up and recognized her. To her wonderment it
was not a look of gratitude or forgiveness, it
was a look of hate, Mary was grieved, she
had all but killed the Indian, and now he felt
badly because she was bringing him back to
life. But she didn't care what he thought,
she was doing her duty, she didn't want to
be known as an Indian killer; they said her
father had killed an even dozen in his day.
He continued to rest against the tree, gaz
ing at her more intently and maliciously as
he got the better grip on his consciousness,
Mary looked about her. The other two In
dians had gone, evidently they scented trou
ble no matter how the encounter came out
and decided to put miles between them and
the fated spot, Mary got to day dreaming
about Dolly Hope's babies, whether they had
blue eyes like their mother, or black eyes
like their father, and whether her folks would

Bald Eagle Mountains 259
suppose she was at her friend's home by now,
and so on, until she forgot her proximity to
the wounded warrior. Maybe Billy Frozen
Stone had hypnotic powers, and was soothing
her like a blacksnake does a robin. He was
watching his chance,
WTien her thoughts were far away he
lunged forward, and caught her plump white
throat in his vise-like grasp, Mary was
stunned for an instant, but with her sturdy
arms struggled hard to shake herself free.
The struggle must be brief, she would be
strangled if there was delay. But nature,
rather than her own agility came to the res
cue. As they tumbled about, the Indian's
tumiquet gave way, and the blood which had
been dammed inside burst forth like a fresh
et. She felt his grip relax, and with her own
hands, wrenched herself loose. It was none
too soon, she was fainting, and the Indian
was all but dead. If she hadn't been such a
stalwart hardy girl, he might have died with
his fingers clenching her throat. She sighed
a sigh of relief when, fanned by the night

260 Tales of The
wind, she came to herself, and saw the fate
she had escaped.
The Indian drained of the last drop of
blood lay dead on the rocks, hideous and
shrivelled in his dessicated condition. The
brave girl consoled herself that she had only
prolonged his life temporarOy when she
bound up his wound, sooner or later it would
have been fatal. She had no regrets, but felt
rather happy at the way she had managed
things. Then she walked back to the spring
nearest the top of the mountain and washed
her face and hands,
A golden harvest moon was up to the level
of the summit by this time, she smiled to
herself, when she looked at her blood-stained
skirt, torn off to the level of her dimpled
knees. She was perfectly composed as she
passed the dead body for the second time
and resumed her journey to Dolly Hope's
cabin in Nittany, Just as she left the sum
mit with its grey-white ghostly trees, a great
black wolf skulked across the path, not twen
ty feet in front of her, "You are out after
your supper pretty quickly, old boy," she

Bald Eagle Mountains 261
laughed, and pointed the pistol at him just
for fun, at the sight of which the beast
drooped his tail between his legs and moved
faster. It was midnight when she reached the
cabin of her "companion girl"; she hated to
disturb the sleepers, but the watchdog per
formed that service for her, Dietrich and
Dolly noticed her torn skirt all spattered with
blood. "Kill a bear?" they queried. Mary
could not tell an untruth. She first admired
thebabies and then, before dawn, told them the
entire story. That was the last Indian Mary
ever saw in going over the mountain.

xrv.

FOR THE GLORY OF INDIAN
SUMMER
(Story of Mount Eagle)
ANY persons have wondered
what was the origin of the
words "Indian Summer."
Only recently a correspond
ent wrote to the New York
Evening Sun, asking for
this information. But the
paper usually so explicit did
not give a very definite re
ply, except that it was first kno-wn in writ
ten language in 1794, The Lenni-Lenape
used to say that Indian Summer was more
properly the name of a girl, though it was
also the name of a season, Lena-kit-chita was
the name of the Indian maid, and it also cor
responded with the word meaning this most
delightful period of the year.
Five or six centuries ago there was a nota
ble encampment of Indians on the slopes of
262

Bald Eagle Mountains 263
Mount Eagle, in the liald Eagle range. At
that time this region was a stronghold of the
now vanished Lenni-Lenape, This pictur
esque and valiant tribe had a particularly
courageous chief called Chau-wa-lanne, or
Forked-Tail Eagle, whose personal bravery
and charm had much to do with cementing
the clans into closer union. He maintained
his regal lodge-house on the summit of Mount
Eagle; believing that he was descended from
the king of birds, and must live as in an eyrie.
The remainder of the settlement was upon
the lower levels of the mountains and in the
ravine below. It has come down to us that
over fifteen hundred souls made up its quota.
Five hundred of these were trained warriors,
the pick of the tribal organizations. There
was not one of them who stood under six feet
in height; they were an "old guard" of an
earlier day. Chau-wa-lanne himself was tall
er than any of his warriors, with that keen
eye beneath busy brows, and sharp curved
nose, so characteristic of stout-hearted men.
Though very tall, he was willo-wy and grace
ful; he could outjump any member of his

264 Tales of The
tribe, he could outrun the swiftest deer. In
the chase he always outran his game ; he con
sidered it beneath his dignity to stand still
and shoot.
An eagle flies above its prey until it falls
exhausted and is overcome easily, and this
was precisely the method of Chau-wa-lanne.
Once he chased a giant panther through the
forest, up trees, and down again, leaping
from one rock to another, crawling over ra
vines on grape-vines and prostrate logs, but
he tired the animal, and broke its jaw with
his iron hand, without a struggle. Struck
with pity for the magnificent brute, he drag
ged him back to his lodge and made him a
pet. The animal was readily tamed, and
made an admirable "watch-dog,"
There was a giant forked white pine near
the lodge-house, its spiral, buck-topped pin
nacles seemed to unite with the heavenly
dome. Two pairs of eagles made their nests
in the cage-like tops, emblems of perpetual
good luck to Chau-wa-lanne, living beneath.
In every way he seemed to be one of the
chosen of Getchi-Manitto, the Great Spirit.

Bald Eagle Mountains 265
It does seem as if some souls are selected
to do the big work in this life. All is so easy
to them, every wish so quickly gratified.
With others it is a painful struggle, a long
seige of disappointment, unappreciation, un
congenial tasks. It is a case of striving only
to be beaten back until one sinks into the in
activity of despair. The Great Spirit has cast
such to play minor roles. But with Chau-
wa-lanne to wish was to realize ; life is a suc
cess to the divinely anointed. But unlike a
. few of Infinity's favorites, he did not become
vain and overbearing. The sharp, keen out
lines of his dominant face showed that ener
vation, the indolence of happiness, could
never be his. His was a warrior's part, a
mountaineer's part, a hunter's part, the at
tributes of his fanciful eagle-blood. His
father, Wiponquoak, or White Oak, a noted
chief before him had died a lingering death
from wounds received in one of his
victorious battles when Chau-wa-lanne was
only nineteen; responsibflity coming upon
him at this early age helped to develop
his Spartan qualities. But like Alexander

266 Tales of The
he longed for fresh worlds to conquer,
he longed to incite warfare in distant tribes.
But none would provoke this human tower of
strength. At twenty-four he was like some
great pinioned bird, seeking to unfold wings
designed to rule the high air.
It was at this mentally mature period of
his life that love was born. Always a hunt
er and a soldier, a man's man, his romances
had been few and far between. Furthermore
he was so beautiful physically, his ways so
engaging, that a nod would have brought any
woman to his side, even if he had not been
a king. When love settled down like a dove in
an eagle's nest, it was for the beautiful
maiden Lena-kit-chita, or Indian Summer,
daughter of the famous captain Woakus or
Grey Fox, By birth she was not the equal
of Chau-wa-lanne, few would have been for
that matter, but her blood was noble, of
the rank of many noted chiefs and war
riors, even if she could not claim kinship
with Chau-wa-lanne, Caste was firmly ad
hered to in those days; the Indians saw the
evils of misalliances much more intelligently

Bald Eagle Mountains 267
than we of today with all our ancestral so
cieties and heraldic manifestations. It was
generally the custom for an Indian King to
marry a woman who was related to him, to
"keep the rank in the family," but there was
no positive barrier against a union with an
unrelated person provided she was of noble
blood. Lena-kit-chita being v/ell born, and
the most beautiful of her tribe, could not be
discriminated against; the loyal subjects re
joiced at their beloved monarch's decision to
take a wife who might send his seed down the
ages. It was a genuine love match, at least
after all these years tradition declares that
it was, although there had been an earlier
lover in the life of Lena-kit-chita, There
was no doubt but that it was Chau-wa-Ianne's
first affair.
An Indian could not burst the bonds of
caste through being a warrior or a hunter,
no matter how superlatively brave he might
be, or if he was a weapon-maker or artist,
but if he possessed the gift of second sight,
was a wise man, he could raise his social
status next to that of the king. There was a

268 Tales of The
poor widow in the camp, her husband in his
lifetime had trapped pigeons, making coats
out of the sunrise-colored breasts of the male
birds, in other words was an Indian draper.
This aged woman had one son, whose spirit
ual gifts had made him the most noted man
in the settlement. They called him Wili-wili-
han, or the soothsayer. Despite the fact that
mentally he towered above every Indian of
his tribe, physically he was at a disadvantage.
His stature was short, his shoulders were
not broad, his frame contracted or puny. He
had a large head, a bigger head than even
the giant Chau-wa-lanne, but his features
were irregular; on one side of his face the
profile was good, the other side defective.
In most self-made men and women the left
side, which controls the right hand, is most
fully developed. That is the side we make
ourself , the other is the side we are born -with.
On the left side there was divinity in Wili-
wili-han's face, on the right clownishness,
like the right side of Lincoln's face.
The young soothsayer had worked hard to
perfect his art, his nearness to the infinite,

Bald Eagle Mountains 269
it showed in the serious, though not har
monious lines of his countenance. In the
camp adjoining to that of the widow and her
gifted son dwelt Woakus or Grey Fox, the
famous captain. Besides his squaw he had
several sons and daughters, including one
girl named Lena-kit-chita, or Indian Sum
mer, How she got this strange sobriquet none
can tell, but it came to be most appropriate
as events shaped themselves. She of course
knew young Wili-wili-han, and always spoke
up for him when others ridiculed, "He will
be the greatest one among you", was the
tenor of her championship. When the other
boys and girls threw stones at him and would
not let him play their games, Lena-kit-chita
would always run to his side, and comfort
and amuse him. She was a stalwart, lioness
of a girl, and once or twice soundly thrashed
well-grown boys for molesting her favorite.
Wili-wili-han was shy by nature, he had lim
ited powers of expressing himself, but as best
as a "silent man" can he conveyed his grati
tude to his fair protectress. She often stop
ped at his humble lodge and asked him to

270 Tales of The
accompany her on walks in the woods. Neither
would speak much on these excursions, but
both v/ere thinking deeply.
Once, and once only did Wili-wili-han kiss
the smooth, round cheek of his friend, but
one kiss to a spiritual man means more than
a thousand to a lecher. The gist of the young
man's thoughts were that some day, when
he was famous, he would ask Lena-kit-chita
to marry him. She must care for him else
why would she stay away from her other
and livelier companions to amuse him, why
would she fight for him, why would she ask
him to go with her on so many walks in the
forest, why would she hold up her smooth,
firm cheek so that he might kiss her. But
again, why should she marry one so eccen
tric, so physically disproportionate, so ill
born, so poor. But he was underrating him
self, he had a distinctive personality, and was
far from being what would be called homely;
his mystic gifts had already found him mark
ed favor with the king. He was now, a noble
man by courtesy; every honor accorded to
rank was exhibited towards him. All he

Bald Eagle Mountains 271
would have needed was a little courage, and
Leha-kit-chita was his, — in those days. While
he was hesitating and repining, Chau-wa-
lanne had espied the fair maid himself. He
commanded that she be brought before him,
and she was delighted at this signal honor.
Arraying herself in her best, in a coat of the
breasts of male wild pigeons, with a collar
and cuffs of opposum fur, she attended the
regal youth at his lodge house on the summit
of Mount Eagle.
It had been a case of love at first sight
with Chau-wa-lanne when he had seen her
at a distance; Lena-kit-chita sixteen year
old girl that she was, had always admired
her stalwart king. Now when they met face
to face, each was illuminated with a consum
ing love. Much as she had secretly cared
for Wili-wili-han, she had always felt that
he lacked something — now she knew, it
was physical beauty. Before her stood the
great slim muscular Chau-wa-lanne, six feet
five inches in height, with the features of an
eagle, the muscular development of a pan
ther. He seemed typical of the world he rul-

272 Tales of The
ed: above him soared the eagles, screaming
their treble fury, nearby growled the pet
panther. Back of him was ranged his per
sonal body-guard, composed of youths of his
own age, and almost similar height. Lena-
kit-chita stood probably five feet eight; she
towered above Wili-wili-han it seemed, but in
the presence of her king she felt a more equa
ble sense of proportion. She could hardly
speak for her rapt admiration of his charms.
When he talked his attractiveness was en
hanced. He had a clear, well-modulated voice,
his manners would have captivated any wom
an, he was so considerate, so polished, Tt
was a clear sense of noblesse oblige. There
is no reaon for a king to pursue a long court
ship — when he knows all about the object
of his love. He had investigated Lena-kit-
chita before he sent for her, her birth he was
familiar with before ; her character had been
pronounced spotless. She was not surprised
when he wound up the interview by asking
her to become his bride. He would not have
invited her to climb Mount Eagle for less.
She accepted with such genuine cordiality

A DISTANT VIEW OF THE BALD EAGLES
Pho^o by H. W. Swope, Lock Haven, Pa.

Bald Eagle Mountains 273
that the young King felt assured that he had
found a jewel, a loving mate. She was asked
to set a date, naming a day two moons hence.
The wedding, which occurred in the beau
tiful month of May, was attended by Indians
from far and wide. Chief among the par
ticipants was Wili-wili-han, who had lately
assumed the post of high Priest, upon the
death of the venerable redman, Pethakwonn,
or Thundergust, who had performed this
office for so many years. If he was grieved to
see his one and only love marrying another,
he made no outward show of it. He had been
one of the first to congratulate Lena-kit-chita
v/hen hqr bethothal was announced; it seem
ed to give him an unalloyed pleasure. There
was no pettiness, no rancor in his nature ; life
was an open book to this philosopher.
After the ceremony the happy couple, who
had eyes for no one but themselves, went
for a short trip down the Creek, in a sumptu
ously decorated canoe built of white or "ca
noe" birch-bark. The royal bridegroom was
his own steersman while the bride reclined
on cushions and robes of mountain cat and

274 Tales of The
otter. They were so overjoyed to be away to
gether that they prolonged the trip consider
ably; six moons had passed before they re
turned to their eyrie. Soon after they came
back, Lena-kit-chita was seized with a heavy
cold, which developed into pneumonia. It
seemed for a time as if she must die, and leave
all her happiness. But Wili-wili-han, who had
been summoned to minister to her, pulled her
through the crisis, drawing her back from
the yawning jaws of death. Though she es
caped the grim reaper she did not improve
as her watchful husband thought she should.
There was a racking cough, an emaciation, a
listlessness that betokened perhaps a perma
nent affection of the lungs. She had chills
and fever, which reduced her vitality lower
each succeeding day.
To make matters worse the summer was
waning fast and the long rains which would
last until the advent of winter were an ap
palling prospect. When the equinoxial rains
betokened that summer was no more, Lena-
kit-chita moaned and cried for the fair days
that had gone. "If I couldn't improve in sun-

Bald Eagle Mountains 275
shine, how could I do better in constant
storm", she wailed as she tossed her shapely
form about on her couch of buffalo robes. But
she was really not a complainer; she had no
desire to make Chau-wa-lanne's lot harder
than it was. She was suffering intensely, and
anyone would have bemoaned a fate which
offered no respite. There was a natural drain
age on Mount Eagle, there were no pools
to hold water, but even at that, the constant
drip, drip, drip was disheartening, depress
ing. One morning, when there had been a
steady downpour for five days, the fair suf
ferer underwent a severer chill than usual;
Wili-wili-han who had occupied a tepee near
the royal quarters ever since she had been
stricken, was hastily summoned. He applied
all his remedies, and sa -ed her heart's action
from collapse. When she recovered suffici
ently to be calm, she sent for Chau-wa-lanne.
"I am better, my beloved, but I have strong
reason to believe that I will never get well,"
The king tried to encourage her, but she
shook her curly head, "No, I can never im
prove while these storms continue; I -wish

276 Tales of The
that there was a season like my name, In
dian Summer, a season following the sum
mer, when the glad sunshine of happier days
would succeed the depressing equinoxial
rains, a period of warmth and life, before we
feel the winter's blast,
I have only rain and snow to look forward
to now; the rains chill me, the mound of the
snows will prepare the way for the mound
which will soon be heaped above my re
mains," She could say no more after this;
sobbing she sank back on her pillow exhaust
ed. Both the King and Wili-wili-han were
deeply moved by her words; they realized
the truth of what she said, but they seemed
powerless to alter climatic conditions. They
stood in silence before the fair invalid, un
til a drooping of her eyelids told them that
she had fallen into a doze. Then the two pow
erful men of tribe withdrew, each trembling
with a sense of his own impotence against
the forces of Nature, As they stepped out
side, the drip from the eaves trickled upon
them, and ran down their backs, Chau-wa-
lanne turned, and laid his sinewy hand on

Bald Eagle Mountains 277
 1
the wise man's shoulder, "Soothsayer," he
said, impressively, "I have a favor to ask
of you," "Anything I can do will be my
greatest pleasure, sire," Wili-wili-han replied,
"You have infinite power, or as nearly so as
mortal can possess it," the king resumed,
"won't you intercede -with the forces of na
ture and restore the health of my beloved
queen ?" "I have tried in every way, master,"
answered the wise man, "but of no avail ; my
medical potations have sufficed to a certain
point but no further, my fervent prayers may
have kept her alive, but in a sad and almost
hopeless state." "But can't you," broke in
Chau-wa-lanne, "ask the Great Spirit, the
Getchi-Manitto whom we have always served,
to send a new season, whose sunbeams -will
restore the color to Lena-kit-chita's cheeks,
and make despondent nature glad again, be
fore the pall of the ice king?" "I do not see
how mortal would dare to expect such a
benefice," replied the soothsayer, "Getchi-
Manitto created seasons which seemed best
suited to the needs of the most of us. We
might all be rebuked for our presumption,"

278 Tales of The
"Wili-wili-han," said the King, "Lena-kit-
chita is a young woman of saintly life; she
should be spared to the redmen as an example
of goodness ; I firmly believe the Great Spirit
will listen." "Whatever you say is true, my
king," said the wise man, "your faith gives
me the strength to ask this blessing, I -will
tonight retire to an inaccessable cliff on this
same mountain, and ask as you request."
Chau-wa-lanne shook him warmly by the
hand, and the two men parted.
The King re-entered the lodge-house, find
ing his queen awake. "Darling Lena-kit-
chita," he whispered, "Wili-wili-han has
promised to ask the Great Spirit to send a
new season, an Indian Summer, beautiful like
yourself, to bring you back to health, to make
all Indians happy, before the onset of win
ter." The sufferer smiled cheerfully: "Wili-
wili-han is a great soul," she faltered, "I
know he is favored by the unseen power, I
have perfect faith in his accomplishment if
he petitions it," After fasting all day, at
dusk, the High Priest attired himself in his
official robes, hanging to his person every tal-

Bald Eagle Mountains 279
isman and cabalistic token he possessed. At
dark he emerged from his tent into the driz
zling rain. The leaves on the trees were be
draggled and faUing; the earth soggy and
oozing; he could appreciate that it was a time
when invalids would go downward instead of
upward. He followed a trail to the crag
kno-wn as the Eagle Rock which overhung
Machtando or as it is now called the Bald
Eagle Valley, There he paused, with arms
uplifted, and muttered his mystic invocation.
When the words were said, he fell on his
face, and in a loud, but respectful voice chant
ed, "Oh, Great Spirit, who has ever been the
friend of the race of Chau-wa-lanne, and have
favored this young ruler ofttimes, think of
the sufferings long continued of his queen.
My prayers and libations have failed; there
seems but one chance to restore her back to
health; this one chance is the creation of a
new season, a fresh spell of sunshine and col
or, to succeed the dreary pall of the rains.
Oh, Great Spirit, ordain it for the glory of
Lena-kit-chita, .of Indian Summer, best and
truest of her tribe. Let her live on aa an ex-

280 Tales of The
ample of purity and godliness to her race.
One and all need this new season, it will
bring joy and hope to the entire people of
Lenni-Lenape." It was then and there that he heard the
rustle of an angel's wing. He arose, and
walked slowly, and sadly back along the trail
in the drizzling rain. Out of the darkness
had come an answer of blessing to the in
valid, but it also contained evil tidings
as to the future of his race. Further
more he could not stifle the thought that
Lena-kit-chita might have been his wife, his
share of the glory of Indian Summer, He
lay awake all that night, thinking over his
message from the Inflnite, of his lost love, and
how he wished to prove his unselfishness.
Towards dawn the patter of raindrops
ceased, and he heard birds singing in the
trees. Could he be in a trance? A shaft of
sunlight, like midsummer, shot through the
flap of the tent. He got up, and looked out, a
scene of rare beauty met his gaze. All the
autumn foliage was gleaming in the warm
¦sunlight, the mauve of the beeches, the buff

Bald Eagle Mountains 281
of the hickories, the ochre of the tulip trees,
the yellow gold of the maples, the maroon of
the oaks, the titian red of the sumacs. The
woodbine which curved laocoon-like over ced
ars and pines, was magenta colored in con
trast to the dark greens of its captives. The
grasses were pink and gold, the earth was
dry and firm. Over all hung a delicate haze,
like a mantle of the Great Spirit shutting out
the rains, and leaving in only the light.
Overjoyed he ran to Lena-kit-chita's lodge ;
finding her standing at the door, a look of
rapture in her face. "Oh, friend and queen,"
he cried out, "this is your weather, your days
for good health and happiness, it is all for
the glory of Indian Summer, of Queen Lena-
kit-chita!" The Queen looked at him; her
voice was choked with emotion, "How can I
express my gratitude, wise High Priest ; from
an invalid, hopeless of ever getting well, you
have made me a well woman supremely happy
in this beautiful world," "You owe no thanks
to me," said WiU-wili-han, "it is to the Great
Spirit that we owe everything, who has done
this for you, to show that he loved the Indian

282 Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains
race. Our people will always be remembered
while this, the fairest, most mystic season
of the year exists." "Do you mean that some
time our seed may grow less?" said the va
liant King Chau-wa-lanne, who appeared on
the scene at this minute, "Surely there will
never be any just like your Queen and your
Majesty," replied the wise man, evading the
question. But in his heart he knew the a-wful
tragedy which loomed ahead of his people,
like a rock hidden by mist, in a ship's course ;
the voice in the night which granted his
petition had told him this. He bowed, and
walked away, feeling sick at heart, for he
knew that his race would vanish, only to live
as ghosts, filmy and vaporous as the mists
of Indian Summer, With such a fate no won
der Getchi-Manitto could give them a new
season, an Indian Summer as a last indulg
ence.

XV,

THE LOST CHORD
(Story of Beech Creek Mountain)
OR some time I had been anx
ious to meet the strange
young man. I was just as
curious as his unenlighten
ed neighbors to know why
he had constructed a bunga
low, fashioned after the
style of an old-time log
cabin high on the steep face
of Beech Creek mountain. Where he had come
from was the chief mystery, for though he
talked freely about himself, he was always
reticent about his beginnings.
He had studied art in Paris and Dussel-
dorf, had been a war correspondent in South
Africa, had been on the stage in Shakes-
perean drama, had followed mercantile pur
suits in Philadelphia. These occupations had
been told to me by as many different persons ;
it was hard to reconcile them into one per-
283

284 Tales of The
sonality, into the chronology of a young man
of scarce thirty years. His ultimate retire
ment from the active world at such an early
age seemed surprising; I was just begin
ning to live, at the same age.
Of all the persons in the neighborhood,
he seemed to take most kindly to old John
Ruhlin, John was a mountain tramp by
spells, but at other times worked diligently
on his sister's farm. While not a man of
education, he was experienced in the world
and its ways, and could entertain the strange
young man, like he had me, with his ex
periences in all the counties of mountainous
Pennsylvania, He was very proud of the
intimacy which he had contracted with the
stranger; it made hun the spokesman of the
one interesting figure on the mountain. In
his way he was now just as much of a re
cluse as the stranger; yet -within the limits
of a dozen counties, he had gone through as
much as some men who have circled the
globe. He was an optimist, who felt like Leib
nitz that "this is the best possible world".

Bald Eagle Mountains 265
He was reconciled to its injustices by for
getting all about them. Can it be that mis
ery after all is a phantasm, and that the
good and happy parts of life alone are real?
It would appear so because there are some
who say frankly they cannot see the side
which gives to others a melancholy tinge to
every thought.
The old man was delighted to have the op
portunity of introducing me to the stranger,
"You are sure to like him; he's a broad
gauge man; he'll not go back on you like
some of your friends, and that one in particu
lar who you helped most." But I said to
myself if this strange young man is
in comfortable circumstances, like it is
claimed, he is true for that reason;
only the dependent is disloyal, and then only
after he has extracted the last favor obtain
able. But there are some persons with a
sense of honor, no matter how indigent in
condition, but that has been bred into them
by generations of gentle ancestors. Con
science is only one of the many happy facul
ties awakened by refinement.

286 Tales of The
It was a dull, overcast afternoon when we
started to climb to the young recluse's re
treat, A pathway led from the gorge road
over the face of the mountain to the "first
bench". From there to the bungalow the
climb was very steep, and would have been
arduous to some, were it not for the long
flights of wooden steps, with guard rails,
which extended all the way to the door.
The cottage, which was a long, low one-
storey affair, was of frame construction, cov
ered with slabs with the bark on, to give the
impression of a log cabin. There v/ere spac
ious piazzas on the front and sides, but the
back abutted against the steep mountain.
There were several arm-chairs, made of rus
tic-wood, but otherwise porches and cottage
seemed uninhabited.
When we reached the last step, we paused
for a moment to admire the gorgeous -view
which opened out before us through a vista
in the tall chestnut trees. The deep green
of the forests seemed to stretch as far into
the valley as the entrancing "meeting of the
waters" of Beech Creek, and Bald Eagle

Bald Eagle Mountains 287
Creek, Beyond that were miles of farms, in
their bro-wns and greens of late summer ; the
town was hidden behind groves of button-
wood and linn; in the distance rose the over
powering vastness of the Alleghany plateau.
While thus enraptured the door opened,
and the young occupant came out quietly ; we
were not aware of his presence until he stood
beside old John, and gave his hand a squeeze,
"I'm glad you both enjoy the scene," he ex
claimed enthusiastically, "most people com
plain they're out of breath when they get
here; the view is secondary to that" I
turned around and got a good look at the
young fellow; I always like people on first
impressions. If I don't, and they later "grow
on" me, I am sure to eventually feel again
that first distrust or dislike, for everything
in life is a circle, I am free to confess that
I liked this young man's looks. He was about
my own height, with hair a shade darker,
and slimly but athletically built. He was
dressed more like a business man than an
artist; his hair which was worn longer than

288 Tales of The
the prevailing fashion, alone revealed the
artistic temperament.
He invited us to enter the house, he
wanted "to show us around", he said. In
side was a great hall or living room, with a
tremendous open fire-place, big enough for
half a dozen men to stand in; on either side
was a bedroom, one for the master, the other
for the colored help. He explained that a
family of faithful negroes were the only per
sons who would live with him on the moun
tain. They had only one drawback, they
were in constant terror of mythical wild ani
mals. They must have studied a copy of
William Cox's inimitable book "Fearsome
Creatures of the Lumber Woods" before they
came there, he said. In front of the fire
place lay a rug made from the hides of two
enormous panthers. "Those were two of the
last panthers killed in-this State, the famous
hunter who shot them, presented them to me.
He was a mere boy when he slew them; as
most of the great soldiers were boys, so like
wise were the great hunters. Above the
mantel hung the drab-colored head and faded

Bald Eagle Mountains 289
homs of Jim Jacobson's elk, "the last elk
killed in Pennsylvania", It was the most val
uable natural history specimen in the State.
These relics were enough to cement a na
turally congenial association, but my eyes
kept wandering towards the book-cases along
the walls, to a pretty porcelain statuette of
a shepherdess, that stood on a wall bracket
above the piano. The young man was watch
ing me, to see what interested me most; he
was clearly proud of his possessions. When
my eyes rested on the pretty bit of porcelain,
however, he hazarded that I was surprised
to find a grand piano on a mountain, "It
was quite a piece of work to get it here ; there
is an old bark-road not a hundred feet from
the cottage; we brushed it out, and carted it
up that way, but it was a trifle rough".
John Ruhlin, who had seen all these curios
before, put his head through the door lead
ing to the servants' quarters. He found the
negroes in the kitchen, so went in to talk
with them. "Water seeks its o-wn level", but
that is said in no spirit of discredit to old
John. He liked to hear the colored folks tell

290 Tales of The
of strange sights and sounds that bothered
them at night ; that was more vital than some
discussion of a point of ethics. But I was
not to be side-tracked that easily, though I
wondered why I should feel more concern
about a twelve-inch statuette than Jim Jacob-
son's elk or the Beech Creek panthers,
"That's a very pretty little figure on the
bracket by the piano", I ventured, "Yes,
it is, rather", said the young man nervously.
It evidently worried him that this one art
work possessed a magnetism all its o-wn.
I walked over as near as I could, leaning
across the piano to catch a better glimpse.
For some reason the object fascinated me.
It was a work of art that would have at
tracted attention anywhere, and clearly an
individual piece. It was exquisitely done,
even to the smallest detail. It represented
a young girl, with coal black hair, wear
ing a Nell G-wynn hat of dark blue, with
a black wing in it, clad in a basque
costume of electric blue, carrying a wand in
one of her pretty white hands. There was
such archness and vitality, to the toute en-

Bald Eagle Mountains 291
sevible; I almost felt as if I was in the pres
ence of a living person. The figure had large
blue eyes, they reminded me, oh so sadly, of
someone now in far distant Tien Tsin, as
did the black lashes and brows, the straight
nose with its saucy, retrousse tip, the full
upper lip, pouting with seriousness, the ala
baster whiteness of the complexion, the arms,
and hands, to all of which porcelain was
an able ally. The figure was trim and
jaunty. The little white-stockinged feet in
their high-heeled gflt slippers seemed ready
to trip off the pedestal, I would not have
been surprised, if it suddenly assumed normal
size and conversed with us, I could not take
my eyes off the statuette, I was embar
rassed; I began to feel almost as if I were
staring at the man's intended. I looked at the
young fellow again; I think he had begun to
accept me as a kindred soul ; he now seemed
deeply moved by my interest in this cherished
object, "You really like that figure, do you"?
he asked me. "I certainly do", I made reply.
"In fact I never saw an inanimate object
which appealed to me as much; I was un-

292 Tales of The
touched by the Venus de Milo, even by the
Winged Victory", "I am glad to hear you
say so", he said, "that little bit of porcelain
has a peculiar history ; it is the leading factor
in my life at present — I was almost on the
point of saying that it was the cause of my
settling on this wild mountain — but do I
know you well enough to tell you that" ?
I assured him that I could understand any
spiritual adventures of an artistic nature,
that no sensation he felt would be unrecog
nizable to me, I had experienced nearly ev
ery pang that can come to a person of artistic
apperceptions. These words seemed to re
assure him, but it was some time before he
began the story.
He sat down before the piano, and closed
a number of sheets of music which had evi
dently been frequently played. At another
time I would have asked him to play for me,
but now I wanted to learn the romance of
the exquisite porcelain statuette. "Three
years ago", he said, "when I was fooUsh
enough to have been engaged in business in
Philadelphia, I was called to Pittsburg on

Bald Eagle Mountains 293
an important matter, I always travelled by
day, if possible, and on this occasion it suited
very well, as I received a message about ten
o'clock in the morning, and boarded the first
fast train I could get after that, I got in
the car just a minute before it started, and
was lucky to find a seat by the window.
After it started, I looked around to size-up
my fellow travellers; I am a democrat and
ride in the day-coach, I always liked to give
people names, occupations and destinations;
I had become quite adept at this, and in
sketching out the life's histories of each.
Directly in front of me sat a grizzled war
veteran bound for a Soldiers' Home, Across
the aisle from me sat two foreign
women, flat-faced and uninteresting. 'Johns
town or Latrobe will get them', I figured.
In the seat in front of them I saw a young
woman, her head was turned away at this
moment, looking out at the West Philadel
phia station. When she turned around I saw
she was the most beautiful being I had ever
beheld. Her profile was fascinating; such a
pretty tumed-up nose, such a pouting upper

294 Tales of The
lip, and such smoothness to the skin, such a
well-rounded, dimpled chin, such deep blue
eyes, such lustrous black hair and brows!
She wore a big felt hat, a Nell Gwynn effect,
with a black wing in it, her suit was of some
soft clinging goods, electric blue in color,
there was a band of dark blue velvet around
her white throat. I hastily drew out pad
and pencil, to drav/ the witching features,
but betweerx the train's motion and her fre
quent turns of the head to look out of the
window, I failed utterly. I tore up my un
finished sketches, and threw them on the
floor. "But there were times while I was gazing
out at the Chester hills, or at distant Mount
Gretna, that I felt she was looking at
me, I turned around once or twice, once she
blushed and buried herself in a book, 'Marie-
Claire,' it happened to be, I felt if I knew
that young woman, I could love her as no
woman had been loved before; I knew her
and loved her enough as it was to offer my
self — if I but had the privilege of her ac
quaintance. I wondered if any man had

Bald Eagle Mountains 295
been to Paradise by kissing those pouting,
serious red lips, I wondered if any man had
assumed parity with the Gods by an em
brace. She seemed to be a lady, she had
every indication of refinement; but that made
the barrier against meeting her the more in
surmountable, "As the train swept around the bend after
crossing the primeval gorge of Conewago
Creek, and the first glimpse always so
inspiring, of the broad, island dotted, hill
horizoned Susquehanna is revealed, I recited
to myself: 'You are more beautiful than the
landscape, with the bronze-green hills wid
ening to god-speed the steel-grey river, with
its circular islands, where the Kildeer and the
Halcyon hover, with the sombre mountains in
the distance, under the low-hanging leaden
sky; I will never forget this day because of
you whom Fate has in her hands to let me see
again, or I forever live in loneliness'. By
the way my lips moved, I wonder if she sus
pected my litany! As the train was passing
the Paxton furnaces, I saw to my dismay,
that she was putting on her coat and ad-

296 Tales of The
justing her books and papers, as if to leave
at the next station stop, Harrisburg.
"This blessed communion with beauty was
to come to an end; I could scarcely believe
my senses. Such a radiant and harmonious
creature coming into my life should be a
more permanent element, I had never felt
quite as happy, quite as much in harmony, at
peace, in tune, as with this young woman in
electric blue, with eyes to match, to whom
I had never spoken a word, I felt like a
musician who has found the lost chord, where
the living world and infinity are linked by
divine rhapsody. All the music in my soul
welled up in a song of iiappiness; life with
this rare being would have made me a super
man, "But now the brakes were being thrown
on, and the cumbersome steel cars were com
ing to a halt beneath the murky shed. The
sweet, graceful little creature got up, satchel
in hand and started for the door, I did not
XHow what to do — should I follow or remain
where I was? Pursuit, that most primitive
of masculine instincts, got the upper hand

Bald Eagle Mountains 297
for an instant. Perhaps she would be get
ting on another train, I might ride in it to
find out where she lived. I ran through the
empty car, and out on the station platform;
I got there just in time to see her dainty
figure ascending the iron stairway leading to
the waiting room and street. I hated to fol
low her; she might lose any good opinion
she had of me — and stamp me as a 'masher',
I state that she might have had a good opin
ion of me because a woman to have made
me feel so spiritually exalted, literally born
anew, must have received some beneficial in
fluences from me.
"There is one sided love of the carnal
kind; but spiritual love ought to come from
harmony, and harmony defined is 'two or
more different musical sounds produced
simultaneously'. We would have been con
genial had we but met ! Yet with many per
sons, men as well as women, I feel out of
harmony, to a greater or lesser extent. If
you play the piano you will notice how some
times an inanimate object will be in accord,
or in harmony with your instrument, it might

298 Tales of The
be a table, a chair, a guitar, or even an oil-
stove that vibrates in sympathetic ecstacy,
"One night in an old house in Baltimore a
full chord was drawn across a mandolin while
one of John Field's Nocturnes was being
played on the piano. Some of those present
v/ere frightened, thinking a ghost had
touched the strings; perhaps harmony is a
term for ghost; there may have been unity
between the pianist and some long-vanished
player of that mandolin. That is my theory
of it: there is thought back of every act, all
your wave theories to the contrary.
"I was so attuned to the personality of
this beautiful girl, she appealed to me as
no one ever had before, and the sweet
echoes are still stirring with an ever-present
still, small voice, the inmost recesses of my
soul. At first I cherished the vain thought
that I would see her again — I travelled by
the same train in hopes that the calculus of
probabilities might again send her across my
path. I had often seen the same persons on
trains, on outward and return journeys of
the most complicated sort. There must be

Bald Eagle Mountains 299
a similarity of purposes, a common channel
of impulse, to explain such coincidences.
Feeling that innate spiritual nearness to the
beautiful girl in blue, I fancied that if she
ever travelled at all, she might probably ride
on the same train with me again. But in
this I was disappointed, mv fair travelling
companion was not to be met with. I made
diligent inquiries in the capital city where
I had many good friends, but to no avail, I
had to find solace in the lines, 'How wide the
world, how small its particles'.
"I saw several young women after that,
who were beautiful, talented, attractive, but
they did not produce in me that spiritual
exaltation, that divine harmony, which I had
felt when in the presence of that fair being
in electric blue.
"Was the lost chord, just toai-hed that one
afternoon, now gone forever?
"It was a depressing thought, to have
realized that such possibilities for the
ideal life can exist, only to have them ruth
lessly swept away, I could accept no lowp-^
valuation on life than I had felt that after-

300 Tales of The
noon in the train. If the lost chord wai= en
gulfed in the trackless sea of melody, I would
mourn it, but I would also live up to the
standard of perfection, as far as I could, that
it had developed in my spirit. I could not
and would not shake off the effect of that
happy afternoon. It taught me the futility
of everything else except trying to help oth
ers, and the value of artistic perfection.
Through this brief taste of Jiarmony, 1 was
able to do better work in literature and art,
despite an overmastering sadness in my
spirit. I was often reminded of George
Moore's words, 'The sadness of life is the
glory of art'.
"I decided to give up my business occupa
tion and take a trip to Paris, There I had
studied art as a boy; it would seem pleas
ant to revive old associations and memories.
These had been the most vivid of my life,
up to the time I had been touched by the
divine, that afternoon in the day-coach on the
Pittsburg express. In Paris, I found that
the keen memories of the past were pale and
dull compared to my latest experience, I had

Bald Eagle Mountains 301
touched a plane of living that was far above
earthly custom; the past could not help me
any more than that it emphasized the thrill
of my 'lost chord'.
"One afternoon, it was lowery and over
cast, and a few raindrops were faHing,
weather much like that when I had trav
elled with the fair being whose blue eyes
matched her dress, I stopped before the
large show window of a shop on the Avenue
de rOpera, a few doors from the American
Consulate, I was compelled to stop by some
impulse within, it felt like a minor species of
the thrill at seeing my beloved.
"In an instant my eyes were drawn to that
porcelain statuette, which you see here, the
replica in miniature, of my love on the train.
There were the blue eyes, large and of a pe
culiar shade, like electric blue, the shining
black hair, the pallor of the complexion, the
pouting red lips, the rounded, dimpled chin,
the alabaster throat, the blue costume, in
color if not in mode, hke my love had worn.
"I went into the establishment, and made
mquiries, it was as I believed, an indi-vidual

302 Tales of The
piece. Beyond that, even the proprietor
polite though he was, could give me no infor
mation. It had passed through several hands,
the artist could hardly be traced. I bought
the little figure, and hurried with it to my
hotel. There I opened the package, and
feasted my eyes for hours on this perfect
reproduction of features which I had tried
to sketch on the train with such ill-success,
"Whoever the artist, he must surely have
seen this girl, or else she had appeared to
him in a mental presentiment. It was steeped
in her personality. We cannot produce an
ideal without models ; this girl's individuality
was too marked to have been evoked by an
artist's whim. There was some hidden con
nection between my losing the fair original,
the finding of this faithful reproduction, I
felt spiritually re-awakened since my pur
chase on the Avenue de I'Opera, It seemed
as if the purpose of my trip, which had been
previously kept from me, was accomplished.
"I returned to Philadelphia four weeks
earlier than I had intended, I would not
trust the precious statuette to my trunks or

Bald Eagle Mountains 303
even hand luggage. I carried it with me at
all times, in a card-board box, wrapped in
cotton. The package was about the size and
shape of one that might contain a thermos
bottle, so it attracted no attention. Never
did an ocean voyage seem shorter, more
propitious, I was on American soil, and in
my rooms in Philadelphia, almost before I
realized, it was like a 'dream voyage', I had
often reasoned that if the possession of this
inanimate statuette gave me such spiritual
aggrandizement, how much more v/ould be
gained through the original who actually
lived and breathed.
"It was some satisfaction to think that I
lived in the same world, probably only a hun
dred miles from her. I could visit her
in my dreams — at times. I carefully opened
the box, and took out the figure, and placed
it on a table, or music-stand, beside the
piano. That evening, I was in a state of
reverie and introspection, and sat down at
the piano, and played a few bars from Vin
cent d'Indy's 'Chant de la Cloche', The room
was dark save for the light of a lamp, and

304 Tales of The
the dying embers of Lykens Valley coal in
the grate. When I struck the first notes, to
my surprise and infinite delight, the porce
lain statuette began m.oving towards me,
tripping lightly and in perfect time with
the music. Here was an inanimate object,
or one supposedly so, that was in harmony
with my instrument, with me. I had always
believed that each inanimate object retains
a particle of the soul of its maker; that is
why some articles of furniture are so hate
ful, others become prime favorites. But all
are more than things.
"When the statuette reached the edge of
the table, and could proceed no further, I
imagined I saw an appealing look in
those electric blue eyes — ^but it may only
have been a light cast by some chunk of the
soft coal splitting and sending up a fresh
blaze, I ceased playing, and caught the little
figure in my arms, holding it against my
heart. I fancied it felt warm to my touch,
not frigid like porcelain, but there again I
may have been deceived by the warmth of
the room, I always detested the story

Bald Eagle Mountains 305
of Pygmalion and Galatea, My story was
not quite the same, I loved the soul that
inspired this bit of porcelain, just as the
idolater is devoted to the unseen god repre
sented by an image, I put the statuette
back on the table, and began playing. It
moved in perfect tune; no other objects in
the room stirred. It would have been a
miracle if they had, I was in harmony, in
rapport with the real girl in electric blue —
this speck of her personality, in this exquis
ite bit of porcelain, was attuned to the vi
brations of my spirit, 'Are we not made for
one another like notes of music', said Shelley.
"I placed the figure in different corners of
the room, it always tried to come nearer to
me when I played; it only moved in unison
with the notes, it was the 'poetry of motion'.
I felt that somewhere, on the other side of
the black gulf of space and time, the real
girl in blue was waiting for me, perchance
was calling for me. At times her spirit
might be crying out, but she could cry until
she was speechless, there would be no re
sponse. She might not know what caused

306 Tales of The
her sense of soul-loneliness, her spiritual iso
lation, her lack of harmony with her sur
roundings. She might possess everything
visible, yet lack some unseen element to make
her happy. There is no famine so racking
as soul hunger. She might never think of
me during her distress ; doubtless to her con
sciousness I was a blank.
"Through this little statuette subconscious
ly she was sending her spirit's message to me
— to come to her — ^to awake in her the lost
chord; to do it in the present when she was
young and could enjoy, 'Oh, if we had met,
when life and hopes were new' is a regret
voiced by many mature lovers, who come to
gether after the fires of youth have burned
low. "Through this little statuette my desire to
see the original was quickened; it would not
grow less until appeased,
"In the midst of these psychic experiences
I decided to retire for a time to the moun
tains, to paint the sighing pines, the rocky
heights, the sunsets of cerise. I happened
upon this particular spot by chance. The

Bald Eagle Mountains 307
piano and the little porcelain figure came with
me; all else is purely local, even to the col
ored help. But after I had erected this bun
galow I found I was too distracted to paint;
all my concentration was centered upon the
statuette, its inmost secrets. At first I feared
I was suffering from some aberration; then
a light was sho-wn me, I was illuminated.
When I played, it might be from Vincent
d'Indy, Mozart, Schubert, Schumann, Wag
ner, or any worthy composer, the figure
moved with a series of steps which had cer
tain fixed limitations. They were like the
first spirit rappings heard by the Fox sisters
in 1848; an effort was being made to com
municate with me, I cannot believe that the
girl whose eyes matched her dress knows
directly of it; the statuette is merely an
antenna for subconscious thought waves, a
central station of telepathy. Thought moves
through a system of alternating currents,
which must be recharged at regular inter
vals. My soul's want is that young girl —
hers is me, even though she may not under
stand. Nature's chief concern is keeping

308 Tales of The
alive the race, to do this best those most con
genial must be thrown together and by de
sign, "The unseen powers are helping the girl
in blue and me, a poor loving but unacquaint
ed couple, to come together, to be happy.
While I am only just beginning, I will soon
fathom each vibration of that precious stat
uette. It will spell out a name, and then a
place, and I will go there, and claim her as
my own, I have no fear that I will be turned
away. Destiny will not be mocked, Fate will
prevail. "I am mastering an alphabet now, it will
be regular notation, then all -will be simple.
'Oh, dearer self, art thou like me astray'? I
do believe if I had gone up to her in the car
that afternoon, lady that she was, she would
not have repulsed me, but Fate in its modera
tion wished otherwise. It must come through
faith and struggle to be appreciated. Per
haps that afternoon she could not have in
terpreted the vague longings that sent the
color to her smooth, full cheeks when I
surprised her watching me. Perhaps I con-

Bald Eagle Mountains 309
sidered my emotion idle curiosity, and
blushed at it, when she turned around sud
denly as I was sketching the upward, yet
round and well-moulded end of her exquisite
little nose — ^like the nose on that statuette,
"Earnest little bit of porcelain, it is striv
ing hard to give me its message; then I can
let it fall to break to pieces or put it in a
cupboard to accumulate dust or cobwebs.
When it tells its story, maybe its spark of
personality will vanish, like a ghost that has
delivered its message. Perhaps there is a
reward for inanimate objects that do their
duty well; theirs is a harder task than be
falls any mortals, they must be doubly pa
tient, triply long-suffering.
"But everything great or small is a sym
bol of a thought; an exponent of a higher
value. Love, the force that has upheld the
world from its inception until to-day, and
will do so for ages to come, is the vastest
power existing. To know love, one must
catch a glimpse of the hidden motive behind
material things. Fmding it we take on im-

310

Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains

mortality, for it lies 'beyond the mountains
of the moon', its transit is the Lost Chord."

XVI.
BALD EAGLE'S NEST
(Story of Milesburg Mountain)

N ONE occasion when the
famous war chief Bald
Eagle, was crossing the
Buffalo Valley he stopped
for the night along Beaver
Run, on a farm tenanted by
a certain Mordecai Wol
ford, Wolford who was a
courageous man, of Quaker
stock, came out of his cabin, and shook the
redman warmly by the hand, bidding him be
welcome. Later he presented him with some
tobacco and his wife introduced the great
warrior into the mysteries of four kinds of
pie. Not to be outdone by her parents, Mary
Wolford, a tall, willo-wy slip of a girl, put
into his hands the most welcome gift of all,
a flagon of home-made wine. Even if she
hadn't given him the wine, Bald Eagle would
have become intoxicated at the sight of
311

312 Tales of The
this rare young girl. At fourteen she had
far outgrown her years, yet was as supple,
and lithe as a cat-tail. She had simple and
unaffected manners which heightened her
charm. There was a look of genuine courtesy, yet
self-reliance in her pale blue limestone-col
ored eyes, which seemed a relief from the stol
id glare of the squaws. Her face was a long
oval, but her features preserved the mobility
of youth. There was a suggestion of the ac-
quiline in her well-defined nose, which how
ever turned up just a trifle at the tip, giving
vivacity to her otherwise classic countenance.
Her abundant hair, which was worn in a
thick braid hanging down her back, was the
color known to hair-dressers as "medium
light," but which really is the lightest shade
of brown. Her white hands were tapering
and smooth ; there was a transparency to her
skin that betokened innate cleanliness, ratlier
than delicate health.
There was generally a rather hard smile
on her thin curved lips, lips that never had
any color in them, but were indescribably

Bald Eagle Mountains 313
lovely. She seemed to fancy the burly chief
tain, who was all smiles after the maiden had
condescended to treat him to the spirits. She
had done this without first consulting her
parents, and they cast angry glances
at her when they saw that she had made
the impression of the evening. There
was hardly any alcohol in the wine, but to
the elder Wolfords at least, the conduct of
the great chief became most unseemly. He
followed the couple and their daughter up the
hill as far as their cabin door, reiterating
his thanks for his kindly reception in grand
iose, but badly phrased sentences.
After he had gone the mot'ner turned on the
girl churlishly, saying, "If that Indian goes
crazy drunk to-night and burns down the
house, you alone are to blame, I've a good
mind, big as you are, to pound a little com
mon sense into you when we get inside,"
But Mary merely smiled supercihously ; she
was big enough to take care of herself, her
father always interceded for her at the criti
cal moment. She always was her father's
idol, but she constantly quarreled with her

314 Tales of The
mother. Sometimes the two did not speak
for weeks.
As the Indian returned to his camp fire, he
began singing one of Heckewelder's German
hymns, he had the tune correct if not the
words, and this was taken as proof positive
of his intoxication. But a little thing like
this would not have been noticed in a white
man. All was soon quiet in the encampment,
and before daybreak the Indians had depart
ed. Bald Eagle had passed a restless night.
Young, handsome, powerful fellow that he
was, he had fallen in love, and his passion
seemed a hopeless one. If the year had been
1764 instead of 1774, he would have bound
and gagged the parental Wolfords, and
taken Mary away with him, and she would
not have bemoaned her fate overmuch.
But now white settlers were a-plenty, and
every act of the redmen watched with
jealous reprisal. He could not have got
ten twenty miles with his fair prize
without being apprehended. The girl might
run away and join him, if she really
cared for him, but even then his death would

Bald Eagle Mountains 315
be the penalty for her voluntary elopement.
He felt the barrier of race hatred, the knowl
edge that the whites regarded him, king
though he was, as belonging to an inferior
race. If she was older, he might -win her more
easily. Maybe he would meet her later; both
were young and could wait. But despite all
these considerations. Bald Eagle was still a
savage. He would have run the risk of car
rying the girl away had he been sure of her
sentiments towards him. In an earlier day
that would have mattered little, but now she
would have to be an accessory to a runa
way. He would have tarried longer in the
meadows of Beaver Run and found out how
matters stood, but that he was hurrying west
ward to get some of his braves, who were ac
cused of a highway robbery, out of the dan
ger zone. It was afterwards proved that two
white men disguised as Indians committed
the crime, which occurred on Lower Mahan
tango Creek, but at the present moment this
was not known, and popular feeling ran high
against his tribesmen.

316 Tales of The
If Mary Wolford felt any interest in the
burly chieftain, it was confined to the time
when she feasted her eyes upon his superb
dimensions. It was always that way with
her. She liked best the man she was with,
provided he was good-looking. She was a
true woman in that she could not tolerate
a homely or ill-formed man, and made no
effort to dissemble. She went to bed infat
uated with her Indian admirer, dreaming all
night long that they were crossing broad
rivers and high mountains together. The
next morning, when she was routed out of
bed by her mother, and told to go out in
the damp fog and "clean up the muss left
by the Indians", she forgot all the romantic
and sentimental incidents.
That night a handsome young Scotch-Irish
trader, with coal black hair and eyes, stopped
at the house, which was on the trail to
Middle Creek Valley and the valleys to the
north and west, and she further forgot her
infatuation of the night before. She sat
up so long with him, that she looked like a
ghost the following morning, when she got up

Bald Eagle Mountains 3 1 7
to bid him goodbye. To her expanding con
sciousness the world seemed a passing
pageant of attractive men, it was hard to tell
which one she could like best.
Once in a while homely men applied for
lodgings, but if Mary came to the door, she
always told them that the house was full.
Sometimes, undaunted they camped in the
lush-grass by the run, near where Bald Eagle
spent the night, but they received scant cour
tesy. She even hated to have to carry a
pail of milk to them. More than one under
sized, bearded frontiersman passed the word
on to his kind that she was a "very snippy
girl," But Mary did not care, it was her
chief delight to snub the unattractive. All
this while she was growing in beauty and
height. On her sixteenth birthday, in Sep
tember of the memorable year of 1776, she
stood against the jam of the door at the
cabin, while one of her admirers measured
her height as five feet, eight and a half
inches. In the late summer of that year, her father
having quarreled with the cantankerous

318 Tales of The
Scotch-Irishman who owned the farm, besides
having tired several years before of working
for somebody else when there was so much
wild land to be had for the asking, decided
to move further west. In the Bald Eagle
Valley, along the foothills were numerous
tracts which could be "taken up" and in this
direction the Wolford family started.
The household goods were loaded in a
hea-vy wagon drawn by two yoke of red and
white spotted bulls. Mordecai Wolford him
self walked by the animals as driver, while
his wife and five young children rode on the
box seat of the wagon. Mary, clad in a buck
skin riding-habit, with red bead trimmings,
mounted on a handsome black-grey colt, was
vanguard of the procession. In the rear, her
older brother, Thaddeus, assisted by four
savage dogs, drove the cows, hogs, and sheep,
Mary had her usual quota of adventures on
the way. Wherever the party stopped for
the night, some young man who had seen
her dashing equestrienne figure, would make
pretense to come to the camp and get ac
quainted. She left a trail of promises from

Bald Eagle Mountains 319
the mouth of White Deer Creek clear to the
mammoth spring at Bellefonte,
No one so beautiful, no one so arch or co
quettish, or so brave and light-hearted had
passed up the valleys before, she was the
ideal of half a hundred young mountaineers.
But she had no intention of marrying just
yet, although she was perfectly sincere "at
the moment" in each flirtation.
The caravan was moving along famously,
and nearly at its destination, when Mary's
spirited mount took fright at a blind grey
squirrel which ran between his prancing feet.
The poor little animal's eyes had both been
shot out, consequently he did not notice
the approaching horse as he scurried
across the road to a cornfield. The colt be
came unmanageable, and started to run away.
There was a heavy curb on the bit, and
Mary, perhaps losing her presence of mind
for a second, reined him in too sharply. The
animal fell over backwards, throwing the girl
off, rolling on her, badly bruising one of her
thighs. It was a narrow escape, she might at
least have had a broken leg, or been made a

320 Tales of The
cripple for life. It was decided to pitch camp
on the scene of the accident and remain there
for several days until she was all right again.
The scene of the mishap was on the south
bank of Bald Eagle Creek, a half a mile be
low the present town of Milesburg. It was
a pleasant place, a glade wooded with gigantic
white oaks, through whose topmost lace-like
branches, the sun was ever sending bright,
vivid shafts of light, while fiickers and pileat
ed woodpeckers, and parrots echoed the chor
us of the breezes.
In the early fall the woodbine and the shin-
hopple had turned to red, the blue-wood as
ters were everywhere. By the water's edge
bloomed the bright-hued Cardinal flowers. A
little further up-stream, and on the oppo
site bank, was the "Nest" of the famous In
dian v/arrior. Bald Eagle. It consisted of
a giant hollowed-out buttonwood tree, in
side of which the chieftain used to sleep, ac
cording to his boast, in standing position.
There was plenty of room for him to have
reclined full length, even thoughhe was over
sbc feet in height. An old Indian named

A PICNIC IN THE WOODS
Photo by W. T. Clarke, Conrad, Pa.

Bald Eagle Mountains 321
Whistle-town was always on hand as a sort
of sentinel. When the Wolfords pitched camp
across the creek, the chief was said to be
absent on a hunting trip. The spot was in
teresting to Mary, as she well recollected the
Indian, and how interested he had been in
her two years before. Instinctively she felt
that he would like her better now. Already
she had been loved by several young men of
consequence, and a noted Indian chief was
a decided divertissement.
She was disappointed that Bald Eagle was
away, she said she would give almost any
thing to see him again, "You didn't feel
that way", snapped her mother, "when you
had to clean up that pile of bones and en
trails he left at our place two years ago."
Mary made no reply. She had forgotten
everything except her conquest of the sav
age's heart, A couple of mornings after their
arrival, Thaddeus appeared with the news
that Bald Eagle had returned. Whether old
Whistle-town had slipped away and informed
his chief that there was a party of white
people in the neighborhood, or he had come

322 Tales of The
back unintentionally, was never explained.
When he found that it was the Wolford fam
ily who were camping at his very door, his
joy knew no bounds. He at once crossed the
stream, looking like a conquering viking as
he stepped from his canoe. He presented
them with a saddle of venison and a string
of water-birds. He seemed delighted to meet
Mary once more, commenting volubly upon
her increased height, and general attractive
ness. He opened a package of beaver skins,
carefully saved from the winter before, be
stowing them upon her with much eclat.
Temporarily Mary was smitten again by
the charms of the stalwart redman. All other
loves were for the nonce forgotten. For the
two succeeding days Bald Eagle was con
stantly at the Wolford camp. He was al
ways bearing gifts, or ha-ving his henchmen
appear with unexpected presents, or "sur
prises." Mary's parents did not know how
to take his conduct, but concluded to make
the best of matters until they could move on
to their ultimate destination. For this rea
son an early date was set for departure.

Bald Eagle Mountains 323
When the great chief learned this, he said
he would like to entertain the family at a
supper, at the Nest, the evening before they
left. He wanted to give them an idea how
well an Indian could live in the wilderness
and entertain. Col, Samuel Hunter had been
pleased by his hospitality, as had other digni
taries. The invitation was cheerfully ac
cepted, as the entire family wished to v/ind
up their stay as pleasantly as possible. Be
sides there was no telling when the great war
chief's friendship might stand them in good
stead, Mary had confided to her father that
she did not love Bald Eagle, so he was re
assured that there was no danger of his hav
ing a dusky son-in-lav/. The supper was
scheduled to commence an hour before sun
down, which meant about five o'clock.
Bald Eagle sent out hunters and fishermen
to provide the season's delicacies for the re
past, while he himself built a bower gar
landed with wild flowers and woodbine over
the spot where it was to take place. On the
rooming of the promised festival, a visitor
in a chestnut-bark canoe, appeared at Wol-

324 Tales of The
ford's camp in the person of young James
Brady, the second son of John Brady, the
pioneer. He was eighteen years of age at
this time, and a sergeant in the Militia, He
was travelling on some matter of military
business to the western part of the province.
In personal appearance he was easily the
handsomest youth of his age and generation.
He stood six feet, one inch, in height, with
clear cut aquiline features, and had a shock of
red-gold hair. No countenance can be as at
tractive as a Scotch-Irish face, so brimming
over with intelligence and -wit. His brother,
Hugh Brady, speaking of him many years
later, said, "My brother James was a remark
able man, his mind was as well-finished as his
body, I have ever placed him by the side of
Jonathan, son of Saul, for beauty of person
and nobleness of soul, and like him, he fell
by the hands of the Philistines." But we
will touch on the sad fate of the "Young
Captain of the Susquehanna" later. Like
drops of quicksilver run together, the hand
some James Brady was attracted to the fair

Bald Eagle Mountains 325
Mary Wolford, and she of course recipro
cated. There is no stopping an attachment based
on mutual physical charm, Mary had seen
the young soldier once before, and despite her
other "loves," always cherished a secret ad
miration for him. Her father had taken her
to the horse races at Derrstown, now called
Le-wisburg, where instead of watching the
sport, she followed James Brady with her
pale, limestone-colored eyes, all the afternoon.
Before the first race there had been an im
promptu horse-sale, and her father for twen
ty pounds had bought the black-grey colt, then
a two year old. Ordinarily this would have
excited her greatly as she was devoted to
horses, but she had no eyes nor thoughts for
anything after she saw young James. She
was especially enamored after her father told
her his name, that he was a noted shot
and hunter even at the tender age of six
teen. She never saw him again in the inter
val, but kept her interest alive by calling the
colt James, She liked the animal, she de
clared, because of his name, and for his hav-

326 Tales of The
ing been bought the day that she had seen
his namesake;
Now when the "Young Captain of the Sus
quehanna" appeared at the camp, whether by
accident or design, it was as hard to clear
this up as Bald Eagle's sudden appearance,
she could indulge her romantic fancy to the
utmost, James seemed happiness personi
fied to be with her, and after dinner proposed
that they take a canoeing trip up-stream to
wards the site of the present town of Belle
fonte. Spring Creek, which flows from that
direction, joms with the Bald Eagle, a short
distance above the "Nest," It was an en
ticing in-vitation, especially as he promised to
have her back at camp in a couple of hours.
He was informed of the party, and said he
would attend if invited. Just as the pair were
starting away. Bald Eagle, who had been
watching them from the opposite bank, hur
ried across in his skiff, arriving in time to ex
tend a cordial invitation to the young path
finder. Brady accepted smilingly, showing
his white teeth, his Irish blue eyes dancing
with health and pleasure.

Bald Eagle Mountains 327
But Mordecai Wolford declared afterwards
that he noticed an ugly scowl in the war
chief's face as he re-entered his canoe. He
watched the young couple until they were out
of sight, and then resumed his superintend
ence of the preparations for the feast. Piles
of rich-pine were stacked at regular inter
vals, which meant that by the light of the
camp-fire, a spectacular ghost-dance, a rare
honor to white guests, was to be enacted. All
the Indians from miles around were dra-wn
to the scene by the extraordinary prepara
tions, and stood about in groups with awe
and interest written in their generally listless
faces. It was one o'clock when the canoeists
left, three o'clock rolled around, and they had
not hove in sight. Bald Eagle who was keep
ing count of the time by the sun began to get
uneasy, and paced up and down the bank,
seemingly forgetful of his horde of observers.
Four o'clock came, then five, and soon after
the sun set with all its autumnal splendor
behind the Alleghanies. By the savory odors
rising from the fires, supper was ready to

328 Tales of The
be served, but absent was the fair guest of
honor. At six-thirty Bald Eagle paddled across the
creek, and told Mary's parents that the re
past would begin as soon as she returned. He
said he was certain there had been some mis
take, that she would be back before dark. It
seemed that darkness set in with extra alac
rity that night, though it was clear, and moon
light. As Bald Eagle, disconsolate and gaunt,
stood by the shore, gazing up the stream into
the impenetrable gloom, the very katydids
seemed to mock him with their metallic sing
ing. It was the only thing that broke the
rapt silence of the camp that night. The
spirit-dancers as they waited shifted uneasily
from foot to foot, but they made no comment.
Sometime towards midnight Bald Eagle,
humbled and mortified to the quick, slunk into
his Nest, and the retainers dropped out of
sight among the logs and -vines. Probably an
hour after his disappearance, a canoe drifted
into view; it contained Mary Wolford and
James Brady. Sheepishly the young girl got
out of it, and slipped into her lean-to for

Bald Eagle Mountains 329
the remainder of the night. The young man
drew his boat on dry land and slept in it.
In the morning he heard violent quarreling
among the Wolfords, and hastened to the
scene. He arrived in time to help explain
that three miles up stream they had run into
a submerged rock, which stove a big hole
in the canoe. He had difficulty in getting
Mary to shore in safety; it took until long
past dark to repair the leak. They had re
turned as quickly as they could, none regret
ted more than he that Mary had been forced
to miss Chief Bald Eagle's supper and ghost-
dance. They could see the place where he
had put the patch in the canoe, if they want
ed further proofs. This silenced the elder
Wolfords, although Mary looked very pale
and penitent. To clinch the matter, young
Brady who was every inch a gentleman
crossed the creek, and visited Bald Eagle at
his Nest, expressing his heartfelt apologies
at keeping the guest of honor from his party,
and for his own unavoidable absence. The
chief took the apology with apparent good

330 Tales of The
will, but there rankled a hate in his heart,
which he cherished to his dying day.
The Wolford party went their way, and
Brady, abandoning his canoe, as he intended,
continued his mission on foot across the Al
leghanies, The only outward sign of pique
was that Bald Eagle did not come across the
creek to bid Mary goodbye, although he sig
nalled to her in Indian fashion, as the cara
van moved along the trail on the southern
shore. For some reason young Brady never
visited Mary again, though she did not want
for lovers.
Two years later, during harvest James
Brady, then a Captain, was guarding some
cradlers who were at work in a field near the
mouth of Loyalsock Creek. A party of In
dians fired on him, wounding him, and in the
struggle which ensued he was knocked down
with a blow from a tomahawk, stabbed by a
spear, and scalped. After scalping him one
of the Indians, with hate in his face, drove a
tomahawk four times into his skull. Despite
all these tortures his spirit held steadfast to
the body, and he lived five days. Just before
he expired he regained consciousness, and

Bald Eagle Mountains 33 !
described the attack with great minuteness.
The Indians were of the Seneca tribe, he said,
and one of them whom he personally knew
was the great chief Bald Eagle, Why this
celebrated Indian had taken such an active
part in the horrible mutilation of this splen
did young patriot -would seem a mystery, but
for this story of Mary Wolford,
Perhaps it was the humiliation that he felt
when she absented herself from his party in
com.pany with the "Young Captain" that
caused him to brood and repine until noth
ing but revenge "long and deep" would suf
fice. But one death meant another, others must
have revenge. Captain Samuel Brady, James'
older brother, several years later, noticed a
large party of Senecas marching along the
Alleghany River on their way to Bald Eagle's
Nest. Brady recognized Bald Eagle, who was
in the lead, and flred at him, killing him in
stantly, the bullet having pierced his heart.
But that member had been sorely wounded
long before, it was his vulnerable point, ever
since he first looked into the pale blue eyes,
cold as limstone, of Mary Wolford.

XVII,
THE RUNNING RACE
(Story of Lookout Mountain)
OU must meet Agnes Letort,"
These were almost the first
words that greeted Martin
Fryer upon his arrival at
his uncle's home in Phila
delphia. They were ad
dressed to him in a chor
us by his three cousins,
girls ranging in age from
fifteen to twenty. Martin was nearly twenty-
one, and already was quite experienced with
girls, the simple country maids of Earlys-
burg, Agnes, it was explained to him, was
a very beautiful girl of sixteen, who had
moved into the house directly across the
street. Martin Fryer's uncle was the propri
etor of a large livery and sales stable; his
home was next door to the big brick reposi
tory. 332

Bald Eagle Mountains 333
The afternoon of the young man's arrival
he went for a stroll with his cousins. They
had gone hardly half a square when Agnes
Letort, dressed all in white, hove in sight
across the way. When she was opposite, the
girls called to her to wait until they brought
their cousin, who had come on a visit, over
to meet her. But Agnes made a motion with
her hand as if she was in too great a hurry.
So the first attempt at "getting acquainted"
ended in failure.
Just before supper one of the girls ran
across to Agnes's house, and asked her to
come and spend the evening, to meet the
young stranger, Agnes, it was said, was gra
cious at the time, replied that she would be
delighted to come over, only too happy to
meet him. It was a warm evening, so the
family sat on the front steps until dark, but
saw no signs of Agnes, About eight-thirty
one of the girls telephoned, but was told that
Agnes had gone out with a girl friend. The
next morning the girls met her on the street,
and she apologized for not keeping her prom
ise, but said she had an earlier engagement

334 Tales of The
with a girl friend, about which she had for
gotten. She promised to come to call that
evening, if they would permit her. She was
so very pretty that she was instantly for
given, and her promised visit welcomed. She
did put in an appearance that night, bright
and early. She made quite a contrast to the
youth whom she was expected to charm. Of
medium height, slight, and shapely, with an
oval face, pale rather than pink, she had full
grey eyes, with black lashes and brows, a
nose which but for the fine straight line of
the bridge, might have been called retrousse,
rather full lips, and a wealth of ash-brown
hair, which curled and crinkled like spun-
sugar. She exhibited a genial friendly man
ner when she wanted to, a manner which
would disarm the most hostile critic. She
was in a word chic, and up to date, a belle
bourgeoise. Martin Fryer, on the other hand, was tall,
gawky, and stoop-shouldered; his nose was
long and beaked, his pale blue eyes were
small, his red-hair hung down on his coat
collar. But there was a look of intelligence

Bald Eagle Mountains 335
in his face, showing the latent power, that
makes every backwoods youth a possible
Judge, Congressman, or multi-millionaire.
He was ill at ease with Agnes, and she
made no effort to interest him. Her general
conversation was witty, and bubbling over
with the exuberance of youth, but she had
few words for the young man. He was actu
ally glad when she left. The door was scarce
ly closed when the girls, all three at once,
began asking him how he liked her. He had
a veneration for truth, but on this occasion
said he liked her very much. Secretly he
was angry at her for her indifference, but it
piqued him to the extent of arousing a perma
nent interest.
During the remainder of his visit he saw
her perhaps half a dozen times, always when
others were present. He probably liked her
less when he left than he did the night she
called, her indifference was mortifying. She
was so very pretty that it made him feel
worse. He would rather have had one kind
word from her than a deluge of kisses from
all the belles of Earlysburg. He put her

336 Tales of The
down as "pert and snippy," but secretly
wished that she had cared for him.
After he got home he used to lie awake
nights imagining that he had met her again
ind her manner had changed. He dreamed
cf her occasionally, that she was in his arms,
and telling him that she loved him. Between
waking fancies and dreams she was a hard
proposition to forget. Once he made bold to
send her a card with a picture of a Thanks
giving turkey on it. He went to the post-
office every day for two weeks, pestering the
old postmaster with inquiries for "mail," a
thing he had never done before.
During the winter, his father who was a
prosperous farmer and stockman, fell through
a silo, and was seriously injured. This put
the management of the farm on young Mar
tin, which developed him quicker in a few
months than ever before in his life. In the
spring the old man said he would like the
race-horses campaigned just the same as
usual, Martin must handle them, must take
them on the fair circuit.

Bald Eagle Mountains 337
Old Jacob Fryer had loved the "runners"
ever since the days when as a lad of twelve
he had run away from home and become an
exercise boy at the historic course at Mon
mouth Park, in New Jersey, He was very
proud of a photograph which had been taken
of him, perched on the back of the mighty
Longfellow, with the venerable John Harper,
holding the bridle. Later he had gone back
to the farm in Central Pennsylvania, but
again yielded to the old desire, and for a sea
son campaigned an attenuated sprinter named
Guy Grey, at Gloucester, Then after a lapse of
nearly a decade he bought three yearlings
at one of the Rancocas sales in West Philadel
phia, One of them, a son of the gallant Loca-
hatchee and Bow Bells, he named Lights o'
London, a combination of the dam's name and
a melodrama which he had witnessed one
night in the Quaker City. The colt never
grew to be tall, but was nicely turned, and
save for a white face, and two white hind
feet, was black as ink. "If I had time I'd take
him to the big tracks", the old man was con
tinually saying. With the two others, Quaker

338 Tales of The
Girl and Creole, he followed the county fair
tracks for several years, Creole was a good
half mile and repeat horse, but Lights o' Lon
don excelled in distance races. Quaker Girl
was good to get a place in the half mile
events, but seldom came in a winner.
Jacob Fryer was proud of Lights o' Lon
don, and contrary to his hidebound custom
kept him entire. This gave him a dash and
brilliancy and a lustre to his coat that would
not have been his as a gelding. It seems
a hideous confession of man's weakness to
seek to control animals by depriving them of
sex. As a five-year old he was at his best,
winning eleven out of fourteen starts, going
several miles better than 1,45,
This was the season before the old man
met with his accident. Lights o' London as
a six year old was to be campaigned by the
son. The young man felt the responsibilitj'
thrust upon him ; he was determined to do his
best by his father's horses. He had watched
his training methods, so knew some of the
tricks of the game. Besides the horses were
not hard to manage ; they knew what was ex-

Bald Eagle Mountains 339
pected of them almost as much as if they
were human.
The first start was made at the mid-sum
mer fair at Milton, Lights o' London was
victorious, beating out his old-time rival Mat
ador, in a driving finish, on a heavy track
in 1,52, Quaker Girl and Creole finished sec
ond and third to Little Christmas in the half
mile heat race. Old man Fryer was in the
grandstand, and tried to leap for joy when
he saw how well the horses performed. He
could have stood a total crop failure better
than the do-wnfall of his beloved colors, green
cap, green shirt, dark green and white
check sleeves. After Milton they raced at
Hughesville, Bloomsburg, Lewisburg, Carl
isle, York, and Altoona, Out of seven starts.
Lights o' London was first five times. Mata
dor beating him once, and Lois Cavanaugh
once, Quaker Girl and Creole did not do so
well. The season was to be ended, almost on home
ground, at the fair held at the picturesque
track at the base of the towering Lookout
Mountain, one of the landmarks of the Bald

340 Tales of The
Eagle range. Running races were all the
vogue that year; interest in them is fitful in
Central Pennsylvania, although they were the
earliest form of sport of the better class
of settlers, Penn's Valley still rankles over
the defeat two thirds of a century ago of
the Kentucky thoroughbred o-wned by the Pot
ter boys of Potter's Fort, which was "taken
into camp" by the pride of the West Branch
Valley owned by "Johnny" Myers, on the
famous course which extended from one end
to the other of the Big Island, below Lock
Haven. The victory of Sea Turtle, a Jersey
Shore flyer, in a twelve mile race over the
champions of Williamsport and Shamokin is
still remembered by the old people.
The fair at Lookout Mountain was sched
uled to last four days, with one running race
each day. The mile dash, in which Lights o'
London was entered, was to take place on
the opening day,
Martin Fryer, riding in the box-car
with his charges, never forgot the sight
which greeted his eyes that bright Oc
tober morning, as he was being shunted into

Bald Eagle Mountains 34 1
the fair grounds from Milesburg, The In
dian Summer haze was in the air, a dense fog
still rested in the more inaccessible hollows
and over the pinnacles of the mountains. The
gums and hickories were vi-vidly tinted, and
as if to keep the oaks in fashion, the Virginia
creeper was garlanding them with scarlet. A
hoar-frost was on the grass, which sparkled
when the sun-rays touched it. There was a
tang to the atmosphere, an invigorating odor
of the frost-bitten leaves. Along the fence-
corners bloomed the blue-wood asters; the
golden rod v/as paling, like blonde beauties
growing grey. A pair of crows, strutting
across the infield, cawed loudly as they took
to leisurely flight upon the near approach
of the freight train. Once or twice the not
disagreeable smell of soft-coal smoke was
wafted into the car from the engine. The
train moved quite a distance past the fair
grounds in order to back into the switch,
going by a line of workmen's houses, on the
outskirts of the tov/n.
On the back porch of one of these cottages,
so near to the car that he could almost have

342 Tales of The
shaken hands with her, Martin saw a young
girl bending over a washtub for it was Mon
day morning. The steam from the hot suds
was rising up about her like the fog on Look
out Mountain. Her sleeves were rolled up,
her pretty arms and hands were "turkey
red," There was something in the texture
of her ash-brown, kinky hair, her round face,
which seemed familiar. Suddenly recollect
ing her he called out "Hello there. Miss Le
tort, what are you doing in this part of the
country?" Before she could answer, the car
had moved on, but he was sure that she recog
nized him. When they backed past the house,
she was on the watch, and waved to him, call
ing "Hello, Mister Fryer, I'm living here
now, come to see me." She seemed so genu
inely pleased to greet him that Martin mut
tered to himself "a new Agnes, my dreams
maybe are coming true."
He could hardly wait to get his string un
loaded and ensconced in their boxes and get
his dinner before brushing himself up to call
on the fair charmer. What had brought her
to this part of Pennsylvania? Could it be

Bald Eagle Mountains 343
that after all she was married, and his visit
would be that much time wasted. He was
not sufficiently evolved to understand such an
unnatural state of affairs as being attentive
to a married woman. He was sincere and
if he went to see her it was because he was
genuinely fond of her, he could forgive tht
past. When he reached the humble home, a very
differently attired young woman came to the
door. Evidently, like himself, she had been
preparing for the visit, almost from the mo
ment of their unconventional encounter. She
wore a neatly fltting suit of some pale bro-wn
material, there were traces of powder on her
young face, her frizzy hair was neatly parted
in the middle, her hands were white, her fin
ger-nails polished. Her attitude was so
changed, that for an instant he imagined he
must be calling on the wrong girl. It was
the suddenness of their meeting, or perhaps
an improvement in his appearance that was
responsible for the genial welcome. There
were no "secondary" or "underlying" motives
in a nature as frank as Agnes's, Her great-

344 Tales of The
est fault was that she was totally lacking in
dissem.bling. She would almost tell a homely
man to his face that he was homely, there
fore she did not like him. She explained that
her father had secured a good position in the
iron furnace; hence her new place of resi
dence. It was two o'clock when Martin arrived
at the Letort cottage ; supper was announced
when he started to leave. He had been in
vited to remain, but thought it best not to
extend his "first call" too long. When he
left he arranged to come back and spend the
following evening.
His brain was in a whirl that night as
he walked along the ties to his lodgings near
the stables.
All the next day was spent preparing
Lights o' London for Wednesday's run
ning race. His most dangerous adversary
Matador, a game old stag, -was also out on
the track. He was a chocolate colored ani
mal, technically a "dark chestnut," and had
raced his way across the continent from San
Francisco to Fort Erie, finding his "ultimate

Bald Eagle Mountains 345
islands" on the fair circuit. The wiseacres
predicted that it would be a "toss-up" be
tween Lights o' London and Matador; there
was a rumor of as many as four other en
tries, but they didn't count.
In the early evening, when Martin was on
his way to the boarding house for supper, he
noticed a running horse being unloaded from
a box-car. The animal was blanketed and
hooded, but from the long light-colored tail
which trailed the ground, was either a sor
rel or a light bay. There were colored boys
on each side of his head leading him down
the incline, but this indicated his value, rather
than fractiousness. The young man watched
the proceeding for a few minutes, trying to
identify the horse, but it seemed a complete
stranger. After supper he hurried to Agnes's home,
spending a most delightful evening. He lit
erally "made up for lost time," as he held
her in his arms for a full fifteen minutes, in
side the closed door, before he departed. The
couple had come to an understanding. Ag
nes, coquettish to the last, said that she would

346 Tales of The
marry him if his horse won the race. She
would get her father to take her to the track.
Her parents were violently opposed to her
marrying so young, besides she was an only
child. But she could wed clandestinely.
After the race, if the right horse was win
ner, she would slip away and meet her lover
on the flat rock on the summit of Lookout
Mountain, From there they could climb down
to Snow Shoe Intersection, and board a train
which would soon have them in Clearfield
County, There they could "take out lincense"
and get married. It sounded very romantic,
so much so that Martin forgot the many in
superable difficulties. There probably was no
night train from the Intersection to Snow
Shoe. If there was, they could not get a
Beech Creek train for Clearfield until the
next morning; by that time the whole coun
try would be aroused. Central Pennsylvania
is hardly adapted for a Gretna Green,
Martin returned to his lodgings, feeling
really happy for the first time in his life. At
daybreak Lights o' London breezed over the
course in fine fettle; Martin secretly felt

Bald Eagle Mountains 347
that the horse had never gone so well. Mata
dor looked peaked and hide-bound, there seem
ed an almost rheumatic stiffness to his joints.
As Lights o' London was being put in his
box, the "strange" horse was brought out
for his gallop, Martin had a good look at
him. First of all he was not a big horse, he
was built on rather fine lines. He was a
light-bay or fulvous color, his tail was very
long, trailing the dust, when he spread out
for action. There were black tips on his ears,
and a black streak running from the top of his
nose to the tip of his tail. He was ridden by
a small, sandy-haired white boy, whom the
negro lads called Crackers. One of the col
ored boys led the horse through the gate into
the track, and from there he broke into an
easy canter, sweeping along the course with
much the sliding movement of a fox. Martin
asked the colored lad who the unkno-wn horse
might be. "Why dat's a Kaintucky boss, mis-
tah, his name am Indian Fields, he's by de ole
champeen Falsetto, dam Indian Apple by old
Shiloh. He haint nebber raced befo', he's
only a four yah old, an' a stud."

343 Tales of The
Martin, encouraged by such a flow of par
ticulars, inquired the name of the owner,
"Why, dat's Mistah Will Buckler's boss, he's
a young Kaintucky gemmen what holds down
er big job in Pittsburg; Andy Essen-wine's
trainin' him." None of the names v/ere fa
miliar, and Martin had a "sneaking notion"
that this colt, and not Matador was the com
petitor to be afraid of.
The day was sunshiny and cool, there was
an enormous attendance at the fair. Early in
the afternoon Martin saw Agnes and her
father at one of the side shows; she was on
the grounds, true to her promise. She whis
pered to her lover that she was ready to climb
old Lookout, in case his colors flashed in front.
She wished they would. He was so hopeful
of victory that he arranged with his exercise
boy, Linn McGrady, to ship back to Earlys
burg that evening "in case he should be called
away on urgent business,"
It was four o'clock when the gong sounded
calling out the entries for the mile running
race. It was a pretty sight to see them pa
rade to the post, the bright colors gleaming

Bald Eagle Mountains 349
in the v/aning sunlight. From a far corner
of the grounds came the strains of an auto
matic piano. First came Matador, dark chest
nut, sixteen hands, lank, rangy; he was rid
den by a v/hite boy, the colors were straw
and white. Second came Cold Deck, a small,
pudgy light chestnut, a white boy rode him,
decked out in black and white polka dots.
Third came Little Christmas, a dark brown
entire horse, with reached mane, and tail, a
white boy astride him, colors pink and brown.
Fourth came General Coxey, a lean fly-bitten
¦white, a tiny negro rode him ; his colors were
"green above the red," the same colors that
"Father Bill" Daly sported. Fifth came
Cheerful Mary, a golden chestnut, full of
life and fury, buck-jumping, prancing, every
foot of the way, ridden by a colored lad ; col
ors mauve and cerise. Sixth came Lights o'
London, entire, shiny black, with white face,
pink nose, two white hind feet, ridden by a
husky white boy, colors green and white. Sev
enth came Indian Fields, jogging along at a
cavalry trot, his sandy-haired rider, posting
in the saddle; an oddly marked entire horse.

350 Tales of The
a throw-back clearly to some ancient type,
with a tail like a street-sweeper; jockey col
ors red and blue. The handsome horses and
gay colors fascinated the rural spectators,
there were many "ohs" and "ahs" as each
horse passed the stand.
Contrary to the custom of most running
races at the fairs, there was a good start, a
quick start. In fact they were "off" at the
first break. All broke about even, except
Cheerful Mary, who got much the worst of
it. The boy on Matador kept watching Lights
o' London, as if there was nothing else in the
race. Martin's instructions had been to take
the black out in front, and keep him there.
He was going to take no chances against the
possible prowess of Indian Fields.
As they passed the grandstand, the first
time around. Matador and Lights o' London
were running side by side. "Hitch the sprin-
klin' cart behind 'em", shouted a facetious
onlooker. Little Christmas, under a terrific
pull, was running third, five lengths behind.
with Indian Fields, at his withers, a good
fourth. Rounding the turn, Indian Fields

Bald Eagle Mountains 351
moved forward, and the rider of Little Christ
mas went to the whip, pounding him all along
the backstretch. Turning into the straight
away Little Christmas having stood a drive
for three eighths of a mile, quit, while In
dian Fields was breezing along unconcerned,
a fair test of his endurance.
The "hippodrome" between Matador and
Lights o' London continued past the stand.
It promised to be a tame race. "Say, them
guys has got it fixed between 'em", said the
same facetious onlooker. Few watched In
dian Fields make his run, after they had
rounded the next turn. He had "killed off"
Little Christmas, his eye was now on the pair
in front. His rider leaned forward, it was
a signal, the fulvous-colored bay shot forward
like a driving rod. In a bound or two he
closed up the five length gap which had
separated him from the leaders, and all along
the backstretch, the three raced side by side :
Indian Fields on the far outside. Near the
last turn Matador's rider began his effort with
whip and spur. The old stag responded
gamely, his long chocolate colored muzzle

352 Tales of The
shot out in front of Lights o' London's pink
ish nose. Then the rider of the gallant black
"put his nose to the grindstone," and it was
nip and tuck between the two old-time rivals.
Far on the outside, his jockey sitting far
back in the saddle to steady himself, Indian
Fields swung around the turn. The black
streak down his face stood out like an arrow,
his ample mane and tail were flying in the
wind like gonfalons. Onward he came, with
an irresistible rush, striking the track with
terrific hoof beats as he lengthened out for
home. "Hey there, boy, see that striped
horse", yelled a score of Matador's or Lights
o' London's partisans. Both jockeys looked
quickly at their unreckoned foe, and dug their
spurs deeper, A lull fell on the stand, it was
to be one race in a thousand. The distance
do-wn the stretch was short; Lights o' Lon
don's jockey pulled his mount across the track
in order to avoid a possible bumping match
with Matador, to give him freer action. This
lost him a second at least but he caught his
stride, rushing ahead, with a notable display
of courage. At the far end of the stand In-

Bald Eagle Mountains 353
dian Fields passed his two competitors, and
romped under the wire an easy winner by
five lengths. A spontaneous cheer went up
from the stand, it was a well-won struggle.
Lights o' London beat out Matador by a
length. Behind them, jaded and worn, trailed
in General Coxey, Cold Deck, Cheerful Mary,
and Little Christmas, in the order named.
Little Christmas, it must be said, was more
of a sprinter than a distance horse.
The timers hung up 1 :46 as the time, beat
ing the track record by six seconds. A great
crowd assembled around the winner ; his mys
terious antecedents, and odd markings mak
ing him an object of curiosity. In the crowd
there was one sad-hearted youth; Martin
Fryer refused to believe that the best horse
had won, the jockey in driving Lights o' Lon
don across the track at a time when every
leap counted, was the cause of his defeat —
and the loss of Agnes,
After cooling off the doughty black, >-.e
made arrangements to ship home the next
morning, he wanted no more racing. As ho
walked to the freight house he gazed up sad-

354 Tales of The
ly at the dusk-encompassed height of Look
out Mountain, that was to have been the open
ing scene of his happiness, had only Lights
o' London won. He felt too sick at heart
to go to see Agnes that night. The next morn
ing, after he had loaded his string, he wend
ed his way to her modest cottage. The house
v/as closed, and several stout women, -with
their sleeves rolled up, stood outside the gate
talking loudly and gesticulating. Martin
started to enter, when one of the women
stopped him, "There's no use going in, mis
ter man, they're all away. That pretty girl
Agnes disappeared at the fair, after the run
ning race last night. They think she's gone
off with a horseman, why those fellows are
worse on the girls than the picture show men,"
Martin, overcome with a cowardly fear, the
inward form of his loneliness turned about,
and returned to his box-car.
In another half an hour the car was on
its way, shunting out past Lookout Moun
tain. The autumnal tints were even more
distinct than on Monday, in the clear light,
the yellows now predominating. As he gazed

Bald Eagle Mountains 355
from the open door of the car, at the pine-
tipped summit the thought fiashed through
his mind: "Maybe Agnes climbed to the top
of the mountain last night, even though
Lights o' London didn't win, she might be
there now, I ought to go back and see," Then
the narrow, cowardly streak mingled with a
thought of her ill-treatment of him in the
past, and images of ease and home got the
mastery. "Even if she is up there I'd not
climb that mountain for any girl, let her come
after me", he said as he pulled-to the sliding
door.

XVIII,

TWO ROSES
(Story of Mount Julian)

ALTER PATER" said the an
tiquarian, "in his chapter in
Marius called 'White
Nights', speaks of 'The
mystery of so-called white
things, "They are, accord
ing to a German authority
v/hom he quotes, 'ever an
after-thought; the doubles
or seconds, of real things', the red rose came
first, the white rose afterwards. That was
the reason, apparently why my love for the
beautiful blue-eyed Cleise seemed only a
reflected counterpart of my romantic epi
sode with the black-eyed Hermionie. And
that was why after an association which
bid fair to end in matrimony, it reached
"high water mark," by sending a birth
day card to Hermionie telling her of an
intended marriage, which never took place,
356

Bald Eagle Mountains 357
And that was why, when I posted the card,
m the presence of Cleise, I felt a sudden
pang of sorrow, that through a marriage I
would belong to Hermionie no longer.
As long as I was single I still was hers
in spirit, a marriage would sever the tie. And
yet Cleise was so much like Hermionie, that
at times I was startled, like her in everything
except in coloring, I had been first attracted
to her for that reason, she was a veritable
double, or second, or counterpart, in blonde
coloring, Hermionie had never been mine,
our romance had been so delightfully vague
that I had never asked her how much she
cared for me; it was continued to the point
of love-making and declarations with Cleise,
but the finale was as nebulous as my last
evening with Hermionie. It was predestined
that Cleise was to hear what Hermionie had
never heard, the words of a love that lasted
unchanged for years, but were to sink into
obli-vion unrecorded, Cleise was the mirror
in which was reflected the every detail of my
ill-starred affection.

358 Tales of The
Can it be that we love a dark person more
intensely and lastingly than a blonde? Surely
we do, if the fair person is only the reflected
image of a black-eyed ideal. When I shut my
eyes for inward contemplation, Hermionie
I always see more clearly than Cleise, And
yet in life I had never mentioned a word of
love to the dark girl, while to the blonde I
nad made clear my passion, not only in speech
but in letters and almost daily verses. How
ever, I have liked more blondes than bru
nettes. By the way, I wonder where those
verses are now, as her wedding day ap
proaches? She bought a Japanese silver
jewel-case to put them in, but that was in
the days before she had yielded to her Fate.
Discarded verses suffer a worse ending than
discarded photographs. I got my faded tin
type back from Hermionie and Cleise, but I
never asked for the verses. They have gone to
that bourne of oblivion which swallows up old
race-horses, old show-girls, old bric-a-brac. I
will always believe that Cleise came into my
life to continue my soul's fealty to Hermi-
onie» It might have wavered were it not for

Bald Eagle Mountains 359
her — but now it is over its giddy period, and
is as solid as a concrete light-house on a
rock, I will never forget the first time I saw
Hermionie, It was the first epoch of my love-
life. I was at a railway station, waiting for
the Northern Express, Why is that our
sweetest moments come before a separation?
It seems to emphasize that losing is
loving. It was in the clear light of a
June afternoon; the intense radiance of
the summer sun was upon us, intensifying the
deep green of the maple trees, the rose bush
es, the sparks of humidity glistening from
the rails. I had been driven to the depot
half an hour before train time, and I was
nervous — at the delay I thought, I know now
that it was the nervous apprehension which
comes to a person before some important hap
pening. Presently I saw three very young
girls approaching, the oldest was less than
sixteen, I was five years older than the young
est. As they drew near I observed that while
all three had very dark hair, only one had
bldck eyes. They were all jiretty and dainty

360 Tales of The
enough, but only one could be called beauti
ful. That one was the girl with the dark
est hair and the black eyes. A description of
her appearance at that time is a description
of her as she is to-day, for she hasn't changed
a particle in all these eleven years, God was
pleased with her, and ordained that she should
never be different. Besides, a changing per
son cannot be the bulwark of a love which
lingers in the inmost depths of the spirit,
which is unchangeable,
I remember first of all that her figure was
very slim and very straight, hers was the
most erect, yet the most graceful form that I
have ever seen, excepting Cleise, her golden
shadow. Her thick hair was black, a brown
black, not a blue black, but her eyes were the
blackest of ivory black that ever sparkled
from between two pairs of shado-wy lashes.
She had dark eyebrows, prettily arched. Hers
was the most beautiful nose I have ever seen
on a human face, it must have been the nose
of the dryads, the wood-nymphs, the nereids
— I must admit it was prettier than Cleise's
which is saying a good deal, as everyone is

Bald Eagle Mountains 361
aware. There was a slight arch to the bridge
of Hermionie's nose, but it was saved from
Quaker severity by turning up just a trifle
at the tip, giving a vivacity to her expres
sion, the secret of eternal youth. Yet the
nostrils turned downward, which is a sign
of mental excellence. I am a great believer
in noses; a nose is either a bridge or a bar
rier. And, Hermionie has the most beauti
ful nose I have ever seen. Her upper lip
was short, of Grecian shortness, but her ex
quisitely curved lips were pitifully thin. It
was the -visible expression, surely, of some
spiritual bitterness, if we concede anything
to the science of Lavater, I have always been
partial to full lips, as I have been to blondes,
yet I prefer Hermionie's to any girl's mouth
I have ever seen. I do not mean that I would
prefer to kiss it, for I never have except in
dreams, I mean I prefer to look at it as a
triumph of Nature's art. It was the most
expressive feature of an uncommonly expres
sive face. There was a good outline to her
chin and throat; her little pink ears had a
peculiar formation, instead of being pendu-

362 Tales of The
lous the lobes grew to the sides of the
face, like in certain statues of fauns. This
gave a quaint archness to her expression.
Even at fifteen Hermionie was extremely
pale, not tne waxy pallor of ill-health, but
the rugged whiteness of intellectuality. Just
as there are blondes and blondes, there are
various textures of paleness. This was the
mental picture I absorbed as I watched her
with her young friends walking about on the
platform that summer afternoon. Twenty
minutes of contemplation did not reveal me
all her charms; I seemed to be just beginning
when the whistle of the approaching train
brought all the travellers, baggage-handlers,
cabmen, and idlers to attention.
Our eyes had met several times, and they
met again, as I climbed into the day-coach,
I looked back from the car-window, I could
see the three girls laughing and chatting with
the older sister of one of them, a blonde
whom they had come to the station to
meet. As I knew one of the young
girls by sight, there was a chance I could
become acquainted with Hermionie, I

Bald Eagle Mountains 363
felt that I had seen the rarest being who
had ever crossed my path; she seemed most
harmonious to my spiritual faculties, surely
we would meet again. Through the hours
while the Northern Express thundered along
I sat rapt, in a dream-world with Hermionie,
I thought of the past, I had seen no one any
ways like her; I strained my spiritual sight
to look into the future, I never would see a
being quite the same. Boylike I must have
found a loop-hole in the canvas of the infinite,
as the years never did bring her counterpart,
except her fair shadow, Cleise,
Months rolled arqund before I was able to
revisit the abode of Hermionie. At times
it seemed as if I would never get there — ^the
time passed slower, the task more difficult of
accomplishment, because its realization meant
so much to me. If I had understood the driv
ing orders of destiny 'do it now, or not at
air I would have waited over another day
and met her — ^but as a boy 'tomorrow'
seemed nearer and more positive than it does
at present. The difficulties in returning to
Hermionie's locality taught me I was becom-

364 Tales of The
ing a man, a dweller in a real and less accom
modating universe. But I returned neverthe
less, in September, when the trees were just
beginning to change color, I was introduced
to the older sister of one of the girls, the one
whom Hermionie and her friends had gone to
meet, and through her became acquainted
with my rare ideal's companion.
The first thing she asked me was if I re
membered that day at the station; we had
a pleasant chat concerning it. They knew
who I was it seemed, and were wondering
whether I recognized them. The next after
noon after this pleasant introduction, I met
this young girl just as she was coming from
her home on a shady street which ran along
the river bank. I stopped for a few moments
to converse, and when I turned to go my way
I saw to my surprise standing beside us, Her
mionie and her other young girl friend. I
don't know to this day what became of the
other two girls, Hermionie and I were left
together, amid the deepening shadows that
September afternoon.

Bald Eagle Mountains 363
I suggested that we take a walk, and she
acquiesced ; when two people like one another,
one never refuses a wish of the other. There
were many maple-leaves on the sidewalk, and
we kicked them as we walked, they sounded
like the roar of some miniature ocean. We
passed the Judge's mansion, that grand, kind
ly old gentleman was sitting on his favorite
rocker, talking to some political henchman;
he recognized us and smiled merrily. At the
far end of his shady yard stood an ancient
fountain separated from the sidewalk only by
a low iron fence. In its plashy bowls, in the
late afternoon, robins were bathing. We
stopped to admire the pretty creatures, dash
ing the water about with their nut-brown
wings, like tiny tritons. Our hands on the
scroll-work of the fence, I was telling her how
I always used to stop at midnight, when re
turning from dances, to listen to the music of
the fountain, sometimes standing in that same
place for fifteen minutes; how one night I
thought I saw the ghost of a little man, with
a forked beard, but that he turned out to be
the reflection of the moon through the trees.

366 Tales of The
on the fence and shrubbery, I told her about
the fairy parks up on the Pike; if you visit
them on a moonlight night with some one you
love, and who loves you as much in return,
you will see the fairies; otherwise you can
not. It is a true test of love. We got no
further than the realm of the old fountain
that afternoon, the Judge must have wondered
what we found there that was so interesting.
It was nearly supper time, a pale gold sun
set gleamed through the foliage and the old
jurist was leaving the porch, as we passed by
the mansion again. But at the fountain I had
gotten to know Hermionie, an intimate con
geniality was revealed, that was destined to
last through the years, without often seeing
or hearing of her, I recollect telling her, just
as the last robin saucily shook his feathers
to fly to the tree-tops, 'I feel as if I knew
you so well, that even if I never see you again
it will always be the same'. But we were
destined to meet in the future, but at wide
intervals. Sometimes a year would pass, but
I always felt unchanged.

Bald Eagle Mountains 367
When a more tangible romance came into
my life, hers were the last letters I burned
in the grate, that May morning. And a
year later, when that romance was no more,
I found, to my joy, another packet of her
letters, in that scrawled, irregular hand, in
a filing-case in my office, I had destroyed
other letters from that same case; it was
so miraculous that these must have taken
on an invisible wrapper, to escape the holo
caust. They were to cheer me, simple, good-
natured, girlish letters in the darkest of hours,
Hermionie had married some time before
my romance culminated and was happy in her
new life. In the melancholy tide which be
set me I needed the kindly consolation of
her radiant memory.
One beautiful afternoon in the early
Springtime, I was travelling in a train. At
a small station, a young girl wearing a fresh
white tulip, and accompanied by her mother
got in. She was above medium size, of the
slender, very erect type that I admired, she
was about the same age that Hennionie had
been, when our romance was at its height.

368 Tales of The
The more I looked at her, the more I mar
velled at the resemblance of her features and
expression to those of my former sweetheart
— except that she was an ash blonde, and
Hermionie was dark as midnight. There
may not have been as much aquilinity to the
nose, and a trifle more fullness to the lips;
but these were fine distinctions; barring col
oring they were counterparts. I liked her,
I wondered who she was, I wanted to meet
her just as I had Hermionie, and because,
blonde though she was, she reminded me of
Hermionie. She was her 'double or second'
. . . , 'half -real, half -material,' the gold
en reflection through the years of a long-ab
sent love. I hoped that some day I would
meet her, though I had no idea who she might
be, mostly because she gave gratification to
my soul's hunger that few could appease.
Months later at a dinner party, who should
appear in the drawing room, but the beau
tiful blonde girl herself, I couldn't have been
more amazed if it had been Hermionie, I
found that her name was Cleise, and I was
to escort her in to dinner. When the time

THE FLIGHT OF THE WILD PIGEONS

(From the painting by C, H. Shearer,)
in the pissess on of the Author

Bald Eagle Mountains 369
came, and she spoke to me, I was further sur
prised to find that she talked with the same
peculiar inflexion so characteristic of Hermi
onie, It is hard to describe how Hermionie,
or Cleise talked. It was not a nasal twang,
or a sectional dialect, for both were well edu
cated and used the best of English, It was
a tone of voice just their own, that's all.
You who have heard them speak know what
I mean, and how pleasing it is to listen to
them, Cleise had the same enthusiasm, the
unbridled exuberance of youth, of youth that
has never had a crossed hope. All through
the dinner I sought to learn her point of view,
it was original and clever, but it was Hermi
onie's, as well. And yet Cleise had never seen
Hermionie, perhaps similar racial strains
flowed in her veins, their ancestors may have
lived in the same villages in the Highlands
or the Pyranees, But it was a delight to
hear Cleise talk, it was also a delight to look
at her. She was as if I had caused a sculptor
to make a golden image of the unseen Hermi
onie, But I did not tell her she reminded me
of some one I had known, for she didn't, she

370 Tales of The
was Hermionie, her double, her second, her
re-issue. I couldn't bear to part from her that
night, I wanted to listen to more of her pe
culiarly intoned speech; it is the quaintest
inflexion of Enghsh that I have ever heard.
When she left the room I overheard several
men say 'She is the most beautiful young
woman in town.'
I saw Cleise a number of times after that,
but only at wide intervals. But I trans
gressed over the spiritual boundary, I told
her how much I loved her; I literally began
where I had left off with Hermionie, I found
her as responsive a sweetheart as Hermionie
had been as a friend ; but she was more than
that — Oh, what shall I call her, a more-than-
friend, an intimate companion, a dear associ
ate. We took little excursions together to
spots of rare scenic beauty, to historic locali
ties, to the homes of congenial mutual friends.
To the happy mental intercourse was added
the thrill of acknowledged affection. With
Hermionie it had always been a word left un
said, a sudden pause, a silence ever since
regretted. But I have always been shy, it

Bald Eagle Mountains 371
pains me now to utter a word of love, though
I feel that my heart is full to overflowing.
On one of these pleasant little excursions,
to the old home of the immortal Bayard Tay
lor, I recollected that it was v/ithin a day
of Hermionie's birthday, I had always sent
her cards on this occasion, even from foreign
lands, I did not want to break the sequence,
even though I was with the fair Cleise. 'I
am going to send a birthday card to some
one whom I used to know, and who reminds
me very much of you,' After all I had to
make use of the old platitude. But in this
case I said it to satisfy myself that to Cleise
I was true in thought and deed. It was a
poor-looking post-card too, with only a view
of the village church on it, but it had to suf
fice, I laid it on the writing-shelf in the
cozy little post office and wrote 'I wish you
a very happy birthday,' and signed my in
itials. I walked over to the letter-drop, to
toss it in, when something restrained me. I
looked at the card to make sure I had ad
dressed it right, that I had said nothing
which might offend a happily married
woman. I walked back to the shelf, and

372 Tales of The
wrote below the other words 'I am thinking
about getting married.' The spiritual re
straint was satisfied, I dropped the card
through the slot unhampered.
Cleise who was watching me all the while
said 'Oh what a funny man you are, you
give as much time to that card as if you were
applying for a post in the diplomatic serv
ice,' She would have thought me funnier,
had she known what I had added to my greet
ing, expectations of matrimony without ever
having proposed. Later that evening, on our
homeward journey to the great city, I ought
to have asked Cleise to marry me. She was
just as responsive as she had ever been that
night; if she cared for me enough she would
have said 'yes.' But I always had a feeling
when with a girl that translated into lan
guage would be 'perhaps she doesn't care for
me,' It had given me many a heartache be
fore; this night I feared to go ahead. How
awful to confess such cowardice! I should
have realized that if a girl cared enough to
go with me on these little outings, she would
be liable to stand me as a permanent com-

Bald Eagle Mountains 373
panion, perhaps. But the cars ran swifter
than usual that night, there were other sub
jects to discuss.
I remember how Cleise shuddered, when
we got out of the hot train at midnight, and
drew her neck-scarf of fisher's fur, tightly
about her face, I would have loved to have
taken her in my arms then; I was always
courageous at the wrong time. But I hoped
some day I would marry her, she was so
beautiful, so congenial. But the wish with
out the word is far from the accomplishment.
I never got any nearer to a marriage than
sending that card. Two weeks later Cleise
departed for Europe. I should have dropped
everything and followed her but didn't, I
contented myself with going to the steamer
to see her off. But as I look back on it now,
I had a presentiment that morning I would
never see her again. We were talking in the
gloomy passage-way, near her stateroom, no
one was about; the thought came to me
'Why not ask her for a kiss, I may never see
her again'. I stifled the soul's cry, and we
parted in a conventional manner, I, and the

374 Tales of The
companion of so many little 'spiritual adven
tures'. Then for weeks I engrossed myself
with various occupations, so much so that I
did not notice the matter-of-fact tone of
Cleise's letters. Nor did I pay much atten
tion to the fact that a new photograph of
herself wiiich she promised to send me as
soon as she reached the other side never
came. One bright May afternoon, when I should
have been out-of-doors mingling with the hap
piness of awakening nature, a letter was
handed to me. It was from Paris, from Cle
ise, addressed in her scratchy, uneven hand",
so reminiscent of Hermionie. I dropped the
scientific problem, the theory of conic sec
tions, on which I was working, and set to
reading it. To my dismay it told of her en
gagement to a young man whom she had
known anterior to meeting me. He had come
back from India and won her with a fiery,
impetuous wooing, I was heartbroken at
first, an awful pall sank do-wn upon me which
I could not reason away. To ease the pain
I hurried out into the sunshine, and wan-

Bald Eagle Mountains 373
dered under the budding trees, I had not
gone far before I saw in a front yard a small
bed of white tulips, typical of Cleise's fair
loveliness. It was her symbol as a golden
shadow, a distant echo, a light imprint of
my mental photograph of Hermionie, Now
the shadow was gone, I was face to face with
the reality. Like there is an end to every
afternoon, there is an end to every shadow.
But there are certain fixed verities which al
ways remain; Hermionie was one, I judged
her more clearly, now that the shadow of
Cleise was dissipated, I was alone with the
spectre of what might have been. All I could
see in the past was the miserable botch I
had made out of my life. And the future
loomed dark and uncertain as a torrent at
night below an unsteady bridge.
These were terrible thoughts on a May
afternoon when the orioles and the larks were
in such good humor. I had lost the reality,
and could not lay my hands on the shadow.
Someone else had plucked the red rose, now I
found the white rose transplanted to another
person's garden. If neither Hennionie nor

376 Tales of The
Cleise cared for me, my disappointment was
like an armistice after a bloodless war. To
have had either turn me away would have left
an unhealable wound in my heart of hearts.
But each had passed gently out of my life.
Yet, what is the difference between a red and
a white rose? Each waked the noblest senti
ments in me, aroused the worthiest ambi
tions, but the result was the same, of reality
and shadow. When a man grieves for a wom
an he has never asked to marry him, it is the
thought of what might have been that tor
tures ; when it is over a woman who refused
him, it is for an actuality. Each grief has
its own particular poignancy, I suppose.
I came back from my walk, resigned to
fate, and turned again to my scientific re
searches. But my soul must have been un
quiet, as I had to read Cleise's letter again,
before I retired, at midnight. And now the
invitations to her wedding have been issued,
the happy date is drawing near. This clear
afternoon, whUe seated on the summit of
Mount Julian, gazing over the beautiful Bald
Eagle Valley, fairest valley in the world to

Bald Eagle Mountains 377
those who love it best, my thoughts turned
to Cleise, and how different this scene witii
its foliage "a blaze of scarlet and gold" from
that foggy, muggy morning, so confined and
stifled, when I talked with her in the pas
sageway of the Mauritania. Here I noted
a jay bird's shrilling, there the raucous dron
ing of the hoists, I wished that she were
here with me, the thought was as if a
shadow had swept across my path, the
smile vanished from my lips. Love is a very
choice emotion, it is a pity that we
cannot grasp it when it comes our way,
but who ever heard tell of grasping a shad
ow? I looked down the valley, I could see
ridge after ridge of the Bald Eagle Moun
tains on one side, the great, cumbersome
hump-backed mass of the Alleghanies on the
other. In the far distance, from the ochre-
hued valley between, rose the thin blue veil
of autumnal haze, where valley blended with
sky and infinity, where fact was one with
fancy, for the glory of Indian summer.
It was back there, where the ideal and
the real were so closely interwoven, where

378 Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains
sunlight and haze gave out harmonious light,
in vanished years that I had loved a tangi
ble reality, Hermionie, She had then and
now, burned deeper and stronger, and truer
into my soul than the fair and spectacular
Cleise. She had been my chance of happi
ness which comes only once to every man —
God makes as many signals as He can to "go
ahead," if we fail to take heed, we are eter
nally lost; the best we can find thereafter
is only shadow, rainbow, the white rose."

XIX.

THE SORCERESS
(Story of Warrior's Mountain)
HE GIPSIES were camping
in W^arrior's Gap, They
were not the genial, blue-
eyed tribe that Bill Stanley
led, but foreign Gipsies, of
a darker and swarthier
type. They had a string of
six wagons, and the usual
collection of horses, ponies,
and dogs. All were a pretty tired lot when
they selected an abandoned pasture lot, near
the bubbling spring, as the best piece for a
twenty-four hours' rest.
They were travelling a full day behind
schedule, as one of their number, a young
woman, had been arrested for flim-flamming
a "simp" who had come to have his fortune
told. Bond v/as given, and the party per
mitted to move on, but it was putting thera
379

380 Tales of The
a day late to all their points, and the season
was well on the wane.
After tieing the perspiring horses to trees,
they sat about on the grass, in the lea of their
mural-decorated wagons, smoking, and dis
cussing the incidents of the day. Their
brief repose at an end, they began building
fires and foraging. They were a picturesque
lot, take them all in all, much more so than
Bill Stanley's bigger and fairer complex-
ioned aggregation.
The sun set clear that night, its colors
markedly similar to the blaze of the Gipsy
camp-fires. Dusk softened into night, above the Bald
Eagle mountain a full moon rose in all its
effulgent glory. It was when the moon shone
do-wn on them that the strange nomads
seemed most alive. There is said to be some
mystic connection between moonlight and
witches, there is even a more intimate bond
between moonlight and Gipsies. They were
all animation by its silvery hght; some of
them gathered into groups of two or three,
and chanted weird melodies.

Bald Eagle Mountains 381
It was in the midst of their celebrating
that a two-horse buggy containing a couple
of travellers, appeared in sight of the camp.
They had been in Spruce Creek Valley, and
after taking supper in Warrior's Mark, were
on their way to some village in the valley
of the Bald Eagles, They had made a quick
trip across the mountain, the chill, frosty air
stimulating the horses more than words or
whip. When they met the Gipsies, sitting about
their cheery fires, the temptation was too
great, they stopped and entered into conver
sation with them. They had heard of the
Gipsy caravan in the southern valleys, of the
young girl's arrest for filching a pocketbook
from a too trustful youth. They vowed,
when they stopped, that they would allow
no fortune-telling. A girl of such low cali
bre as to rob a patron, could not very well
be gifted with any such thing as second
sight, "She would have foretold her o-wn
downfall", said one of the travellers, an anti
quarian, "But she may have felt that a
legal complication would do her good, one

382 Tales of The
can never tell what cosmic wisdom figures
out", replied the other.
The Gipsies proved entertaining hosts, and
the antiquarian sought to extract from them
some memories of their past, to form an
opinion as to their origin. They looked like
such pure descendants of the Hindoo famine
sufferers who wandered into Europe hunting
food nine or ten centuries ago, and have
been wandering ever since, that they might
have proved valuable "historical landmarks".
But the best they could do was to recollect
traditions of fifty years before, when they
were trailing through Assyria,
While the travellers were talking with the
oldest man in the party, who said he was
"about sixty-three", a well-developed young
woman, who looked to be about twenty-one,
approached, and sat do-wn beside them. There
was a curliness to her dark hair, an oriental
whiteness to the eyeballs of her dark blue
eyes, that gave her a certain individuality.
She listened intently to all that they had to
say, keeping track of every sentence with her

Bald Eagle Mountains 383
lips, and not with her eyes, as is the case with
more highly civilized persons.
When the old man relapsed into silence, she
leaned over on her elbow, and asked the
antiquarian if she could tell his fortune. He
had a habit of saying "no" at first to every
thing, and then changing his mind, but he
changed the no into a yes, before she noticed
it. His friend looked at him in dismay; all
his ridicule of these wayward soothsayers
had come to naught. The young woman
looked at him intently, "Say", she said, "I
like to tell your future, you have some of
the same power that I have". From that
she went on predicting many things, includ
ing a serious illness, which was not very
cheerful to hear. Then she delved a short
distance into the past, "You were married
once, you have a little son, whom you have
never held in your arms, but you will never
marry again". The antiquarian pressed her
for a reason, although matrimony did not
appeal to him very much at the time, "I
cannot tell you myself why that will be, but
I know this much, it will all be revealed to

384 Tales of The
you some night this coming November one
year". Further than that, she could tell nothing,
she could divine that the explanation would
be given, but said there was an impenetrable
cloud between her and the whys and where
fores. After she had finished a curious smile
played over her full red lips an instant, but
she made no remark, "What makes you
smile like that"? inquired the antiquarian,
who was quite won over. "Oh, nothing — ^yes,
of course, I will tell you — ^won't you please
look in your coat-pocket and see if your
money-wallet is there, I have just been re
leased from jail for taking one", "Oh, I
know that story, it is all over the valleys",
the antiquarian answered, "but I don't be
lieve it", "Very well, look in your pocket",
said the sorceress. The young man did as
requested, but found the pocketbook missing.
"That's very funny", he said, "after all my
travels and experiences, I fall as easily as
any common garden simp". The girl laughed
out loud, and rose to her feet. As she did so,
she extracted the wallet from the bosom of

Bald Eagle Mountains 385
her shirtwaist, handing it to him. "When
you were driving across the mountain", she
resumed, "you were saying that you didn't
believe in Gipsy fortune-tellers, that anyone
was a fool to bother with them, that the
Nittany Valley farmer in question deserved
all he got, now didn't you say that"? The
antiquarian was glad to admit the truth, but
claimed that he now thought otherwise. "I
don't know whether you do or not, in your
heart", said the young woman, "you say you
do because you have 'taken a shine' to me
personally, but secretly you think I am only
a shrewd guesser. You will believe in my
powers after next November one year".
The hour was late, so the travellers bade
good-bye to their unconventional acquaint
ances, and started for the little village across
the valley. All the rest of the way the anti
quarian kept thinking of the bizarre Gipsy
girl, and wondering how much she had pene
trated into the workshops of destiny. Some
folks have been behind the scenes surely, per
haps she was one of them. It was Balzac
who remarked that the Creator poured his

386 Tales of The
messages into some very frail vessels. One
has only to think of Henry VIII., Joe Smith,
Brigham Young, the Fox sisters, and the
founder of Christian Science, with her many
names and occupations.
Time rolled on ; one by one the predictions
of the Gipsy came to pass. Most of them
were very minor details of life, but one or
two were events of some importance. The
serious illness took place, and for weeks the
antiquarian's life was despaired of. Oft-
times he thought of the Gipsy's words, that
he would get well, it could not be otherwise.
They proved a beacon of hope to his sick
room. The months moved along, as rapidly
as a flowing tide, that no one could stem.
The harvest moon, the drying leaves, the
hoar frost, the chilly nights, all indicated
the passing of summer, September swept by
like some gorgeous pageant as did October,
November was ushered in with one of the
most impressive days in the life of this young
man. He had hardly expected any revela
tion of his destiny, but the events of that day

Bald Eagle Mountains 387
could never be forgotten. He had heard that
a panther, killed by one Lewis Dorman in
the late sixties, was stuffed and on exhibition
in the old Academy in the quaint old town of
New Berlin. He was engaged in some natur
al history researches at the time. He had
visited this abandoned county seat seven or
eight years before, and wandered hat in
hand, under the shade trees which surround
ed the then deserted Academy, He had sat
on the porch at the ancient tavern stand be
neath the swinging sign of the Golden Swan,
listening to the reminiscences of the grey
beards of Indians, ghosts, and panthers.
None of them had mentioned that there was
a stuffed panther in the school-house, the
famous Dorman panther, at that, about which
so much had been written, so he had doubts
as to the correctness of the legend.
But accompanied by the same congenial
friend who was with him the night of the
meeting with the sorceress at Warrior's Gap,
he started for the old settlement beyond Sha
mokin mountain. It was a buoyant, blo-wy,
cloud-swept afternoon when they left the liv-

388 Tales of The
ery barn in Lewisburg, Their first objective
point was the hilltop, or "New" cemetery, on
the outskirts of the town, A cemeterj'-, es
pecially one on high ground, always is at
its best when high winds shake the Norway
spruces, and bend the arbor-vitaes almost
double; when the distant mountains are a
purple brown, and the sun a golden disc in
the whirling mass of smoky clouds, when the
gold-fish in the fountain feel too congealed to
swim about freely, when dry leaves and bits
of hyderangia blooms chase one another along
the pebbled paths, when the old gravedigger
turns up the collar of his faded military coat,
when an occasional shaft of pale sunlight
throws into bold relief some crumbling in
scription. No cemetery was ever better fit
ted as the resting place of the glorious dead
than the hilltop "God's acre" in old Lewis
burg. Perhaps the grave which impressed the
antiquarian and his friend the most was the
simple marble slab above all that is mortal
of one of the bravest and noblest of mothers,
Mary Q. Brady, who died in 1783, wife of

Bald Eagle Mountains 389
Capt, John Brady, the pioneer, and mother
of the ill-fated Capt, James Brady, "All
tears are wiped from her eyes", is the modest
epitaph. Her illustrious progeny are buried
in many different localities, but though she
sleeps far from most of her descendants, she
is tended by a host of precious memories.
Not far distant is the tomb of Col. John
Kelly, one of the heroic figures of the Revo
lutionary war, and a pioneer of Buffalo Val
ley, who is also remembered as having killed,
in 1801, the last buffalo in Pennsylvania. On
higher ground is the neatly-fenced plot of
the old Slifer family, the most notable mem
ber being Col, Eli Slifer, whose name is fa
miliar to all who cherish in their families
Civil War Commissions; he was Governor
Curtin's Secretary of the Commonwealth.
Nearby is the classic marbled enclosure of
the Cameron Clan. Col, James Cameron, who
was killed whfle leading his regiment, the
immortal 79th New York Highlanders, at the
Battle of Bull Run, in 1861, lies near the
imposing shaft, and Capt. William Cameron,
his brother, not far away.

390 Tales of The
There is also a tottering stone which marks
the last resting place of Eliza Pfouts, an aged
aunt of all the older Camerons, Nearer the
main entrance, is a smooth marble upright
marking the grave of Lieut, Andrew Gregg
Tucker, nephew of the War Governor, who
died in his nineteenth year, on July 5, 1863,
from wounds received at Gettysburg, Fac
ing the iron gates, and not far from the fish
pond, is a slab of weather beaten brown-
stone, the tomb of George Derr, the son of
Lewis Derr, the famous founder of "Tarrs-
town", or Lewisburg.
Had it not been for the lessening of the
pale gold disc of the sun, as it retreated to-
v/ai'ds the Wliite Deer mountain pinnacles,
and the fiercer sweeping of the gale, the two
sympathetic pilgrims might have tarried
longer. As it was, they bade au revoir to
the kindly, well-informed superintendent,
who is a war veteran, and started out the
broad pike for the road leading across the
mountains to New Berlin, They passed the
deserted Lochiel Tavern, once the scene of
great activity and hilarity, in the days be-

Bald Eagle Mountains 391
fore the building of the L. & T, snatched the
trade from the teamsters and stage-drivers.
In the far distance, on the brow of a hill rose
the graceful spire of Dreisbach Church, the
"church of the three streams." Beside it, as
grey and cold as the autumnal sky, probably
as himself, was the granite shaft erected in
memory of the deeds of Samuel Maclay, an
obscure United States Senator, by a State
which has left unmarked the tomb of Col,
Conrad Weiser at Womelsdorf. Maclay's
bones must tremble, his ghost must stalk
and gibber on All Souls' Night, as he
gave instructions that he await the
"last trump" with Presbyterian exclusive-
ness in a private plot on his farm, on the
opposite hill. Despite this, nearly a hun
dred years later he was dug up and re-in
terred in Dreisbach churchyard, among the
Germans, "because the monument would look
better there".
Dark looms the level ridge of Shamokin
mountain over which the travellers must pass
before reaching the tree-bowered precincts
of New Berlin. The drive is long, the horses

392 Tales of The
tug with might and main to cross the ridge.
On the very summit they encountered a snow
storm which hid everything in its do-wny
mantle. At length, the ruddy vfllage lights
are seen, shining eye-like through the leaf-
bared maples. The horses, when they reach
the level street, beneath the double row of
giant trees, strike a nimbler gait, and soon
reach the snug tavern-stand, with the swing
ing sign of the Golden Swan,
All is brightness, good-nature, warmth,
that beams out on the frosty twilight. The
travellers alight; an ancient hostler, with
only one eye, and a patriarchal grey beard,
climbs into the rig, and drives it back to
the stable-yard. Supper is just on the table,
they have time to register, and wash, and
then take their seats in the cozy lamp-lit
dining room. Once this room entertained
bands of laughing, roystering rivermen home
ward bound from Safe Harbor, To-night
there is only one other guest beside them
selves, a tired-looking country lav/yer, in
town to claim an inheritance for a chent in
Iowa.

Bald Eagle Mountains 393
The waitress a buxom, good natured Penn
sylvania German girl, flounces in and out
through the swinging door, serving neatly
and quickly. Roast goose and apple-sauce
i.s the principal dish, it is very good, A plate
of fresh roasted chestnuts, that had been in
their burrs on the trees a couple of hours
before, and as a special compliment some
cider with just the right tang to it are
the relishes ; pumpkin pie nicely spiced is the
dessert. But the air of cheer, the atmosphere of the
Hallowe'en just passed, sweetest and purest
of all our holidays, pleases most; the travel
lers are loathe to leave the soothing lamp-
glow. After supper they sat and talked
awhile in the parlor, but there was a damp
ness and a melancholy reflected even in the
family portraits in their oval frames, which
brought thoughts of bed earlier than usual.
All three travellers carrying lighted candles
and pitchers of ice-water ascended the stairs
just as the tall clock on the landing struck
nine. As the antiquarian was locking his
doori he recollected that his mind had been

394 Tales of The
SO engrossed on the big events of history, the
picturesqueness of the inn, that he had omit
ted to ask the landlord about the Dorman
panther.* But he recalled that this was All
Souls' Night. The room he was assigned to
was in the front of the house, on the second
floor. It was cold and damp, but possessed
the delicious odor of an old-fashioned room.
The single -window, eight-paned, and slow of
locomotion, looked out on the park-like street.
There was a kerosene street-lamp directly
across the way in front of the former court
house, but most of its unsteady gleams were
lost through the hea-vy branches of the trees.
The huge four-poster took up most of the
room, but there was space for two small
chairs, and a walnut, marble-topped, wash-
stand, A mirror, gilt-framed, hung above it.
On the wall, at the side of the bed, so that
the occupant could touch the walnut frame
with his hand, was an ancient frame contain
ing some wax flowers.
The antiquarian laughed, and thought of
his experience -with the Gipsy fortune-teller,
over a year before, when he proved himself
* See appendix B

Bald Eagle Mountains 393
wax in her hands by letting her get his wallet
so easily. But she was a wonderful woman,
would all of her predictions come true ? Later
on he was sorry he had thought of her at all
before he fell asleep. What subsequently
happened had to undergo the suspicion of
being a dream caused by his waking thoughts.
But he consoled himself with the belief that
if he had not thought of her at bedtime, the
events could be charged to subconscious mem
ories. No one could rob him of his belief
that there is a supernatural world, of some
kind. He was feeling at peace with exist
ence, its turmoil and strife bothered him not
as he sank into repose.
This is invariably the time when tragedy or
tumult stalk into our midst. During the hours
from nine-thirty until twelve, the sleeper's
dreams, if any, dwelt on the glorious past, the
historic panorama called up by the visit to the
New cemetery, the drive through Buffalo
Valley, At the witching hour of twelve sleep
became less intense, consciousness was slow
ly returning. When wakefulness finally mas
tered, he opened his eyes, the room was inky

396 Tales of The
black, the street lamp had been extinguished
an hour earlier.
He placed his hands behind his head, which
was a custom he had, determined to think
for half an hour before going back to dream
land. As he roused himself, he became aware
that he could see about the room, though
no light was visible. He counted the chairs,
two, the washstand, one, the frame contain
ing the wax flowers one, the mirror, one, the
bed was surely there, yes, all the fixtures
of the room were in their places. He
began noticing a strange vapor sweeping
in the half-opened window, did it arise
from Penn's Creek, or was it generated
in the dense forests on Montour's Ridge,
There was a sparkle to the mist, that seemed
unfamiliar, it kept swirling, and coihng
about, as if impelled by unseen force. It
began assembling itself by the bedside, as
suming the shape of a spiral, gradually solid
ifying. As it turned and twisted it seemed
to take on human form, the outlines of a
woman in a silver-spangled baU costume.
Natural colors were f ainty apparent, the fea-

Bald Eagle Mountains 397
tures pretematurally distinct. From a form
less mass it became a ravishingly beautiful
young girl, of perhaps twenty years of age.
Her heavy wavy hair was ash-blonde, that
most exquisite of all colors, the brows and
lashes were dark, the eyes full and grey.
There was a slight upward tilt at the end
of the aquiline nose, the upper lip was short,
an "Austrian lip", both were full and clearly
cut. The chin was beautifully rounded, the
throat smooth and white.
She was above the medium height, her
slender, erect figure showed off in bold relief
in her spangled gown. Her arms were gloved,
but the gloves were pushed back from the
shapely white hands. She stood by the bed
side a full minute, irresolute, her lips mov
ing as if she wished to speak. The anti
quarian rose up, his lips twitching, but fear
ing to speak lest it dissolve her into thin
air. The thought of the sorceress flashed
through his mind. This was the month when
she declared his destiny would reveal itself,
and All Souls' Night, But why was this cold
little bedroom at the Golden Swan chosen

398 Tales of The
as the place? He mustered his courage
and spoke to the apparition. "It is a
pleasure to see you here to-night", he
said, in a tone of voice that was not
his own. "How did you find me in this
remote corner of the world"? He took for
granted that one so elegant as she belonged
to the "big world".
The wraith found it difficult to articulate.
Her lips twitched and twisted, the words
would not shape themj^elves. At last in a
voice shghtly above a whisper, and with the
most conscious effort, she unfolded her story.
"I was to have been your destiny, that was
decided years ago, we were to have met
this coming January, in Philadelphia, and
every fortuitous circumstance was to have
worked towards our happiness, I was the
one woman who would have understood you,
your love of music, art, literature, and sci
ence, who could have made the most out of
your temperamentally acute life. Ours was
to have been a love that would have existed
unchanged through the years, it would have
lasted even into the world beyond, for there

Bald Eagle Mountains 399
really is such a world. But alas it is very dif
ferent from what any of us ever imagined.
You had heard of me, but I knew nothing of
you, until the day we were to meet, and then
all would have conspired to make you the hap
piest of men, me the happiest of women.
"But did you know that destiny has a habit
of revoking its decrees ? In the mortal world
we are taught that fate and destiny are ir-
revokable, inexorable. But nothing of the
sort, destiny is most capricious, A week ago
the cosmic forces veered about, I was not
to be for you after all. I met someone at a
ball, my heart or something was overcome, I
am going to marry him in April.
"Yet I do love you, but don't tell a soul".
The antiquarian leaned forward, and took one
of the hands of the gorgeous apparition in
his ; he pressed it tight, it felt like a gardenia
in his grasp. He put his lips to it, and
kissed it long and deeply. The sense of some
thing in his hold suddenly left, he looked up,
the lovely form had gone. Over by the win
dow he saw a mist trailing out like a spang
led scarf; he thought he heard the word "fare-

400 Tales of The
well". Then came an ominous, doleful sil
ence. The room became black as the proverb
ial midnight. From a shed in one of the
alleys came the strident crowing of a chan
ticleer. The night wind sent a shudder
through the maple trees ; he heard the swish
of occasional leaves falling on the fiagstones.
The odor of the old-fashioned room became
more distinct.
Was it true, or had it been all a dream ; he
had no token to prove the visitation, only the
memory of the Gipsy woman's prophecy.
Wliy hadn't he asked her if she had ever
known of the voluptuous pocketbook-filching
witch, perhaps she could have established in
him a firmer belief in her powers.
The sight of this fair creature who was to
have loved and understood him was indeed
enough to keep a man single for the rest of
his life. How could he contemplate marry
ing an average woman when he thought of
how a radiant and responsive creature might
have been his own. But was he worthy of
her, probably not, that may have been the
reason why destiny cancelled its fiat, or it

Bald Eagle Mountains

401

may have been caprice? But worthy or un
worthy, he could go on worshipping her, per
haps in some distant future year she would
revisit him in the night.

XX.

UNREQUITED
(Story of Vail Mountain)

mm

UT IN the mountain pass,
where the old time furnace
was located, is the badly
shrunken remnant of an ar
tificial pond, which once
covered a dozen acres. It
had been used in the days
when the furnace was at
"full blast", but now, its
usefulness over, leaks were allowed to go
unmended, it was fast dwindling back to its
original size as a mountain rivulet.
In a semi-circle, around the steep banks
of slag, which lined the pond, stood the de
serted and decaying barracks of the vanished
workmen. They were solidly built struc
tures of yellow stone, two-storeyed, slate-
roofed, and diamond-paned. Most of the
doors were unhinged, many of the panes were
broken, and the bats scurried in and out in
402

Bald Eagle Mountains 403
full possession. Hosts of swifts flitted into
the gaping chimneys, a pair of barn-owls had
a nest in one of them that was particularly
dilapidated. Across the pond rose the crumbling walls,
the tumble-down chimneys of what had once
been the furnace. Sumac, red-leaved in au
tumn, vied with the woodbine's scarlet tints,
to give artistic harmony to the ruins. In the
background spread the dark branches of sev
eral large white pines, in contrast to the paler
tints of the sapling-massed, coaled-over
mountain. It was a desolate looking area,
one fitted for the habitation of a ghost. It
seems a pity that acts of violence, which pro
duce wandering shades, often occur in such
lonesome spots, A ghost v/ould find more
comfort in a habitable sphere.
Where once had been the breast of the
dam which created the pond, quite a little
water stiU remained. It had once been the
"deep hole" of the pond, even now it was five
feet in depth in the dry season. But in the
old days the water was clear, now it was al-

404 Tales of The
most boggy, the abode of newts, and frogs,
and skippers.
At sunset a lone great blue heron, that
bird which the old settlers not unappropriate-
ly called the "gandersnipe", was a, regular
visitor, finding the crop of tadpoles much to
her liking. Her mate had long since been
crucified on a barn-door do-wn in the valley,
yet this one lingered on, as she could not
resist the rich pickings in the stagnant tarn.
It was a comical sight to watch her chasing
a lizard on the bank, lookmg all the world
like a skirtless woman running about in her
corset-cover. Persecuted as an "arch ene
my" of the fish she ate enough snakes, toads,
lizards, and bugs, to make her immune from
the farmers' rapacity, if they but understood.
There were few persons crossing the moun
tain road these days, at least compared to the
travel in the past. Even the farmhouses in
the foothills were "going down". Nobody
cared, nobody wanted to stay, the big cities
down the valley were too alluring.
The ghost that haunted the pool at the
furnace was in grave danger of having no

Bald Eagle Mountains 405
one to appear to after awhile. Deserted
houses lined the road beyond the empty bar
racks; even the farmers further on, showed
signs of dissatisfaction. But a ghost in such
an unregenerate, unappreciative neighbor
hood, must needs be a poor, puny specimen of
its kind. It was such a small, distorted ghost,
that the majority of those who saw it, never
credited it with being one. It therefore lost
the only satisfaction that a ghost can have,
the ability to impress or startle folks. Flit
ting about the pond after night, it was fre
quently mistaken by travellers for a belated
"gandersnipe". Time and time again they
made that hackneyed wish for a gun "to blow
the top of its head off". But whUe a gander
snipe would have small chance, no load of
buckshot could damage the anatomy of a
ghost. Did you ever see a ghost assemble itself?
First of all you will notice a few tiny globules
of transparent water floating in the dusky
atmosphere. These will increase in numbers,
dancing and shhnmering like quicksilver.
They will become more numerous, seemingly

406 Tales of The
materializing from the gloom. As soon as
there are a sufficient number, they vdll be
gin drawing together, and as the mass solidi
fies, assuming human proportions. Some
times if there is enough cohesion, or vitality
to the particles, the natural colors of life will
be reproduced. If it isn't a vigorous spirit,
it will remain the color of water, or quick
silver, until it dissolves again. A spirit that
can take on the colors of life will persist
longer than a pale ghost, but the pala ghosts
are much more plentiful. The ghost in natur
al colors is usually a silent spectre, it attempts
to deliver no message, there is nothing to
shock it into nothingness, unless the destruc
tion of its environment. The pale ghost gen
erally has something to tell; when this is
done it disintegrates forever, even though its
environment remains undisturbed.
The ghost at the furnace pool was pale, and
very indistinct, although it probably had no
message to impart. But it was frail and filmy
because in life it was only a wisp, a mite of
humanity, a little red-haired hunchback girl.
She was born when all was prosperity about

Bald Eagle Mountains 407
the furnace. In fact with her advent the
tide of ill-luck, which later engulfed it, first
appeared. Her father was a foreman in one
of the departments, and lived in a comforta
ble stone cottage a quarter of a mile down
the road from the pond and the barracks.
He was a steady, good-natured Englishman,
highly respected by his friends and employ
ers. He had married a good-looking German
girl from Half Moon Valley, over somewhere
near Gatesburg, and life started out aus
piciously. The coming of a baby was a great
event, as both were fond of children. When
the little girl was born, she was said to be
a most beautiful child, and was idolized not
only by her parents, but by the entire set
tlement. She was a bright little thing, fond
of pranks, and full of activity.
When she grew to be three years old, she
developed a habit of running to meet her
father on his return from work. At first
this was considered 'real cute", but when she
came up the path, almost as far as the breast
of the dam, it seemed as if she was running
too big a risk. Her mother tried to watch

405 Tales of The
her. but she would elude the indulgent par
ent. The mother could not talk cross to her,
neither could the father, so it was difficult
to control her. When she ran out to meet
her father, he always took her on his shoul
der, and carried her home. These were her
proudest moments, and his. It was an ideally
happy home, of the kind which ought to be
met with more frequently. When the young
people went to church on Sundays they gave
thanks for manifold blessings. It was a
beautiful world; all was sunshine while
things went their way.
One bright summer evening, when the
young father was on his homeward way, he
was surprised to see the little girl running
towards him across the breast of the dam.
It was a dangerous thing to do; on one side
was the pool, twenty feet deep, on the other
the swift running spillway, with the sharp
rocks below. He was so terrified that he
shouted to the child to stop running at once.
The loud voice bewUdered her, and she
stopped short, in so doing losing her balance.
She tripped over her feet, and tumbled head-

Bald Eagle Mountains 409
long down to the rocky gorge below the spill
way. The father screamed in terror, and
ran to the scene of the disaster. He saw the
child lying motionless on the rocks, with the
spray from the overshoot just missing her
face, A little more and she would have been
drowned. He laid down his dinner bucket,
and clambered after his unfortunate darling.
She was unconscious when he picked her up,
and she hung over his arm as limp as a broken
doll. He laid her on the breast of the dam,
and ran up to the workmen's barracks for
assistance. Among those who came forth was an old
English woman, a modern prototype of
Mother Shipton, who had some reputation
as a practiser of the black art. She was a
kind old soul, and knew as much about sur
gery and doctoring as some practising phy
sicians. She picked up the unconscious child,
and as she did so, it bent over double, like
a jack-knife. With a groan the old woman
called out "Oh, Mercy, the little dear has her
back broken" ! The agitated father, v/ho was
standing nearby fell in a faint on the ground.

410 Tales of The
His wife, who was hurrying to the spot as
fast as her legs could carry her, heard the
awful diagnosis, and also sv/ooned.
The superintendent of the furnace ap
peared on the scene, and scoffed at the old
woman's ominous pronouncement. He sent
one of his clerks on horseback for the near
est doctor. The child was carried to her
parents' cottage, where she v/^as laid on the
bed. When the doctor arrived an hour later
he stated that it was only too true, the back
bone was broken, in most probabilities she
would be a hunchback if she lived. The child
gat well, but she was a hunchback, as pre
dicted. The whole affair was so horrible that the
father took to drink, in which he was joined
by his wife. When well-meaning friends
urged them to brace up, and have another
child, they said they wanted no more, one
had been curse enough to them. When the
child was about ten years old, the furnace
shut down for good; her father was thro-wn
out of employment. Most of his fellow-
employees, who had rented sections in the

Bald Eagle Mountains 411
barracks, moved away to more flourishing
localities. The Englishman did not care to move, as
after years of struggle, he had lately made
the final payment on his house and three
acres of ground. This added disappointment
set him to drinking more heavily, but as he
had a good constitution he held out until a
week before his hunchback daughter's fif
teenth birthday, when he died in Milesburg
on one of his drunken sprees.
The crippled child was diminutive to a de
gree, but she looked smaller than ever in
the mourning garb which she donned. On
the way to the graveyard a young man on
horseback passed the cortege, tipping his hat
as he rode by the hearse. He appeared to
be about twenty years of age, dark, and good-
looking. The preacher, who had peered out
at him from under the drawn curtains of the
hack, said he was the only son of the wealthy
man who owned the furnace, "His country
estate is on the other side of the valley, but
he comes here very seldom since the furnace
is no more". Then he went on to say how

412 Tales of The
the boy, who had been educated in France,
had failed to get into Vi^'est Point on account
of his eyes. A thrill shot through the sor
row-laden little hunchback, the handsome
youth like herself was afflicted. During the
brief services she forgot her grief over the
deceased, and kept thinking of the young
hero, of her chances of seeing him again.
After that she took walks in the after
noons, about the same hour she had seen him
pass. Within a week she saw him again, he
rode by gaily and unconcerned. All through
the summer they met every few days, -but
neither made an effort to speak. The girl
did not dare, the boy did not care, that was
v/hy. In the autumn she ceased seeing him ;
he had gone back to school in Philadelphia,
so the preacher told her. But all through
the long dreary months she cherished his
image in her heart. The snow ceased being
formidable, the nights did not seem as cold
as formerly now that she had this ideal to
"warm the cockles of her heart".
It was an ideallic winter, for she often
forgot she was a hunchback. In her dreams

Bald Eagle Mountains 413
she always saw herself perfect, and the hand
some boy smiled on her in that land where
everything is run to suit even the most af
flicted. The springtime was one sweet peaen wait
ing for him to return. Often she sat on
the slag-piles singing old-fashioned hymns in
her cracked, prematurely-old voice. On the
first day of June, when the air was sweet
and the sky a cloudless blue, her wait v/as
rewarded. The young boy looking more vig
orous, and handsomer than ever, rode by on
his slashing bay charger. To her surprise
he tipped his cap, it was the happiest moment
of her poor starved life. After that every
time he passed he bowed, and she smiled in
return, but he never made an effort to stop
and talk. If she had been content to let well
enough alone, and keep her hero in the
dream-world, all would have been better. At
first she felt a thrfll merely to look at him,
then he had to speak to satisfy her. After
awhile this seemed insufficient, she must have
a meeting with him, perhaps tell him of her

414 Tales of The
love. She puzzled a long while as to the
best way to go about it.
One afternoon when the preacher called,
she asked him in the course of the conversa
tion which was the nearest post office to the
furnace owner's country estate. He told her,
so she resolved to -write her "prince charm
ing", and make an arrangement to meet him
in the pass. She wrote and tore up a dozen
letters before she composed one which suit
ed. The completed version ran: "My very
dear sir: — I have been meeting you almost
weekly on the mountain road, for now nearly
two summers, and I would like to know you
better. I will be out on the road, where I
usually walk, on Saturday afternoon, after
three o'clock ; if you are out, please stop and
talk to me. It would make me most truly
happy. I hope you are feeling well and
happy. From a friend". It was a simple
statement, but from the heart, even if
it did show a poverty of phrase and vocab
ulary. She tramped three miles to the post
office, affixed the stamp carefully, and
dropped it in the box, with heart a-tremble.

Bald Eagle Mountains 415
Poor little wretch, it was her ambitious
effort for a little happiness; a vain moment
when she burst the bounds of conscious af
fliction, imagining herself like other girls.
She actually believed he would take notice
of the epistle. Why; merely because the
preacher had told her that his eyes had kept
him out of West Point, an afflicted man must
have gentleness and humility like herself.
She posted the letter on Wednesday night,
he ought to get it by Thursday. He would
surely have it in time to meet her in the
glen on Saturday afternoon. Poor little soul,
she even dressed for the occasion! She put
some white insertion into the neck, bosom,
and sleeves of her black dress ; she tied a big
bow of white satin ribbon in her wiry red
hair. She slipped out of the front door, so
her mother wouldn't see her. When she got
back she would tell her fond parent all about
"the prince", but not now.
She sauntered up the road, towards the
gap, trying to look unconcerned. Her hands
felt icy cold, would the grand young man
notice it if he shook hands; her heart was

416 Tales of The
thumping audibly. She was so nervous that
she-kept on walking, except when she stopped
to gather an early laurel cluster, to give to
him. It seemed a long time for him to get
there, it was long past his usual hour when
she heard the familiar hoofbeats in the dis
tance. She almost died of joy when he came
into view. As he neared her, instead of his
genial smile, he dug his spurs fiercely into
his horse's sides, and focused his eyes on
the top of the mountain. The hunchback, un
prepared for such a slight, dropped her laurel
cluster, and sank down on a large flat rock,
like as if she had been run over by the jug
gernaut. Her heart ceased beating fast, it
almost came to a standstill. She almost died
of humiliation and grief, then and there.
Death might have claimed her, had not a
flood of hot tears saved her life. With the
tears came a fuller and more galling sense
of her physical disproportions, the certain
knowledge that she would never, never be
loved, at best she would be barely tolerated.
She thought of her poverty, her shiftless,
unhappy mother, who secretly wished she

AMONG THE GIANT PINES
(Courtesy of Pennsylvania Department of Forestry)

Bald Eagle Mountains 417
v/as dead, of her father's grief over her af
fliction, which sent him to a drunkard's
grave in an effort to forget. She knew she
could never be anything better than she was
at present, or have anything more. What
was life anyway, a system which made gods
out of some, mockeries out of others. And
she was one of the mockeries, why was it so,
oh God! Perhaps the cripple and the mon
strosity have a part to play, which most of
us are too dense to perceive, and even the
afflicted ones are unaware of it themselves.
They may be living on a higher plane than
the beings who are "close to the type of the
race" and find nothing to hinder their whims
and passions, while the afflicted must carry
on life's duties on a calm level of loveless
mediocrity. These, and an angry host of
other thoughts, surged through the poor lit
tle brain of the wretched girl. She had
touched the high- water mark of her life,, in
her hopes which had just been shattered, why
want to live longer. She felt she owed no
one a duty, better exchange the ever-present

418 Tales of The
image of her affliction for the impenetrable
gloom of eternal night.
The heavy shadows were falling fast ; even
a June day must have its end. She waited
until she heard the last cow-bell tinkle its
way down the ravine, then she turned and
followed slowly after. She looked up at the
tall pines, the lace-like tracery of the dusk-
embraced mountains, she smelt the odors
of fern and laurel, a night-hawk darting past
her face squeaked like a mouse on wings. It
was a beautiful world after all, but she would
leave it, she was too inharmonious to match
its perfections.
It was dark, ah but the starlight, when she
reached the breast of the dam.
She looked around to see if she was alone,
a screech-owl chattering long and dolefully
on one of the big pines back of the furnace
was evidently her nearest neighbor. She did
not hesitate an instant, her resolve was made
to end all, she plunged into the "deep hole"
head foremost. Twice she came to the sur
face, but she swallowed water to choke her
self, to hasten the end. The struggle was

Bald Eagle Mountains 419
soon over, she went down among the frog-
spawn, newts, and eels, her injured spirit
found release from its contracted shell. It
was a glorious sensation to be a disembodied
spirit, especially after quitting such a body
as hers.
The next day the poor little corpse was
dragged from the pond all decked out in the
black dress with white insertion and trim
mings, "One would think she was dressing
to get married", said an unsympathetic by
stander. It was literally true, but the bride
groom was the grim angel. That afternoon
the handsome youth rode by ; he saw a crowd
around the cottage, but he spurred his horse
on to greater speed. He disliked crowds, es
pecially gatherings of common people. He
never knew that a poor little girl had ended
her life because he had disciplined her for
being "beastly forward" in writing to him.
Had she been a beautiful girl, he would have
encouraged her, regardless of class.
But the poor, puny little ghost, about the
size of a gandersnipe, haunts the pond at the
old furnace. Perhaps in her silvery, celestial

420

Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains

raiment she imagines that "prince charming"
if he would ever come that way by night
would deign to notice her now.

XVL

BEFORE THE FIRE
(Story of Tyrone Mountain)

FTER many years, the Caro-
thers tract of original white
pine, on the Bald Eagle
Mountain, near Tyrone, was
invaded by the lumbermen.
Containing as it did, some
thing under five hundred
acres, a portable mill was
selected as the speediest
means to destroy it. Most of the biggest
trees stood on a level park on the summit,
but trail roads could be easily constructed
close to them.
The mammoth trees, many of which were
a hundred and seventy-five feet in height, and
"straight as gun barrels," were a sight well
worth travelling miles to see. Their smooth,
golden-brov/n boles rose from a cover of ma
ple-sprouts and shini-hopple, their feathery
tops seemed to touch the sun. Most of them
421

422 Tales of The
were the true "mountain pines," but there
were a few Michigan, or cork pines among
them, trees with a lighter-colored bark, and
bluer and more upturned tu^ of needles.
It seemed a pity to cut the trees, they seemed
so much alive, so happy in their communal
life. They were inherently musical, they al
ways churned the winds into their mystic
harmonies. How impressive were the sym
phonies they created!
The tiniest breeze stirring the fragile tuft
like pinnacles would be sent along, swelling
and growing, until it increased in volume and
tone like a mighty chorus. It extended to
the larger, and lower branches, roaring and
rolling with majesty and melody. Finally the
massive trunks themselves would sway and
creak, like the bows of overworked titanic
'cellists, as the great climatic crash was
neared. With a detonation like thunder the
whole forest would resound, then the next
instant all would be calm. Where a moment
before there had been tumult and blare, one
could hear the faintest chirping of the wood-
peewees.

Bald Eagle Mountains 423
At the mouth of the ravine, which ran half
way up the fountain's side, right into the
heart of the timber, was a log farmhouse,
with barns and sheds similarly constructed.
Here resided a hardworking farmer, named
Terence McManus, whose lifetime of work
showed but a score of acres of stump-dotted
hillside lands. He was an Irishman by birth,
and not used to landowning, consequently con
sidered himself lucky to have any kind of sod
which he could call all his own. Besides, he
acted as a caretaker for the Philadelphia
family who owned the big timber. For pre
venting the algerines, he was given the right
to cut all dead or diseased trees, and he never
abused the privilege. These he sledded, in
winter, to a mill several miles up the valley,
making a nice income thereby.
He had married a sister of this modest
sawyer, who was of Scotch-Irish descent.
Despite his wife's Protestantism Terence had
his way, and their nine children were all
brought up Catholics, They weren't what
might be called "good Catholics," but if they
had lived nearer to churches of their persua-

424 Tales of The
sion, they would have been very devout.
When they went to work, or to visit in Ty
rone, they took to Catholicism "as a duck
does to water," which showed it to be the
natural and instinctive religion.
But there was one thing that the children
could not do, and that was to make a convert
out of their mother. Many times she prom
ised to "come over," but always kept putting
it off as the date approached. This had been
most disappointing to the eldest daughter
Mary Belle, who was at one time the most
devout Catholic in the family. In addition to
being the best Catholic, she was the bright
est, and also the best-looking. She appar
ently inherited aU the desirable qualities of
her father's and mother's races. There were
few girls prettier than she, so it was acknowl
edged in Tyrone, and in other big towna
where she visited. She was full of life, and
for this reason left the ravine quite often,
spending quite a little time with various rela
tives along the "main line,"
When Daniel Caldwell bought the timber
on the Carothers trabt, he looked about for

Bald Eagle Mountains 425
a suitable spot to erect his mill. It must
be on level, or gradually sloping ground, near
to the timber, and the public road. One of
Terence McManus's stump-dotted fields suit
ed his purpose, so he made a deal with the
Irishman, to erect it there. In addition to
paying a rental, he agreed to stable his horses
in the McManus barns, to give the boys and
the old man work, whenever possible. A cou
ple of the head men were to be boarded in
the farm house. This was the best stroke of
luck that had happened to the over-worked
farmer in many years, "If it had come earlier
I could have enjoyed it better", was the com
ment that he made to his faithful wife, James
Ewing and Daniel Billman, two of the young
men in charge of the operation, were the for
tunate ones to be accepted as boarders at
the McManus home.
Mary Belle had happened to be home when
the "crew first appeared on the scene, and
every unmarried man among them wished he
was boarding under the same roof with her.
The two who were given the opportunity,
were tall, slimj good-looking lads, just a trifle

426 Tales of The
over twenty-one years of age, and might have
made favorable impressions on most girls.
They could not imagine why Mary BeUe,
whom a local busybody had told them was
twenty-five years old, could have gone that
long -without having a lover. She didn't look
like an old maid, that was the strangest part
of it. Most mountain spinsters who reached
the age of twenty-five without being deceived,
wore spectacles and looked peaked around the
nose. Mary Belle though not stout, had volup
tuous curves to face and figure which belied
her cloistered existence. And yet the local
busybody, a grouchy German, could not be
induced to say that she ever had a lover, let
alone been deceived by one. "I knows all
about her", he kept saying, "she haint hat no
lover, dats all." "There must be some mis
take about her age", said Ewing to Billman
as they went to bed on their first night in
the farmhouse.
The evening had passed pleasantly, before
the fire ; Mary Belle had been polite and
genial, but drew herself up a bit when Bill-
man sought to become somewhat personal in

Bald Eagle Mountains 427
his talk. When they saw that it was time
to retire they left her by the fire, staring
abstractedly into the glowing embers, "She
looks too healthy to be worrying over a lov
er, but when a woman wants to sit alone
by the fire, there must be something inside
that's bothering," These were Billman's last
words as he blew out the lamp.
There were two younger McManus girls,
Katie and Susie, v/ho seemed anxious
enough to win the good graces of the youth
ful boarders. They were pretty girls, else
the young fellows would have "pumped"
them regarding Mary Belle's heart secrets.
But their code was never to impose on a
good-looking girl, so Katie and Susie did not
guess that they were only makeshifts for
their older and more attractive sister.
There were other young men on the lum
ber job, including David Caldwell's two sons,
who visited the camps occasionally, and all
of them tried to make up to Mary Belle. Al
ways civfl and smiling, she kept a certain re
serve, which was positively tantalizing. The
more she kept them at a distance the pret-

428 Tales of The
tier she seemed; each day added a fresh lus
tre to her round blue eyes, an apple-like curve
to her smooth cheeks, her firm, well-moulded
chin, her generously moulded nose. But she
was acting a part, and it sent her to bed each
night sick at heart; an unhappy love story
was killing her by inches. If she thought
that the camp could find it out she would
have run away never to return, but luckily
no Nemesis appeared to unmask her. Her
parents often chided her for her melancholy
demeanor when no strangers were present,
"Oh Mary Belle," her frank Irish father
would say, "how can you be so two-faced, all
gloom when you're with us, all smiles when
with outsiders," But Mary Belle never an
swered, she shunned arguments on a subject
that dare not be discussed.
Somehow she did not care to visit on the
"main line" any more, all the old towns and
old friends had lost their charms. Invita
tions, even social letters remained unanswer
ed, "Mary Belle's buried herself alive in the
mountains" was her friends' version of her
strange reticence. Indeed she Was buried

Bald Eagle Mountains 429
alive, for she could not be induced to attend
social gatherings, she even would not go any
more to church at Tyrone,
A test came in the form of a dance given
in the main lumber camp on New Year's Eve.
All the girls of the neighborhood, including
her own sisters were glad to attend, but she
remained at home like a Cinderella, before
the fire. Her parents were positively angry
-with her that night. At the last minute they
hoped she would change her mind, Ewing
and Billman pleaded hard — one of them
whispering to her that it would be a shame if
the beauty of the mountain remained away.
When the boys, escorting her two sisters
had gone, she burst out crying, and sank into
her easy-chair before the fire. Her mother
laid her hand on her shoulder, and tried to
rouse her from her melancholy, "It is all
a case of hysterics, girls sometimes get that
way when they don't marry", she said. But
Mary Belle was indifferent, even when her
parents scolded her for her mysterious and
unsociable conduct. "If you sit around like
this you'll go out of your mind, better get

430 Tales of The
out of here and go to work at dressmaking
in Altoona", was her mother's next thrust.
Mary Belle was a spirited girl, but she did
not answer back, she merely wiped the tears
from her big blue eyes. Her parents grew
tired of prodding, so they went to bed.
In the "wee small hours" when the boys
and Katie and Susie returned from the
dance, they found her sitting alone, -with the
lamp burned out, by the dying embers, cry
ing as if her heart would break. With the
passing of time, she masked her feelings less
from the two young boarders, than at first.
They saw her cry many times ; it stirred them
deeply, they would have given anything to
have comforted her. For a time they imag
ined that her sisters knew her secret, but
they disliked to appear inquisitive. But this
was dispelled when the girls asked them one
evening if they had the slightest idea what
ailed poor Mary Belle. "She came back from
a visit to an aunt in West Virginia, over five
years ago, and she's never been the same
since. We wrote to our aunt, but she said
everything had been pleasant during the vis-

Bald Eagle Mountains 431
it ; there was no man in the case." "Beg your
pardon", said Ewing, "but there must be a
man somewhere, no girl ever acts like that
for any other reason."
The sight of such a beautiful woman so
often in tears stirred a deep-seated passion
in James Ewing, Her tear-reddened eyes
were ever before him, he longed to kiss them
into brightness and joy. He would marry
her to make her happy. He knew that she
did not love him, but she might some day.
No woman's love is impossible to a good-look
ing man. But to a homely man her indiffer
ence is final. But the difficult task was to
get her alone, where he could declare himself.
Like a hunted roe she seemed to divine his
purpose. He could not catch her any place,
except in the cold upstairs halls of the farm
house where love-making was unthinkable.
She even gave up her siestas before the fire ;
she stuck close to her mother in the kitchen.
Terence McManus was not born an Irish
man for nothing. He sized up the situation,
and fearing the future of his daughter, and
liking young Ewing, concocted a plot to leave

432 Tales of The
them together. On the next Sunday morn
ing all were to go to church except Mary
Belle, who would "keep house." Ewing, with
out being consulted guessed the situation, so
accompanied by Billman went for a walk im
mediately after breakfast. He had not gone
far when he found that he had forgotten his
barometer which he was fond of carrying:
he returned, finding Mary Belle seated before
the fire. "You must feel pretty lonely to
day", he remarked in his cheeriest manner,
Mary Belle, who could not be rude if she tried,
looked up at him and almost smfled. He fan
cied that he was going to have at least a hear
ing, so began talking pleasantly, standing be
side her easy-chair. He would have given
everything he possessed if he could have laid
his hand on hers, so white and shapely, as
it rested on the arm of the chair, Mary
Belle's politeness induced her to ask him to
sit down, so he drew up a rocker close to her.
He tried his best to touch upon the story of
his love, but she did not give him an open
ing. When he persisted she said, "Oh, Mr.
Ewing, you know me too weU for that, please

Bald Eagle Mountains 433

let us discuss some other subject." Here the
tears began to flow, she seemed unable to
stifle them. So he excused himself, fetched
his barometer and departed.
When the family returned from church at
noon they found a very pitiable object seated
before the fire. The tears had burnt fur
rows in her smooth cheeks, her lips and eyes
were swollen, her golden-brown hair dishev
elled. "Come, come, help get dinner", said
Mrs, McManus sharply, Mary Belle arose
mechanically, and started across the floor. At
the kitchen door everything became black be
fore her eyes, she reached out wildly, tum
bled, and fell in a heap on the wooden floor.
Just at that moment Ewing and Billman came
in, and helped to pick her up. They dashed
cold v/ater in her face, she soon revived, she
had only swooned. But her mother put her
to bed, and there she lay all afternoon, her
pretty face staring out from her mass of mat
ted hair and the pillows, for all the world like
a Lady of Sorrows.
As she lay, inert and helpless, in the dim
light of the cold cheerless bedroom, the story

434 Tales of The
of her sad young life, her stubborn loyalty,
her hopeless misery, rose up afresh. She
thought of her happy girlhood, of the host of
friends she had known and lost. She thought
of many men who had admired her, of the
friendly feeling she had for them, of how her
love always withheld itself. She pictured to
herself how happy she felt when she started
away from home, five years before, to pay
her first visit at a distance with an aunt in a
West Virginia mining town. Everyone
there seemed to be glad to meet her, her visit
was like a great round of pleasure. Boys and
girls alike had vied to make her stay enjoy
able. She remembered, oh, so well, the win
try night when she went to the church fair.
All her young friends were present, and the
parish priest, so whole-souled, genial, and
genuinely good. She had noticed the tall,
dark, foreign priest, who was with the good
father, and who kept staring at her with his
lustrous, oriental eyes. She admired him
more than any man she had ever seen, at
first glance; he felt the same towards her.
It was easy for him to be introduced; the

Bald Eagle Mountains 435
good priest who performed the offices, little
dreamed the consequences entailed.
The foreign priest, whose church, also in
the mining town, was attended by the famil
ies of the poor wretches who toiled their lives
away underground, had always borne a spot
less reputation. He was beloved by his con
gregation, his deeds of goodness were legion.
Tall, dark-eyed, firm-lipped, his was a per
sonality bound to command respect, to win
love anywhere. Despite his physical charms
no woman had ever stirred him until he saw
Mary Belle, An electric shock shot through
his body, and set his brain to reeling ; he was
subjugated by a force which he did not know
existed, the unconscious witchery of woman.
The young girl herself was shocked to feel
that a priest could stir her blood, could make
her feel as she had thought she would if she
fell in love. Her conscience suddenly became
dormant, she found herself talking most of
the evening with the handsome "father". He
turned out to be as engaging in manner as
in looks. He said he was a great believer in
destiny, in the divine science of mathematical

436 Tales of The
probabilities. He asked her the date of her
birth — she told him that it was October 30.
He said that his was January 24, "It is a
sign that we are suited to one another, let
me show you. You know that two persons
to be congenial must have their birthdays on
dates which are multiples of the same num
ber. Three goes into thirty, your birthday,
ten times. Three goes into twenty-four, my
birthday, eight times. Add ten and eight
together, it gives you eighteen. Put three
into eighteen and you have six. Divide six
by three, our multiple, and you have two,
which means two souls in perfect harmony".
Accompanying a small party of her friends,
he escorted her to her aunt's home that night ;
they parted -without making any arrange
ment to meet again.
But some unseen force was dictating their
progress — she met him on a lonely hill the
next afternoon, on her way to visit a sick
woman, quite by accident. They walked in
an opposite direction from the town; both
declared their love before they parted just at
dusk. They met every afternoon for a week,

Bald Eagle Mountains 437
and then the young priest begged her to
marry him; he felt that she, rather than the
church, was his ultimate goal. She loved
him too much to interpose a word of objec
tion, it was how, and when, nothing else. She
could go ostensibly to another aunt's home
in I'iLtsburg, he would meet her in the B,
& 0. station, and then proceed to some city
in Oiiio where marriages were quick and
easy. He would then write to his flock, and
to his bishop, telling everything;; by the time
they got the letters, the happy couple would
be on their way to the Canadian Northwest,
perhaps to the Orient.
He spoke in such impassioned tones, it
seemed as if the future had been revealed
to him, that he was acting out a divine in
junction. It was very easy to explain about
a promised visit to Pittsburg "for a few
days", and one foggy morning Mary Belle
and her renegade lover, met in the dingy B.
& O, station as arranged. He wore a plain
business suit, had a check cap drawn well
down on his head, on his upper lip was a two
days' growth of dark mustache. He carried

438 Tales of The
a large omnibus suit case; it looked as if
they might be going around the world.
At the Ohio town chosen for the ill-omened
ceremony, the railway platform was thronged
with noisy cabmen, on the alert for eloping
couples, who shouted, as the train came to a
halt, "Court house and preacher. Court house
and preacher". They chose the most villain
ous looking barker as probably the most re
liable for their purpose, A license under as
sumed names was easily obtained, she was
twenty, he was thirty-two; a foreign clergy
man, almost as despicable looking as the cab
man, tied the knot.
They were man and wife in the eyes of
the law, but not to an outraged God, Their
first wedded hours were blissful. They man
aged to catch a train for Cleveland, where
they had planned to spend the bridal night.
From there they were to go by boat to Du-
luth, their "jumping off place" into the Ca
nadian wilderness,
Cleveland was reached without delay or in
convenience. In order that no one could
recognize them they put up at a small Euro-

Bald Eagle Mountains 439
pean or Italian-kept hotel on the lake front.
They had eaten supper in the "rathskeller
car" on the train, so asked to be shown to
their room immediately after registering as
"J, W, Reilly and wife. New York City",
They had seen the name on a laundry wagon
in one of the towns they had passed through
on their journey. When they got to the ill-
kept room, they asked the low-browed Italian
who acted as bell-boy to bring some writing
materials. The momentous letters to the
bishop and the congregation were to be writ
ten before retiring. The sulky Italian, hating
an extra trip upstairs, having as a precau
tion against this carried a half-fiUed pitcher
of ice water along with the suit-case,
slammed the door after him. The priestly
bridegroom and his fair beloved were to
gether, for "weal or woe".
The young churchman stood by the door,
while Mary Belle, who was feeling a trifle
tired, was sitting on the bed, leaning against
the pillows. As he looked at her another
electric shock, more blinding than the one
he had felt at the church fair, swept through

440 Tales of The
his frame. It was the victory of his con
science, of his sense of moral responsibility,
his religious convictions. He clenched his
fists, and backed into the furthest comer
of the room. His eyes and lips t-witched
nervously, his whole being shook with emo
tion. Mary Belle, who had been watching
him with eyes of love, and marvelling at his
sudden coldness, was now aware that some
thing had snapped. Yet he dared not speak ;
he would go to his ruin first before unmask
ing his change of heart.
The young girl, when the truth had dawned
on her, spoke out boldly. "You find you love
your vows to your church, more than your
promises to me, speak out quickly, isn't it
so?" The priest was silent a full minute, and
then simply nodded his head in affirmation.
The pallor in Mary Belle's face turned to a
crimson fiush; her temple of happiness was
a house of cards. The priest leaned against
the wall, speechless, and trembling. Just at
that minute they heard a hea-vy shuffling of
feet on the stairs and in the hall, then a loud
knock at the door. It was the Italian back

Bald Eagle Mountains 441
with the writing-materials. When he came
in, Mary Belle ordered him to lay the articles
on the bed, to go downstairs at once and order
a cab. The Italian looked at her in blank
amazement, the class who usually stopped at
this hotel would consider it a luxury to take
a trolley ride. When he had gone, the girl
jumped up from the bed, and among her bun
dles, extracted a time-table. By the light of
the electric globe, which hung from a cord,
she located a train leaving for Pittsburg at
midnight, "You will have time to get that
train, if you hurry. You can be back in your
parish without anyone even guessing at the
cause of your absence, I wUl remain here
until tomorrow, and then go home, I could
not feel happy to ruin your chance of Para
dise, just because we happened to fall in
love," The priest took his cap, which he had hung
on a peg on the door, and came over to where
she stood, under the electric light. Her gold
en-brown hair seemed an aureole of sanctity
above her exquisite, loving face, in the re
flected light. His decision wavered again as

442 Tales of The
the time came to leave her. Holding out his
arms he said, "May I kiss you just once be
fore I go?" For a minute she hesitated, she
thought she would turn her back, but the hot
fire of passion conquered scruples and she fell
into his arms. He had kissed her many times,
and squeezed her to his capacious breast as
often, when the same dull, shuffling feet were
heard in the hall. Then came the knock for
him to go. He got as far as the door, and ran
back for one more kiss, and a pressure of the
hand, and he was gone.
Mary Belle's bridal night was spent with
a spectre bridegroom sure enough. She was
too dazed to cry, too unnerved to sleep. She
ached nervously from head to foot, her spirit
pained as much as her body. She turned off
and turned on the light a score of times.
When the light was out, she heard rats scam
pering across the musty carpet; the noise of
snoring guests echoed louder from adjoining
transoms. She heard the whistles on the
lake, the creak of hoisting chains along the
docks, the distant clang of troHey bells, of
sodden voices in the streets. She had forgot-

Bald Eagle Mountains 443
ten to pull down one of the shades ; it let the
first streaks of dawn into the narrow room,
it looked even more sordid and modern by
daylight. It was the signal for her to get
up and dress; she did not want to wash her
face, it might quicker erase the impress of
her husband's kisses.
She gathered together her traps, and made
her way to the railway station as best she
could. She got home somehow, it was a pain
ful battle with self all the way; yet none of
her family could see the marks of her soul's
conflict. But hgr manner had changed, she
lost all interest in life. Her mother shrewd
ly wrote to the aunt in West Virginia — but
no, she knew of no unhappy love affair there,
"It must be her general health", they argued,
"she's in a decline," Life was a blank to her,
it could never be anything else. Now as she
lay in the cheerless bedroom in the little
mountain home she felt as desolate as she
did that dreadful night in Cleveland. Once
the thought came up within her "That mar-
risge iS nothing, I v/ill tell all, I will be free."
But another voice ^^.n swered, the voir^e of love

444

Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains

and duty, making her call out "I wifl never
tell, I will die first, I love him, I will never
cause him trouble," Then exhausted from
the flood of unhappy memories, she turned
over on her face, and fell asleep.

XXII,
SIMPLER'S JOY
(Story of Altoona Mountain)

001°] 0

OW many persons remember
the aged simpler Caspar Jau-
don, whose log-cabin home
was at the base of the Bald
Eagle Mountain, not so very
far from Altoona? Only
sixteen years have passed
since he went to his reward,
yet his personality has been
forgotten to such an extent, that he seems
almost a myth.
He was a striking looking figure in his lat
ter days, with his shock of snow-white hair,
his hea-vy, irregular features, thickish lips,
and rough, shaven face. His eyes, which he
generally kept focused on the ground, were
light blue, as pale, and clear, and deep as
Lincoln's. It was an unusual face, but not
an altogether attractive one. There was
something about him that fascinated yet re-
445

446 Tales of The
pelled; that was probably why he became a
simpler, a hermit. In Europe he would have
been said to possess the "evil eye,"
When an animal varies to any considerable
extent from the "type of the race," it is shun
ned by the other members of its kind, and
becomes a hermit-animal. Some hunters in
Wyoming, in the fall of 1867, came upon a
buffalo with a single foreleg which grew from
the breast-bone, leading a solitary existence,
miles from the millions which composed the
herds. Caspar Jaudon was just different
enough from his fellows to have them feel
the unlikeness, and for himself to be aware of
it, hence his lonely life in the foothills.
His mother, the widow of a Mexican War
veteran, kept house for him until her death,
but that sad event occurred shortly after he
was mustered out after gallant service in the
7th Pennsylvania Cavalry, in the Ci-vil War,
while he was yet a young man. As a soldier
there was nothing retiring or hermit-like
about him, he was always in the thickest of
the fight. But his fellow mountaineers always
ready to look upon him as odd and eccentric.

Bald Eagle Mountains 447
were quick to forget his military record, and
he was seldom counted among the "old sol
diers" of the neighborhood. As a simpler, or
herb-doctor, his chief glamor rested, and if
there are good herb-doctors and bad herb-doc
tors, he was a good one. His cures were leg
ion, often after the regular practitioners had
failed. His knowledge of the efficacy of herbs
and roots came to him in an "apostolic suc
cession" from the days of the Indian medicine
men. Old Johnny Half-town, from the Allegheny
River country, who had wandered among the
Bald Eagle Mountains, as far south as the
Juniata, had fancied Caspar as a boy, and
taught him all he knew. Half -tovm, who wore
a long white beard, claimed to have been
bom the year the Declaration of Independence
was signed, had learned the almost magic art
of simpling from no less a personage than
Joe Pye himself, that most famous of Indian
healers. It was Joe Pye who cured a whole
section of New England from an attack of
typhus fever, with a decoction made from the

448 Tales of The
tall graceful plant with "crushed raspberry"
blossoms that still bears his name.
Caspar's humble cabin was a veritable
store-house of relics as well as herbs. He
never took money for his efforts at healing,
but in the summer when he hunted ginseng,
he earaed a little, sharpening the mountain
eers' razors. His grateful patients often made
him many odd presents. These more than
filled the one ground-floor room, where he
worked and slept. There still remained the
huge open-chimney, old Caspar declared it
was more healthful than a stove; with the
crane hanging in it just as in pioneer days.
Above the fireplace was nailed, upside down,
a much faded pair of Moose-antlers, What
a story they could tell, of some poor, half-
starved wretch hunting in Canadian wilds,
maybe from sheer need of food, and contract
ing then the very scurvy which caused him
to donate his most precious trophy upon the
simpler who cured him ! Below the homs was
hanging a cavalry sabre, the sole memento
of soldier days.

PENNSYLVANIA PINE FOREST
(Courtesy of Pennsylvania Department of Forestj)

Bald Eagle Mountains 449
On the shelf in a fly-specked gilt frame,
and under a cracked glass was a colored litho
graph of a French steeplechaser, with the
inspiriting name of ViVe-la-Chasse, with the
date "1855" beneath. One could imagine
some sad Gallic wanderer presenting this pic
ture, probably of some horse he had tended
in a better and happier day, as his supreme
gift for restoration to health. At one corner
of the fireplace hung a soiled and armless
doll-baby, the gift it was said, of a heartbro
ken mother whose child he had patiently tried
to save from a snake-bite, but without suc
cess. On the other side hung a violin, much
stained and cracked. Inside the case, burnt
into the wood were these words: "Antonius
Stradivarius, Cremona, 1729." In a small
frame of crossed twigs was an old-time photo
graph of the simpler in the garb of a cavalry
man. It showed the rugged irregular face,
then adorned with the blackest of mustaches,
the shock of hea-vy black hair, but there was
the same downcast glance of the deepset eyes.
Suspended from the ceiling were large
bunches of Joe Pye weed, wild ginger, ver-

450 Tales of The
bena, yarrow, tansy, sweet fern, liver leaf,
mallow, mandrake, catnip. Blue Mountain tea,
elder-berries, Pennsylvania tea, poke-berries,
spearmint, ginseng, boneset, Indian pipe, sage,
thyme, chamomfle, as well as other plants and
berries not as well-kno-wn. These were the
components of the simpler's herbarium.
There was a footstool made of buck-horns
in front of the fire. On one side of the room
was an immense couch, covered with a buf
falo robe, age had made it almost destitute
of hair. There were only two windows, and
at each of these stood a rocking-chair, one
had been his mother's favorite. In these
mother and son had probably sat for hours,
on the long winter afternoons, looking out at
the narrow snow-bound road, with the great
forest of oaks and the sky-line of the moun
tains beyond; lucky if even a fox passed to
vary the monotony.
It is a pity that the ghosts of the good and
the devoted don't return, as they might cheer
many a lonely heart. It is only the shadow
of a lost cause, a lost opportunity, a lost love,
that comes back to keep us company. That

Bald Eagle Mountains 451
accounts for the unpopularity of ghosts. De
spite his trafficking in past agencies, in mys
tic formulas, his solitude, his silence, Jaspar
Jaudon could never be induced to say that
he had seen a ghost. His mother was a good
woman, she had no reason to come back. He
had fought on the winning side in the war,
it brought no lingering regrets. He had made
the most of limited opportunities; his lost
love was stfll alive. If he lived long enough
he might yet hold her spectral essence in his
enfolding arms, but Fate, inscrutable as al
ways, decreed that she must survive him.
The story of his one love story dates its
beginning to the years just previous to the
war. Then the fair vision first began her
horseback rides, accompanied by a negro
groom, along the woody road which led by
Caspar's cabin. He was about twenty years
old when he first noticed her; he had been
born in 1840, On summer evenings the old
woman and her son brought their rockers out
side the door, and both sat smoking, watching
the distant hifls assuming the distinct out-

452 Tales of The
lines and purple-blue tones of approaching
dusk. The beautiful young blonde girl, dressed
in her black habit, and wearing a three-cor
nered Colonial hat of velvet, with an eagle's
feather in it, would gallop past like an ap
parition. After she was gone, the night
seemed to fall faster, she was a spirit of light
and life. When he dreamed of her the whole
room illuminated; she was the color to his
colorless existence. When he played his vio
lin, her image was the impetus, the motive,
which brought out melodies sweeter than he
knew before, or the bow seemed capable of.
When he walked through the summer and
autumn woods, gathering herbs or roots,
thoughts of her endued with greater potency
these natural panaceas. At first he did not
have even a bowing acquaintance with her
— after a while, when they saw one another
almost daily for months at a time, reserve
was discarded; she made the first break by
touching her hat with her little ivory-handled
whip. Caspar bowed in return; from that
day on, there was always the mutual salute*

Bald Eagle Mountains 453
in which the attending negro footman joined,
tipping his cockaded hat.
The old woman and her son knew very well
the young girl's identity ; she was Elsie Cham-
berlin, — from the manor house. In fact they
were squatters on her father's land, the ex-
Judge; a word from this august personage
would have turned them off homeless. The
young girl wa^, an only daughter, but she had
several brothers, dressy, exclusive chaps, very
different from her in disposition it was said.
Then came the war, beginning with a long
line of Confederate victories. It was a pa
triotic neighborhood, every time the Union's
cause seemed darkest, more young men vol
unteered. Caspar wanted to enlist from the
very first day, but his aged, helpless mother
was reason enough to make him hesitate.
When patriotism reached a fever-heat in
the inspiring happenings culminating in the
Loyal War Governors' Conference at Altoona,
he could stand it no longer. His mother read
his thoughts, she told him to go by all means.
She had a brother in Centre County who
%vouId keep her if he never returned. lie en-

454 Tales of The
listed haphazard, but got a lucky transfer to
the cavalry, which determined the success
of his military career. By re-enlistments he
served until the middle of June, 1865, partici
pating in sixty battles and skirmishes, be
ing mustered out a First Sergeant.
His mother met him at the Logan House
on his return, it was an affecting greeting.
She had aged while he was gone, but her
heart was glad at his brave, unsuflied rec
ord, A neighbor, who brought her to to-wn,
drove them back to the little cabin by the
mountainside, in the cooling twilight, "Very
little's happened since you went away", she
said, by way of carrying on the conversation,
"Jacob Stineman kUled a black wolf in his
sheep-pen; Abe Arbogast sold all his white
pine timber, Elsie Chamberlin's married, and
gone to Europe to live, guess we won't see
her riding here any more."
Caspar's pale face turned a ghastly white,
he let fall the sabre that was resting between
his knees, they shook noticeably, and his teeth
chattered. In an instant he was composed
again, feeling ashamed of himself at this

Bald Eagle Mountains 455
spiritual insubordination. What should it
mean to him that she had married, surely she
could never be anything to him, a girl in her
exalted station. He began asking after an
other girl on the mountain TiUie Quinn, and
how her toppy-chickens were coming along.
When he reached the little home, he hung
his sabre above the fireplace; they say he
took it down only once until the day of his
death. The neighbors remarked he was
much more serious-minded than when he had
enlisted. "He saw so much bloodshed", said
his mother, "it isn't to be wondered at," He
applied himself to his herb-doctoring more as
siduously than ever, and this coupled with
the temporary reclame of his war record,
brought him more patients than he could
handle. In the autumn a candidate for some county
office stopped at the shanty, a sort of politi
cal protege of ex-Judge Chamberlin. From
him he managed to learn the story of Elsie's
marriage, which had occurred the previous
April. The bridegroom was a wealthy young
Philadelphian, and the new President, as a

456 Tales of The
wedding gift had appointed him Consul at
St. Petersburg, he probably meant Secre
tary of Legation, but such positions were
beyond the mental scope of the candidate and
the unhappy simpler. The young couple
sailed for Russia two weeks after the cere
mony, and from last accounts were very con
tented in their foreign home.
Elsie had always seemed to be a thing un
real to Caspar, in this new role she was in a
still higher sphere of celestial li-ving. There
were moments, though, when he drew himself
up with pride to think that she spoke to him,
and had been the first to speak. She had
been an illumination in the darkness, from
her he had learned to live more keenly than
before. He continued collecting herbs, the selling
of ginseng, and in the winter trapped many
valuable animals including otters and pine-
martens. Apart from his spiritual sadness at
the removal from his gaze of the ex-Judge's
daughter, he had a real grief in the rapidly
fafling health ot his mother. The blustery
month of March was hardly apient whten she

Bald Eagle Mountains 457
passed away from an acute attack of pneu
monia. There was a simple funeral, attend
ed by a few neighbors, and the body was
laid to rest in the little apple-orchard near
the cabin, alongside her husband, sons and
daughters. An old comrade once planted a
tiny American flag upon the Mexican War
veteran's grave, it was the only marker in
this family burial plot.
Caspar's loneliness settled do-wn like a pall
of blackness ; occasionally there was a golden
gleam when he thought of Elsie. It was like
angehc visitation. Evidently his mother was
the popular member of the family. After her
death, few came to the cabin, the oddity of
the simpler's nature impressed itself more
strongly upon the mountaineers now. With
mid-April came many birds to cheer his lone
liness. The Jays had been with him most of
the winter, as had a pair of snowy owls, visi
tors from the arctic circle which fluttered
about the oaks at the rear of the cabin. But
now came the flickers, of emphatic song and
flight, the mourning doves, woodpeckers,
thrashers, tanagfer^, robins, bluebirds, mar-

458 Tales of The
tins, Pligh above the mountain tops soared
the hawks and buzzards. At rare intervals
he heard the plaintive utterance of the mea
dow larks. The roads were still muddy, but
wagons were beginning to plough through
them with safety.
Late one clear afternoon he was sitting on
his buck-horn stool, outside the cabin door,
his mortar on a wooden bench, pounding
herbs. He was mixing an especial compound
for a typhoid sufferer in a lumber camp five
mfles up in the mountains. The flickers were
calling to one another from the bare branch
es of the walnut trees, a cricket was tuning
up his -violin-like music. He thought he heard
the "slash, slop, shp, slop" of a horse's hoofs,
struggling through the juicy mud.
The sounds grew nearer and nearer, he
looked up, and saw a big sorrel horse — on its
back was the former Elsie Chamberlin. No
servant was with her. At first he thought
she was a ghost, he couldn't grasp the idea of
her being able to return from Russia, in the
flesh. He was certain she was no ghost, when
she reined her horse by the paling fence.

Bald Eagle Mountains 459
wishing him a cheery "good evening," He
laid aside his tools, and walked to the gate,
holding out his hand, saying, "I'm very glad
to see you back again," The girl blushed, a
guilty red, evidently she had some secret
thoughts concerning him.
Then and there he had a real good look at
her for the first time in his life. She was
more beautiful at close range than from a dis
tance. She was a blonde, not a yellow blonde,
but an ash blonde, cheveux de cindre, they call
it. Her deep-set grey eyes were rather small,
but were adorned by delicately rounded black
brows, and long black lashes. Her face was
rather broad, denoting some Norse blood, but
the high coloring was emphatically English.
Her lips had much color to them, her chin
was round, and dimpled. Her black three-
cornered hat had forced her profuse hair
down over her eyes,
"What were you doing with those things?"
she said, pointing to the bench on which rest
ed the mortar and pestle, Caspar explained
to her that he was a simpler by occupation,
not a veiy remunerative calling, but one

460 Tales of The
wherein he could do much good. He made
bold to ask her to tie her horse, and dismount,
to come in and see his collection of relics.
He had a ginseng root tliat was shaped like
a human body, with head, arms, and legs.
Some day it would be owned by the Emperor
of China, She let him tie the horse, and as
sist her dismount, going smUingly with him
to the humble home. Inside, the first thing
she noticed was the cavalry sabre — she must
know its history. She seemed interested to
learn that he was a veteran of the late war,
urging him to tell her of some of his battles.
She asked after the old lady, expressing re
gret that she was no more. She kept eyeing
the young man steadily ; it was a gaze caused
by his rather unusual face, a gaze of pas
sion aroused by his very oddity.
When he helped her on the horse, and she
wheeled about, and rode away, he watched
down the road long after she had disappeared
from sight. As he returned to his work, he
kept muttering to himself, "Oh if a woman
like that could only care for me," He put

Bald Eagle Mountains 461
her visit down to idle curiosity or a desire
to pass the time, nothing more.
He did not see her again for a week, in
fact he had never expected her to come again.
But exactly a week later, at the same hour,
she appeared, and spent a couple of hours
chatting with him in the curious little house.
Before she left she asked for his photograph
in the soldier suit. He had recently made
the frame for it, out of twigs of sassafras,
it presented a neat appearance. She wanted
a glass on it, so she loaned him one of
her diamond rings, to cut a piece from a -win
dow-pane. When she had gone, he sat musing, sup-
perless, until he went to bed. "Why would
she want my picture", was the drift of his
mental ramblings. Like all human beings
who are odd looking, he was painfufly aware
of his peculiarities. In another two days she
was back, arriving earlier, leaving late. She
condescended to remain for supper; she said
it was the happiest meal of her life. Words
like these sunk deep into the reflective, intro
spective nature of the simpler. He pondered

462 Tales of The
upon them, turning them over and over in
his mind. But he would always conclude his
arguments with the corollary, "How could a
woman like her ever care for me ?"
The next time she came he allowed the
passion that had been consuming him ever
since her first visit to assert itself a little.
She was sitting by the fire in one of the rock
ing chairs as the day was dying, pensively
gazing into the embers, Caspar put his hand
on her warm cheek, she placed her hand over
his, he knew his anguish was reciprocated.
He sat on the arm of the chair and put his
arm around her waist, drawing her very close
to him, kissing her flushed face. To his sur
prise she whispered, "I love you". And he
poured out on her the pent up love of years.
From that time on these visits were an
elysium to the eccentric simpler. There was
enough good in him, of common sense, of
honor, to appreciate her infatuation, to try
and make her happy. He was a manly chap,
and never once asked her why she preferred
him to her distinguished husband.

Bald Eagle Mountains 463
Her visits kept up at intervals of a few
days apart, all through the glorious Spring
time. The birds and breezes sung every inch
of her blonde, buoyant personality into his
soul. She became a part of the humble room,
as much a part of it as the cavalry sabre, the
inverted moose-antlers, the lithograph of
Vive-l^Chasse, the strings of Joe Pye weed,
verbena, and Culver's root. She was the sim
pler's joy — something too good to be true —
but real nevertheless.
But despite this, on account of their dif
ferent positions in life she was an enigma to
him, for why should she have chosen to care
for him ? But we must take what Fate sends,
and never question : Its gifts are really only
loans. But no humble man ever strayed fur
ther upon life's exalted heights than Caspar
Jaudon ; perhaps because he was wise enough
to be grateful.
One May evening while he was leaning
against the Acacia tree in the yard, inhaling
the odor of the sweet-scented blooms, listen
ing to the wood-notes of a Blackbumian war
bler, he heard the noise of a horse and wagon

464 Tales of The
coming up the rocky road. It couldn't be his
fair visitor, she always travelled on horse
back. When the vehicle drew in sight, he
perceived it was Elsie's negro servant whom
he had not seen in several years, driving her
favorite saddler, harnessed to a high Stan
hope, The negro guided the vehicle close
to the gate, beckoning Caspar to come near.
When he did so he handed him a small pack
age, then he turned the horse quickly, strik
ing it several sharp cuts with the whip, and
drove out of sight, at a high rate of speed,
Caspar was sorry afterwards that he did
not ask the colored man a few questions, but
at the moment he was dumb. He opened the
package, it contained a card-board box. In
side was the little photograph of himself in
cavalry accoutrements, and a letter, he did
not know if it was Elsie's hand or not, he
never had anything in writing from her. The
envelope was unsealed, he opened it nervous
ly. On a single sheet of note paper of the
commonest sort — ^the kind that has a picture
of the capitol at Washington embossed in the
upper left hand corner — flimsy, and blue-

Bald Eagle Mountains 463
lined, was scratched the following : "Mr, Cas
par Jaudon, Dear Sir : — When you read this I
will be far out on the Atlantic Ocean, never
to return, I have come to the conclusion that
it was a mistake ever to have visited you, I
do not see what I meant by so doing, I re
turn your photograph, as I have no further
use for it, I remain. Yours truly, E. C. M,"
M. was the initial of the last name of her
diplomatist husband, the simpler recollected.
It might have been well to have preserved the
letter, but in his wounded pride, and collapsed
romance, he tore it into little bits, letting the
evening zephyr blow them about the yard.
He went in the humble home, now doubly
desolate, and placed the photograph upon the
mantel-shelf. As he did so, he whispered to
himself, "A woman like that could never care
for me," He made no effort to find out what
had happened, whether her husband had
learned everything, or whether she tired of
him through feminine caprice. He could
hardly write; besides getting a letter off to
Europe, would be a task almost like sending
one to "The Home Beyond the Sky."

466 Tales of The

He accepted his sorrow with silent resigna
tion. Whenever the beautiful vision rose in
his mind, while he worked over his herbs, or
lay sleepless under the buffalo robe, he would
calm his burning disappointment by repeat
ing over and over again, "How could a
woman like that be expected to care for me,"
Of course he could not analyze the passionate
vagary which brought her to him in the first
place, the magnetic charm of his repulsive but
compelling face. It was to him much like a
person who has seen an apparition, yet can
not ask the "whys" and "wherefores."
Months became years, he worked on, he suf
fered uncomplainingly, becoming more and
more like a hermit or "old man of the woods"
in appearance. His black hair became full
of grey streaJcs even when he was well under
thirty. Two years after he had received his crush
ing bloWj a chance came to him to learn a
gleam of the truth. The self -same candidate,
the ex-Judge's protege appeared at the hum
ble cottage, to enlist Caspar's suppoii; for "a
second term," The candidate was a talkative

Bald Eagle Mountains 467
fellow, he liked to gossip, "Elsie Chamber
lin went back to Russia awful sudden", he
remarked, "she didn't write her husband very
regular, so he came home unexpected, and
found that she had been meeting some man,
I could never find out who he was, on the
sly, at least that's what they say. At any
rate he made her pack up bag and baggage
and go back to Europe with him. That's
where she is now, but the Judge's folks don't
hear from her often. They tell it around
that she's having a very gay time over there
with all the high mucltymucks."
This speech opened a vista of comfort to
the heart-stung simpler. He closed his eyes,
he folded his hands. Perhaps after all she
had not tired of him, it was force rather than
choice that tore her from his side. Their
romance had progressed as far as was possi
ble, there was no future to it, they never
could have married. Yet she had whispered
to him many times, "I love you, I love you."
He had held her very close, he could feel her
flushed cheek by his, his fingers running
through the electric meshes of her ash-gold

468 Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains
hair. That was equivalent to reaching the
threshold of the divine. The candidate no
ticed that he was acting rather strangely, evi
dently this talk about the aristocracy was dis
quieting. He started to go, but Caspar of
fered to accompany him, to introduce him to
some good people on the mountain who might
help him. He was delighted, he had long
wanted the "right" introduction to these peo
ple. The simpler felt that this man had done
him the greatest favor of his life, he had
shown him a gleam of hope that Elsie's love
was probably real, that at worst she had
merely turned back when Fate and Circum
stance commanded. "Besides" he whispered
to himself, as he climbed into the politician's
buggy, "How could a woman like that be ex
pected to care for me."

XXIII,
IRONCUTTER'S CABIN
(Story of the Last Mountain)

HERE the Bald Eagle Moun
tain comes to an abrupt end
north of HoUidaysburg, and
looks down upon the fertile
plain, then forms a coalition
with the Shade Mountain,
rolling away to the east,
there once stood a lowly one-
roomed log cabin. It was
destitute of windows, and the door was not
half a door, it was kept shut so much. The
most noticeable feature of the shack was a
huge mud chimney which was nearly as wide,
and twice as high as the house itself. This
chimney saved the house from being dubbed
"deserted" for once in a whfle a thin trail of
blue-grey smoke issued from it, smoke about
the color of Indian summer haze. Back of
the house rose the steep face of the big moun
tain, its lower levels covered with gnarled
469

470 Tales of The
rock-oaks and chestnuts, and higher up a
dense network of stunted pitch pines. Below
the cabin was a broad clearing, fast growing
up with scrub-oaks, despite the efforts of a
small flock of sheep to pasture it bare. Be
yond stretched the fertile valleys, with their
fields of brown, and red, and yeflow, inter
spersed -with dark green woodlots.
The growing town was plainly apparent;
here and there could be seen the red roofs of
barns and farmsteads, and an occasional
church spire. Far in the distance ran the
faint blue outhne of the South Mountains. All
in front of the cabin seemed smiling, thrifty,
cultivated, behind it loomed the end of the
Central Pennsylvania wilderness, which
stretched a hundred miles or more, clear to
the rock-caverns of the panther and the wolf,
to the swamps of the elk and deer, to the
inaccessible pathways of the bison, to the
areas where the sun for days would be dark
ened by the incessant flight of wild pigeons.
There the Indians made their final stand,
retreating only af^er the disappearance of the
last buffalo, the last white-spotted bee. But

Bald Eagle Mountains 471
they remained in song and story, and in a
troop of melancholy ghosts that lingered
among the rocks and waterfalls. But when
John Ironcutter moved into his little shack
near the base of the Last Mountain, wild life,
Indians, and settlers were still embroiled far
off in the fastnesses of the Bald Eagles. The
spirit of primitive days was still uppermost.
You can sometimes feel that vague sensation
still if you gaze long enough upon some par
ticularly wild bit of scenery, Ironcutter felt
it in his veins ; it echoed and reverberated in
the stunted pines on the rugged heights of
the Last Mountain.
Fifty years of hermit-like existence, at the
foot of this eminence, had passed over his
head. He had been there so long that he had
outlived all the other settlers who were in
the neighborhood when he arrived. He had
outlived the thriUing story of his youth. It
was just old enough to be in shape to be for-*
gotten, and not sufficiently in the long ago
to make history. Apart from his hermit char
acteristics, his earliest neighbors had shunned
him., calling him "the Indian killer." He had

472 Tales of The
outlived that name, not that he cared, but it
was an unpleasant appellation to carry about.
After half a century there was an air of
dignity about the old man, a halo of romance
and mystery. Age gives a glamor to the most
commonplace, the John Ironcutter of eighty
odd years, commanded respect, whereas the
John Ironcutter, rough German peasant of
nineteen, had not. His ponderous form and
face, the heavy, aquiline features, his slug
gish walk, his impenetrable silence, all gave
him an atmosphere that was hard to forget.
He never once told his life's story, conse
quently there were a score of hazards. Had
he told it once, the secret out, would not be
worth repeating or speculating about. Then
all at once he cast aside the habiliments of
the hermit, becoming actually sociable, gen
ial, and frank. The children whom he former
ly shunned, he made his warmest friends. But
jome said that the change had come too late,
he could not survive it long, that the real Iron
cutter had died, and a fresher and younger
spirit had crawled into the crumbling tene
ment, just as the faded sonl Was departing.

Bald Eagle Mountains 473
But the old man continued to defy all prece
dents, living on to his ninety-first year. When
he died it was from old age, a clear conscience
issued from the tumbledown shell, a mild
spirit sought glory. John Ironcutter's his
tory was a most unusual one. His name now
appears in history, in connection with a
bloodthirsty episode, but many say that here
like in divers other cases, history errs. Iron-
cutter's beginnings were humble and sordid
enough. He had run away from his German
home as a boy of fifteen and somehow got to
Rotterdam, There he sold himself for his
passage to Pennsylvania, falling into the
hands of a wealthy landowner, Frederick
Stump, of Middle Creek Valley, upon his ar
rival in the pro-vince. Stump picked him out
of a crowd of a hundred low-browed ruffians
on the Front Street wharves in Philadelphia,
as being the most likely of the lot. The choice
was a good one, as the lad early displayed in
telligence as well as fidelity, a rare trait for
the fll-bom, of no mean order. He became
his employer's right hand man, and when he
was nineteen was appointed overseer of one

474 Tales of The
of his farms. He was treated on terms of
cauality by his master, who although a gradu
ate of the University of Bonn, and a man of
some breeding, was of plain and democratic
manners. His future seemed a bright one, leading per
haps to a marriage with some niece or de
pendent of the landed proprietor, and a pros
perous old age. Then occurred the catas
trophe which brought his bright hopes tum
bling about his feet like so many pieces of
broken glass. Then came ten years of hiding
and wandering, followed by a half century
in the hermitage. Out of this musty chrys
alis emerged the regenerated old man, who
bloomed like a crop of fall clover for a while,
and then stumbled off to his reward,
Frederick Stump was a liberal-minded man,
and possessed a broad spirit of tolerance to
wards the Indians, He fed them in Winter,
gave them sound ad-vice, as well as gifts in
numerable. There were always three or four
savages hanging around his commodious
mansion. It was the finest house of its day
in Middle Creek Valley. Built of limestone.

Bald Eagle Mountains 475
of herring-bone construction, with a broad
chimney, and the Stump coat-of-arms carved
out of a block of sandstone, imbedded below
the gable, it was a conspicuous landmark.
Inside was a wide hall, with a winding stair
way ; there vvere spacious rooms, along whose
walls gaped great closets running from floor
to ceiling with carved walnut doors and fres
coed lintels. It was a home fitted to start
a dynasty, yet Stump was driven from it
suddenly, never to see it again to his dying
day. He died at a very advanced age, in Miller-
stadt, afterwards called Woodstock, in Vir
ginia, Stump had a favorite nephew, Balzer
Minnich, whose wife was kidnapped in broad
daylight by a roving band of drunken In
dians, Stump, Minnich, and the serVam,
Ironcutter found it out none too soon, and
trailed the redmen to their camp. They res
cued the young woman, but in the battle
kiUed six Indians, Three Indian women, be
longing to the party, committed suicide for
fear that they would be imprisoned, and one
squaw, who had an infant, butchered it. To

476 Tales of The
get them out of the way, all the bodies were
dumped into Middle Creek, through a hole
in the ice. At least this is the story that
Stump's relatives and partisans told at the
time; it was pretty generally believed, even
if it never got into history.
Minnich and his wife opportunely left the
country, but Stump and Ironcutter, after the
bodies had appeared in the Susquehanna near
the Isle of Que, were arrested. Sympathy
waxed strong for them, as it was considered
a Quaker plot to curry favor with the In
dians at the expense of two obscure Germans.
The prisoners were lodged in. the jail at Car
lisle, but a determined mob led by James
and John Morrow, two noted pioneers, res
cued the prisoners, and they were never re
captured. Stump, as stated previously, drifted
to Virginia, while Ironcutter became a wan
derer in the Pennsylvania Mountains. The
shock of the butchery had unsettled his mind,
it was said; he suffered from delusions and
hallucinations. Many of his sympathizers
harbored him, trying to give him work, but

Bald Eagle Mountains 477
his familiar ghost urged him ever onward
like the wandering Jew.
During the massacre, he had singled out
a young Indian named White Feather, of
about his own age, arid size, whom he deter
mined to kill. It was a bitter struggle as
the youths were evenly matched, but finally
Ironcutter dashed his knife into the red
skin's throat. It was a mortal wound, and
the young savage sank down on his knees,
"Oh brother white man", he sobbed in his
dying breath, "my loved one is waiting for
me to-night, over on Shreiner's Knob, please
go tell her that I wfll never meet her in this
world, but I will surely keep my tryst in
the next". Tears were running down the
dying lover's cheeks, he made a pitiable spec
tacle, all blood and tears. But Ironcutter was
in an ugly mood, he mimicked his expiring
foe, saying to him just as his eyes were glaz
ing, "Let your cursed sweetheart wait, I will
not go a step to tell her, let her think you
have gone off with someone else". He would
have said more, but the poor young savage
was dead. He kicked the rigid face a couple

478 Tales of The
of times, and then dragged the corpse by the
heels, and threw it on the pile with the other
victims of Stump's fury. He helped cut the
hole in the ice, and push the bloody mess
into Middle Creek, He was too proud of his
achievement to notice such a thing as an
angry wraith untfl after his delivery from
Carlisle Jail, He had parted from Stump,
and a settler named McCaslin, who lived in
a remote glen in the North Mountains, hid
him in his barn. It was in this structure,
built of rough-logs, and in the haymow that
occurred the nativity of his conscience. It
was on a chUly midnight, starless and still,
that he heard a voice speaking to him from
the rafters above. He thought at first it
was a bevy of bam owls quarreling as to
which controfled the beam. "Oh brother
white man", in tones measured and low, came
to his ears, "my loved one is waiting for me
to-night, over on Shreiner's Knob, please go
tell her that I will never meet her in this
world, but I will surely keep my tryst in
the next".

Bald Eagle Mountains 479
The words of this disembodied voice sound
ed familiar; he was about to answer with un
couth jest, when he felt a pressure at his
throat. He could not articulate ; at the same
time arose in him for the first time a pang
of regret for the Indian lover he had slain
on Middle Creek, A haunting sense of fear
overcame him, he climbed out of the mow as
best he could, tripping over joists and beams,
and cutting his shins badly on a Dutch scythe.
Just as he emerged from the barn-door he
beheld the figure of the murdered Indian not
twenty paces in front of him, v/ith one hand
held across the angry gash in his throat.
Ironcutter uttered a piercing yell, the spectre
vanished instantly.
Next morning McCaslin's family found
the German lying unconscious in the barn
yard. It was a week before he came out of
his trance, or unconscious state. When he
did, he said he had seen a ghost, he refused
to remain longer at a haunted plantation.
With the ingratitude inherent to ill-bred men,
he departed without a word of thanks. For
ten weary years he moved from place to

480 Tales of The
place through the mountains. He was always
waked by the voice of the unhappy lover, he
always ran from bunk or mow into the open,
there to see the avenging wraith. He passed
through Dry Valley, Buffalo Valley, White
Deer Valley, and into the mazes of the Bald
Eagle Mountains, There seemed to be no
peace on earth for him, he wished every day
that he might die. Once he shot himself,
once he leaped into a mill-race, once a copper
head bit him, but somehow it was ordained
he must live and suffer. As he followed the
chain of the Bald Eagle mountains, he al
ways imagined that the next peak further
on would give him relief. But each one
seemed to house the torment, keener and
more horrible. He feared to turn back; like
the Wandering Jew, he must go on. His story
preceded him. The sympathetic mountain
eers were ever ready to receive "John Iron
cutter the Indian killer", Frederick Stump
and Minnich were overlooked, the story was
told that Ironcutter kUled ten Indians, some
times it was twenty, it did not matter much.
Perhaps the best friend that the tormented

Bald Eagle Mountains 481

man-killer met in his wanderings was a cer
tain Roan McCann, who occupied a neat lit
tle clearing not far from the present site
of Port Matilda,
And strangely enough he was a bosom
friend of Old Frank, the celebrated Indian
chief from whom Frankstown received its
name. Some whispered that Old Frank had
told McCann that a spell had been put on
Ironcutter, and that he had suffered enough,
at any rate he was merciful. He advised the
German to cease his errant habits, to go live
by himself, offering him lifelong use of his
hunting-cabin at the foot of the Last Moun
tain, And it was here that he sought refuge,
and ultimate peace. He understood that if
he tilled a small garden-patch, and subsisted
partly on wild roots and berries, or killed a
deer occasionally, he could get along all right.
He was of stalwart build, on the sunny side
of thirty; life would have been no problem
if he could rest at night. Even if he worked
himself into a state of exhaustion, the plead
ing voice would echo through his tired con
sciousness. The old desire to rush out into

482 Tales of The
the open would overcome him. Once outside
he would see the ghost, holding the gaping
wound on the neck with one lean, bony hand.
He would run back to his bunk, to hide his
head beneath the buffalo robe until daylight.
He shunned everybody, with the exception
of his latest benefactor. Roan McCann. E-vi-
dently his moral nature was expanding; ten
years, yes five years before, he would have
turned his back on his best friend, after he
had gotten all he could out of him. McCann
was somewhat of a philosopher. That was
another new attribute which seemed to find
fallow ground in him. He liked McCann's
phUosophy, because he pointed out the possi
bility that the ghost would be laid some day ;
there was a chance of sur-viving it. But
neither of them guessed how this would be
accomplished. The laying of the ghost was
the one ray of hope in the repentent mur
derer's dreary routine of existence.
What a long story of distorted, hideous
nights it was, always followed by days
marked by listlessness and exhaustion. Small
wonder that he had no mood for visitors.

Bald Eagle Mountains 483
Probably many hermits see ghosts, hence
their exclusiveness.
One evening before the old man v/ent
to his bunk, he was sitting outside his
cabin door, on a small wooden milking-
stool presented to him by one of McCann's
daughters, trying to count up the years since
the vindictive ghost had rested on his soul.
Sixty-two years it was to the best of his cal
culation, fifty of which years had been spent
in solitary retreat at the cabin at the base of
the Last Mountain. Below him several miles
away he could make out a light or two in the
small village called Hoflidaysburg; it was the
year 1830, there were then but seventy-two
souls in this afterwards prosperous commun
ity. "What a wasted time", he muttered to
himself, "I were far better dead than buried
alive here". Then the chifling fear ran
through him that he might have to live for
ever, that might be the full extent of the
curse upon him. He reached up with the
fingers of his left hand and felt the deep
scar in his neck where he had shot himself
over half a century before. And he thought

484 Tales of The
of how he had been rescued and of all strange
fates, by an Indian, from the mill race at
Wflliam McElhattan's mifl; of how he just
didn't die after the savage bite from the cop
perhead. He waited until the last light was extin
guished in the distant vfllage, then he was
ready to retire. He was in a particularly
melancholy frame of mind that night. A bat,
chasing a mosquito rushed into the open door
ahead of him, he struck at it savagely with
his ironwood cane as it darted past his head.
Despite his gloomy reminiscences, he fell
asleep quickly. It must have been midnight
when he was awakened by a pressure on one
of his hands. He rose up, rubbing his eyes.
Moonlight was filtering in through chinks in
the roof, and from under the door. He heard
a voice. It said in distinct, measured tones,
"Oh white brother, I have met my loved one
over on Shreiner's Knob to-night. I am very
happy, I have found that this is the next
world, it was near to me all the time, please
come outside and all will be forgiven." John
Ironcutter could hardly believe his senses ; he

Bald Eagle Mountains 485
got up slower this time, he rubbed his hands
over the buffalo robe to make sure that he
was not dreaming. He pushed open the door,
and looked out. On the sward before him,
white with dew, stood two figures, arm in
arm. One was the Indian youth, the White
Feather whom he had slain, but the gaping
wound was gone, the other was the frail,
beautiful figure of a savage maiden. When
White Feather saw his old foe, he raised his
right hand, and made several antic passes
above his head. Then he spoke, "My deliv
erance has come, after sixty weary years,
my loved one crossed into our world, the
spirit world, to-night. She had waited for
me every evening, in moonlight or storm,
since the night she expected me, when you
laid me low. She, too, wanted to die, but she
never lost faith, or believed I had gone off
with another. Somehow I could appear to
you, to torture you, but I could not visit my
loved one, and tell her to cease her solitary
vigils, that death would unite us. I suffered
as you have suffered, above all as she has suf-

486 Tales of The
fered. But now she has crossed over, we
are one for such time as the Great Spirit
may allow, we are happy, we forgive you.
Farewell, white brother". Then the two fig
ures faded away into the white dew and the
moonbeams. Instead of feeling frightened, the old Ger
man experienced a sense of calm and peace
such as had not been his portion in sixty-two
long years. He turned about, re-entering his
cabin. Lying down on his bunk, he fell into
a dreamless sleep, waking in the morning,
refreshed and rejuvenated. It was as if he
had bathed in the Fountain of Youth, He
felt just as he had when he was a bright,
ambitious lad of nineteen do-wn in the vafley
of Middle Creek, During the morning three
smaU children passed his cabin driving the
sheep to their pastures on the mountain sides.
Instead of turning his back, he called to them
cheerily, and when they spoke to him, he
chatted with them pleasantly. At noon two
fox-hunters chanced his way. He greeted
them genially, and asked them to partake
of his simple nieal.

Tales of The Bald Eagle Mountains 487
In the afternoon Roan McCann rode up on
horseback; he was surprised to see the al
tered appearance of his dependent, "Oh
John, you look fifty years younger", was his
sincere exclamation. Old John explained
what had happened as quickly as he could,
"Your prophecy was correct, the ghost has
been laid, I can now spend my declining
days in peace." Roan drew a bottle of moun-
tain-stiU whiskey from his saddle-bag. "Let
us celebrate this day, let there be many more
of them", Ironcutter passed an evening such
as he had not kno-wn since youth, an evening
of song, stories, and cheer. When he re
tired that night, his sleep was absolutely
dreamless, A hew era had come for him,
he was spared ten years to enjoy it.
When he died, a goodly array of moun
taineers followed his remains to the tovatK
"It must have been all a mistake about his
having been the Indian kUler", said the trav-
eUing preacher, as he watched the last spade-
fulls of dirt thrown in the grave, "the de
ceased was a grand old gentleman, he
wouldn't have killed a fly".

¦«JS=--

&

APPENDIX

Appendix A see page 103
A man named George A. Schmenk is said to have
killed a genuine brown bear, weighing three hundred
pounds, not a color phase of the black bear, as at flrst
reported, near Carroll, Clinton County, Pa., on Nov.
aa, 1912. Appendix B see page 394
When a few days later the author had a look at
the Dorman panther in the natural history museum
at the Albright College, Myerstown, Pa., the following
lines shaped themselves in his mind:
At ttdlight when the shadows flit,
Within the ancient museum I sit,
Gazinff through the dust-encrusted glass
(While hosts of savage memories pa^s,J
At your effigy, ludicrously stuffed
The fulvous color faded, the paws all puffed,
The bullet-holes in jowl and side
TeU where your life-Mood ehied tike some red tide;
A streak of light — the last of day
Q-leams through a window on your muzzle gray,
And lights your glassy eyes with garnet fire
You almost stir those oris in fretful ire
Which gape into the sunset's dying flame
Towards the toild mountains whence you came:
Revives old images that dormant lie —
Outside the wind is raising to a sigh
Like oft you voiced in the primeval wood
In your life's pilgrimage, I'd trace it if I could
In white pine forests, tops trem,bling in the breeze,
hike restless sable-colored seas,
Bertedth, in rhododendron thickets high, 489

You crouched until your prey came by,
Grouse, or startled fawn, or, even flsher-fox
You rent, and then slunk back into the rocks.
And on the wintry nights, lit by the cloud-swept
moon
Your wailing to the music of the spheres atune,
Rose to a roar which echoed over all
Beside which wolves' lamenting to a treble fall;
And through the snows your mate so slim draios
nigh
Noiselessly, with strange love-light in her eye
You lick her coat, and stroke her with your tail.
Whispering a love-song weirdsome as the gale.
You leave her with a last long fond caress
Adovm the glen you go in stealthiness,
.... A loud report! another! how you leap.
With a resounding thud into the snow you fall asleep.
Your blood-stained hide the hunter bears away,
The virile emblem of an ampler day.
Your enemy, the golden eagle picks your carcass dry,
Wild morning glories trellice on your ribs awry;
Your meaning is a deep one — while your kind live,
men will rule,
There will be less of weakling, runt, or fool,
No enervation will our rugged courage sap,
We will not dawdle on plump luxury's lap.
But as your race declines, so dwindles man.
The painted cheek replaces coat of tan.
And marble halls, and beds of cloth of gold.
Succeed the log-cabins of the days of old;
When the last panther falls then vxie betide.
Nature's retributive cataclysm is at our side,
Our boasted civilization, then will be rio more,
Fresh forms mv^t come from out the Celestial store.
Nov. 6, 1912.
490

INDEX

Page
Argument  13
I Birth of the Bald Eagles  21
II The Siren  40
III The Red Fox  60
IV The View Tree ;  83
V The Brown Bear  102
VI Old Philippe  1 18
\ II King Wi-daagh's Spell  137
Vill Caves of the Bald Eagles  156
IX Pathfinder's Child  173
X Conrad's Broom  190
XI The Giantess  208
XII Mary Goes Over the Mountain  243
XIII The Fate of Atoka  224
XIV For the Glory of Indian Summer  262
XV The Lost Chord  283
XVI Bald Eagle's Nest  311
XVII The Running Race  332
XVIII Two Roses  356
XIX The Sorceress  379
XX Unrequited  402
XXI Before the Fire  421
XXII Simpler's Joy  445
XXIII Ironcutter's Cabin  469
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Gap at McElhattan (Frontispiece)
Among the Giant Pines
In a Pennsylvania Pine Forest
The Flight of the Wild Pigeons
The Meeting of the Waters
A Bald Eagle Mountain Landscape
The Golden Hour at the Camp
A Distant View of the Bald Eagles
A Picnic in the Woods
The River and the Round Top
The New Bridge near McElhattan
Cover designs, head-piece and tail-piece by Miss Katha
rine H. McCormick, Philadelphia, Pa,

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