m. KWSm X-W.& aMnwr L* > y -4\V^ UNDER AN ALIAS. A STO R Y OF lllar, of jF.ervc and of Co^rada. By H. B. Jeffries. Illustrations by J. H. Mills and ('. Ohamberlin. Copyright secured and all rights reserved. DENVER, COLO.: TIMES STEAM PRINTING HOUSE AND BLANK BOOK MANUFACTORY. l88 3 . THIS VOLUME, COMPRISING THE STOR Y — OF— A YOUTHFUL SOLDIER, THE AUTHOR DEDICA TES TO THE INDIVIDUAL MEMBERS — OF THE — GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC. FOR THOSE WHO WORTHILY WORE THE BLUE HE CHERISHES THE RESPECT AND LOVE WHICH COURAGE AND PATRIOTISM MERIT FROM ALL GOOD CITIZENS, REGARDLESS OF The Nationality, The Religion and the Politu s OF THE HEEOES. H. B. JEFFRIES. 939858 sJ\propo&. It is with no inconsiderable timidity that this volume is submitted to the public. I am unknown — "only a common reporter'' — without pretensions to literary skill, and I realize how essential to suc- cess an established name is for one who presents himself as an author, however humble his produc- tion. Yet friends of acknowledged literary abilities and standing, who have seen this story in manu- script, have been kind enough to manifest an interest in, and to praise it, somewhat, and to urge its publi- cation in book form; and their flattering urgency has prevailed over my own timidity and doubts — as friends of countless other authors have heretofore prevailed — and I cannot think of violating such an honored custom by neglecting to throw the onus of this publication upon my good friends. "Under an Alias " and " Caught by a Veil " were prepared as portions of "'The Tribulations of a Tenderfoot," a volume which I expect to publish within a few weeks, and which is at present in the hands of the artists who illustrated this volume. But as that is a book of amusing Colorado experiences solely, the introduction of these stories I found to be a mistake and they were therefore eliminated without any thought of preservation or of publication in any other form, and it was onlv by the solicitation of friends that I was led to redeem them from the limbo of a dark closet. It is now for the public to determine whether they merit that banishment or this freedom and honor. "Caught by a Veil," like "Under an Alias," is the story of a youthful soldier and his fortunes and misfortunes in love-making, and will appear in form similar to this very soon. Should my comrades of the Grand Army of the Republic who visit our fair City of the Plains this summer read the story in this volume, no doubt some of them will think that the)' recognize cer- tain characters and certain incidents And perhaps they may, for some of the characters are far from imaginary, and some of the incidents are real. If the public finds the text of this book as satis- factory as they are certain to find the illustrations, I shall know that my work has merit, for the artists — J. Harrison Mills and C. Chamberlin — have cer- tainly produced work which must arrest attention and elicit admiration. H. B. Jeffries. Denver, Colorado, July 4th t 1883. CHAPTEB I Marriec( in Jfa^te, ||rTHUR, when J didn't know, I always thought that love grew — came by & degrees, advanced by imperceptible p| gradations ; that one first mildly ad- N "v. mired, then admired and liked, till P liking thus grew to love." "Ah, sweet, that only shows how cold and stony your little heart has always been." ••Now, how wicked of you to talk so about my heart, when it is ablaze with fervent love of you !" "And if it were but at temperate heat of love for any other man I should be in such despair that I would desert so that I might be taken and shot to death. But, darling, I can't say that 1 ever gave a thought to love till I saw you; then it came to me as a swift, sweet revelation from heaven." "Oh, Arthur ! you will always tell me that ? You will always feel that? You will not weary of uic'f You have not in a little, obscure corner of your heart a hidden recollection of some other one you have thought of fondly ? You are sure that you never did love anyone else? But, there! don't weary of me, or be angry for my jealousy — for jealousy is only love in its most intense form. ,, Beautiful arms, bared to the shoulder, twined about his neck, a beautiful face rested over his heart, beautiful — such supremely beautiful — love-lit eyes looked up into his own during that earnest pleading for the sole tenancy of his heart ; and Arthur Cor- rinne felt that it must be a stolid nature that would not be moved ; an insatiable heart that could require purer love or greater devotion. "No, no, darling; jealousy is love distorted — dis- trust—the hideous deformity of love ! No, you need not let such phantasies disturb you. I am too young to have ever loved before ; too entirely happy in your love to ever long for other love." "But don't you love me enough to ever be jealous? What if I should love some one else?" "You see that it is not to be considered, because your little heart is every bit mine: I fill every nook, cranny and corner of it." "But if I should, or if you should really think I did, what would you do?" "In my misery of heart I'd quietly kill myself. I wish I could live and you could live till that happens! Now, if I should fall in love with some other little woman, what would vou do, Eliza?" — 13— "Kill her. kill you. go mad, mad, mad ! All ! I should do everything that is terrible, or horrible, or fearful ! Don't ask me, Arthur, for even the bare thought of the possibility of such a horror rends my reason and shrinks and shrivels my very soul ! I should go wild, go wild, wild in my desperation !"' "There, there, sweet, do not harbor the thought, or entertain such an apprehension. Life is designed for happiness, and we should cultivate only pleasant thoughts which will brighten our hours, not seek those that darken our days, distort both heart and mind, and convert life into a burden grievous to be borne. Let us walk up to Bolivar Heights." The lovers — married lovers they were — went out into the street and pursued their walk, enjoying, as only the young and the ardent can, the fresh bright- ness of nature's new suit of verdure; the balmy, mellow, perfume-laden air: the soft, caressing sun- shine which nature brings when she comes to greet us in wooing mood at springtime. It was at Harper's Ferry, late in March, 1862, and the historic little town at the confluence of the picturesque Potomac and the beautiful Shenandoah was occupied by Federal forces. The streets were crowded full of blue-clad soldiers, and the young lovers were accorded many cheerful greetings as they walked along. At the corner of High and Shenandoah streets they met Captain Copeland, of Arthur's company. — 14— "Where now, Arthur?" the Captain asked. "For a walk ; just up to the Heights." "Don't dally till you miss roll-call. Mrs. Cor- rinne, you must drive him away from you when it is time for him to be in camp ; you know we can't be always excusing him for-absence from roll-call ; it is necessary to preserve discipline, even with worthy soldiers who have pretty wives in town." "But I don't have to drive him away, ever ; he's always in hurry enough to go, and I detain him till m} 7 fear that you will send a file of soldiers after him overcomes my anxiety to keep him." "How inconsistent he must be, then ! I, too, have trouble enough to detain him, and when at quarters he is always in a terrific haste to be ex- cused and get away to you — as I own I should be, were I so fortunate as to be in his place." "I'm so glad to hear that of him that I will be sure to have him in camp whenever you desire him to be there, if I know when it is." As they separated, Captain Copeland was joined by an officer of the Tenth Wisconsin, which had only arrived the preceding day. "Is that a soldier of your command?" the stranger inquired. "Yes; a private in my company." "What regiment is yours?" — 15— "The Twenty-eighth Pennsylvania; I command Company F." "Is that young lady his sister ?" "No, she is his wife." "His wife ! why, he looks even too young to be in the service ; and she is certainly not over fifteen years old." "He is but eighteen, and she is two years his junior." "Who is he? Who is she?" "His name is Arthur Corrinne ; she was a Miss Virginia — Eliza Virginia." "How T long have they been married ?" "They were married on Christmas day. We crossed the river and took possession of Harper's Ferry just a week before, and they met for the first time the day we occupied the town. They fell in love at once, or thought they did, and I think so as well. He is a very good soldier, and I take pleasure in allowing him all the freedom of action consistent with fair discipline." "They are very young, both ; too much haste ; no good can come of it. "I hope that nothing but good will come of it. Corrinne is a good fellow — somewhat fickle, indeed, and easily influenced, but good-natured and without bad habits. He lias considerable energy, does at once what he intends to do at all. When old enough i6- he will make a place for himself in the world and occupy it with credit. 1 think the girl has clone well !" "Has he done so well ?" ''I think so ; she is the last of an old family, and appears to be wealthy. She is deeply in love with her boy husband — dangerously fond of him, I should say, for I have but that fear for them. I judge only from what I have observed in her — from her physiognomy and form : from the brilliant and sparkling depths of her eyes ; the sharp, quick mobility of her features ; the short, decisive and imperative movements of her head, hands and per- son ; and from the intensity of her passion for Cor- rinne. Judging from all these criteria, I imagine that she has not only an ardent nature but a most terrific temper, and should she become jealous — and women with her disposition are prone to jealousy — she would surely harvest a swift revenge and gar- ner unmeasured misery for herself and others." ''You seem to be an expert in the interpretation of character ! Is Corrinne of a wealthy family ?" "He tells me so. I believe they live at Pottsville, or up there somewhere ; he enlisted in my company at its organization at Philadelphia. " CHAPTER II, ehparf. ; YING March gave birth to April, and that child of smiles and tears had lived half her life before the young lovers were disturbed by what they from the first knew to be inevitable — marching orders. What years of happiness, what ages of bliss, were concentrated in those few weeks for them ! The free-reined fancy of the most brilliant and imaginative romancist could not conceive a passion so all-absorbing as the wild delirium of love that surged through the tide-fretted channels of Eliza's soul — a fervent, intense, limitless passion — an ecstacy of devotion devouring her heart, permeating her being, imprisoning her thought, holding her an enthralled prisoner to perpetual delight — a deli- cious, exquisite joy, barring all desire and wrecking her capacity for other joys than those which em- ■20- anated from or centered in that one supreme emotion - -her love for her husband. What wonder, then, that her grief was so de- structive when she was compelled to yield her beloved to the chances of war? It was turbulent, uncon- trollable — a tornado of despair ! Weeping, moaning, grieving, she clung to him and hung upon his neck with those lovely arms, with her wailing bosom laid upon his breast even while he pursued his preparations for the march. She supplicated official permission to accompany the command, but was of course denied, the priv- ilege being one it was impossible to grant. Her denunciation of the officers in command was fear- fully violent. Colonel Geary said : "That woman's anger is more terrifying than the rattle of the foemen's rifles. I'd rather en- counter a force of Confederates than be again attacked by her!" "She is a feerfool razge; I would run from her avay, and into a batteel skeedaddle fore ze sake of peace to find !" Lieutenant-Colonel DeKorpony re- plied. In fact, that Polish veteran had, as he expressed it, "skedaddled avay," and left the Colonel without hope of reinforcement when her prayers were denied. When at last the general had been sounded, the long roll was beaten and the company was ordered to fall in, Captain Copeland humanely bade Cor- -2 1 rinne accompany his wife home, and there bid her his farewell in private And to guard against a too protracted adieu, a non-commissioned officer was prudently sent as an escort. But the fire of her grief had at length burned out her endurance ! Eliza fainted at the door, and Corrinne transferred her to her mother's solicitous care, while he, scarce more fit for duty now than was his unconscious wife, hastened to his place in the ranks of the departing army. CHAPTER III ©JafRer, 4%n ^v^^rLL you kindly give me a pass, Cap- I tain?' ? '•Where to, Corrinne?" "Just down to the station." "You were on duty down there yes- terday " "Yes, but then I was at work. I want to lounge about, free to do ray own will. To see who comes and who goes and who passes by, is a relief from the depressing monotony of camp routine." The pass was issued and Corrinne went to the little station and on the platform stretched himself out on one of the rough benches in the shade until the train came in from Manassas Junction.. The passengers were few and almost exclusively soldiers ; officers preponderating, of course. Only one civilian quitted the cars — a hale, good- natured looking man in mid-life. He stood there, apart from others, gripsack in hand, waiting for the —32— train to move away, gazing at the camp on the hill- side beyond. Corrinne touched him gently and said quietly : "How are they at home, father? I see you are well." "Why Comp — Arthur, my boy! God bless you! How are you?" The glad father dropped his gripsack and grasped both hands of his boy, while in his bright, cheerful eyes tears welled up, overflowing and trickling down over the trim black beard "Come," said Corrinne, " let us go up to camp ; I must have a talk with you before you chat with any- body else here." "What chance brought you to meet the train? Of course you had no idea that I would be here?" " Well, yes, I did somewhat expect you. Yes- terday I was on guard down this way and watched for you; to-day I got a pass; I should have con- trived to be here again to-morrow had you not arrived and if I had not heard from you. I thought you were more likely to come than to write. But you have not told me how mother is?" "Perfectly well, God bless her, and as happy as she can be while fretting for you." " You came very near calling me Compton at first; I hope you will be particularly careful to call me nothing but Arthur. As I wrote to ■ you, while —33- in the service I am Arthur Corrinne, and while you are here you must be simply Mr. Corrinne, my father." "Yes, yes; I will do my best to conceal your folly in deserting an honorable name. I have been schooling myself ever since I left home. I think you need not fear any lapse of caution on my part, now that the sudden surprise of meeting you at an unexpected moment is past." "There is one thing more — which I did not men- tion when I wrote to you — I enlisted as from Potts- ville and you must give that as your residence. Be careful not to mention Johnstown, for the wonder at what became of those letters of yours is not yet over. You will need to be extremely careful of your words or you will betray me." Corrinne was readily excused from duty for the term of his father's visit and they kept much by themselves, smoking the choice cigars the doctor had thoughtfully provided, talking of home happenings which interested the son, and talking of army life, experiences and exploits which were yet more inter- esting to the father. During the evening of the second day of his visit the doctor said : "I have observed that you make no inquiry about Canary — why?" "Havn'tl asked for her?" "Are you not afraid she is married?" "Whether she is already a matron or dies a spinster is wholly indifferent to me." "It never struck me till this instant, but — does she know where you are ? Have you ever corres- ponded with her?" "Certainly not! Did she ever intimate that she possessed a knowledge of my whereabouts ?" "No, no ; to be sure ! I had not reflected on that. She was constantly asking if we had heard from you." "Very friendly of her, I'm sure." "I tell you, Compton — I may safely call you by your own name when there's no one else around — if you only knew it, you are a lucky boy! Canary is a sweet girl, and a good girl as well as a very rich one, and she is ready to marry you whenever you will." "1 shall never will to marry her." "You could not do better when it's time to marry; for of course you are many years too young to think of matrimony as an immediate affair; but I would like to see you engaged to Canary and then the mat- ter could rest, ad lib" "I don't know that I quite agree with you. I am nearly nineteen ; you were but little older when you married. However, I certainly never will be either married or engaged to Miss Bird. Would you consent to my immediate marriage to her?" 35- "No. I would consent to an engagement quite happily ; but not to marriage for four or five years yet; though in a little more than two years you can marry without my consent." JM? g^iflpfeii ar: ..I CI I A ITER V ©reparing a Jfappij §urp'ri^>e. FTER that conversation Corrinne deter- mined to keep silent regarding his marriage, and let matters drift and develop themselves ; and he found it an easy matter to keep it from his father's knowledge, as none of his com- rades became sufficiently familiar with the doctor to revert to it. The next day application was made for a thirty- days' furlough for Corrinne, and the commission of absence was received on the following Saturday. They could not start north till Sunday afternoon, however, and on Sunday morning the doctor said : " Now, Compton, my boy, say farewell to all your comrades, for I do not intend that you shall return to the Twenty-eighth. I've managed it already and have prepared a surprise for you. Look at this." The son took the large parchment extended by the father, and with equal amazement, pride and pleasure, read its contents. —40— It commissioned Compton Hastings a second lieutenant in the Twenty-first Pennsylvania volun- teer cavalry. "Where? How did you get this?" "I obtained it from Governor Curtin as I came down." "Did you tell him where I was ?" "No; I told him I was trying to find you, and wanted to be prepared with a commission when I found you." " Then say nothing to him about my enlistment here; say nothing here about my promotion; I will leave this on furlough as Arthur Corrinne and never report b} r that name, either for duty or discharge. I will go home with you for a visit to mother, then report for duty in the Twenty-first ; Corrine will be reported a deserter. Let that end him." "Just as you please, Comp.; I confess that I feel some humiliation in your abandonment of my name ; but of course no one will ever suspect an identity between Lieutenant Hastings and Private Corrinne. Now, if you could only grow a beard, Lieutenant !" "Well, I can't, father; but I'll endeavor to be as much a man as though I were covered with hair," the youth responded, not a little proud of his title, thus used for the first time. -41— Corrinne then spent a long time in writing, and finally called Harry Lowman, one of his comrades, into the tent occupied by his father and himself, through the kindness of Captain Copeland, and said to him : "Harry, I'm going to go home and visit my mother for a week ; then I shall return to Harper's Ferry and remain till my furlough expires. I want to frighten my wife just for the fun I'll have when I get there. I have here a half finished letter to her, dated next Saturday, and another dated next Sunday, which I want you to copy and send in your own name, enclosing the first." "What is it you want me to copy ?" " Only a letter, telling Eliza that while on picket duty I was shot and killed the night before." " What's that for ? It's nonsense, and it is cruel." "Don't you understand? I want her to get them just a day or two before I get to Harper's Ferry myself. She will be all the happier for it when she finds out what a hoax it was. I have put up all my old letters from her, with my rings, her photograph and my diary, ready for the mail, and you can address them and post them with the let- ters." Lowman consented and received the letters and the package. CHAPTER VI .mftiCion anc| Romance, Officii* RTHUR Corrinne was one of those neutral characters who might become very good or very bad; who might be very weak or very strong. In fact, he was all of them by turns. His every action was in obedience to the impulse of the instant. His flight from home was an impulse; his assumption of an alias was an impulse; his mar- riage was the hasty result of a boyish thought ; his determination to consign the name of Corrinne to dishonor as the name of a deserter when an honor- able discharge for promotion needed only to be asked for to be obtained was an impulse. Thus, too, under the spur of impulse, an impulse obeyed and gratified without a thought of its torturing wickedness, he quietly afflicted his wife by a cruel and deliberate lie — with no design beyond seeing what she would say when she learned that he was living and uninjured. - 4 6- The day wore away, and late in the afternoon the train by which the father and son were to depart came rumbling to the station. Corrinne looked about the place and gazed at the camp on the hill- side with a half glad, half regretful glance, before he entered the car. As the train passed around the curve and the last glimpse of the camp was closed he said : "Farewell, boys ! Adieu, dear comrades! And Corrinne, farewell! You were not born, you did not die ; yet you were and now you are not ! You have departed from life; you have passed out of existence save as a memory ! Now, father, you are Doctor Hastings, of Johnstown, and I am Compton Hastings — to be Lieutenant Hastings as soon as I can be mustered." Proceeding to Harrisburg, where the Twenty- first Cavalry was being organized, Compton w T as mustered as Second Lieutenant, and thence, on leave, went to Johnstown with his father. As he had indicated to Lowman at Rectortown, his intention was, originally, to pass a week only at his father's, then join his wife, inform her fully as to his name, promotion and prospects, and, when his leave expired, report to his new command for duty. But his fickleness led him to adopt a different course. Reflecting that Eliza now thought him dead, and imagining with pride how amazed she would be to see him in shoulder straps, his ambition —47— suggested that he wait till he became a captain before he reveal himself. He thought further, what a grand romantic achievement it would be to allow his wife to mourn for him as for the dead, while he went to the field, conquered promotion, won laurels and ascended to the zenith of fame: to then return to her and astound her by his greatness; reveal him- self as the gallant and renowned General Hastings, whose mighty victories had shaken the continent and attracted the admiration of the world, and whose identity she would never suspect till he had her escorted to his presence by a guard of honor detailed from his staff. The charm of such a prospect overcame his judgment, subjugated his manhood, and his love was submerged in the deluge of his ambitious dreams. He yielded to the phantasy, relegated his wife to her grief, and passed his time happily at home till his leave expired. *^S^» CHAPTER VII. eJ\ §peef7e of "tao^e. 8 AN officer Compton Hastings found himself very popular with his subor- dinates, his brother officers and his superiors in rank. His extreme youth, high spirits and companionable quali- ties won friends for him in all circles —friends whose place gave power to advance him, and he was placed on staff duty in a very short time after joining his command. Promotion suc- ceeded rapidly, and in less than a year he had been made a Major, and, by what some would regard as an odd command of chance, he was sent to Potts- ville to relieve the commandant of the military there in the service of. the Provost Marshal's depart- ment. At Pottsville he be c a m e a society lion — a s officers did during the war whenever and where- ever stationed in the loval states. While there he — 52— was visited by his father and mother, accompanied by Miss Canary Bird, the sweetheart of his child- hood, the girl friend of his early youth, now two years orphaned. They found him still their "Comp.," yet not the same that they would have had him, though they could not have explained, even to each other, any particular in which they found him changed. The fact was that he was the victim of his own popularity. The adulation, the ceaseless homage of flattering deference which he received, had" com- pletely turned his head. He occasionally thought of Eliza now, and he held her memory very dear, it is true. That he loved her was a fact; that he should always love her he felt assured; but he had no intention, now, of ever returning to her. Without consult- ing authorities he had convinced himself that their marriage was illegal, for the reason that he had been married under an alias, and he had come to regard that marriage as a reckless act which had much better be left in its present oblivion. It was void, he thought, and consoled his conscience by the reflection that it had really not wronged Eliza. She did not know that she had not been a lawful wife; she now believed herself, and all those who knew her history believed her to be, the widow of a lawful marriage; her good name, her peace of mind, and her untarnished conscience were equally assured — 53— against disturbance, and undoubtedly she had been all the happier for the delusive thought that she had been his wife. Yes, he loved her; but all things had conspired to bury that love, and it was covered over with the beautiful flowers of sweet recollection and it was to be forever buried as a part of the dead past. Thus reasoning, he readily concluded that he was at liberty to marry again — no, he would not say "to marry again," but "to marry," and it would be expedient, therefore wise, to gratify his parents by wedding the lady of their choice. Canary loved him ; he was very fond of her indeed ; she was "a good match" in every respect, and his marriage to her would add to the glamour of his celebrity. So in the fall of 1863 Major Hastings and Miss Canary Bird, the Johnstown heiress, were married at Pottsville, and the town was stirred by the event, for in all its history it had never before witnessed such superb nuptials. The wedding ceremony and festivities were magnificent, and under glowing- headlines the local press described the affair in columns of gushing phrases. Canary carried the dignity of her position as the wife of Major Hastings with becoming grace, and as his easily movable affections readily en- shrined her in his heart, she readily found in him —54— a husband amply devoted, and she had no suspicion that in his soal she did not cultivate a virgin soil of love. Yet to him there remained, after all, and despite his wish, that flower-strewn memory of Eliza — a spectre of love. CHAPTER VIII. c|ing£> of Gfiza. yURING the first week of his marriage, the Major was visited by Captain Par- dee, of the Twenty-eighth, whom he recognized instantly. The Captain spent three or four days at Pottsville, and was daily a visitor at the Major's quarters. One day, while the two were idly smoking together, the visitor asked : "Major, have you any relatives named Corrinne?" Fear of recognition set his heart into very active motion, but his face and voice were calm as he replied : "Not within my knowledge. Why ?" "Oh, I thought that you might be related — on your mother's side of the family, perhaps — to a young fellow of that name I once knew." "Indeed ! What occasioned the surmise?'' "Mutual resemblance. You could not look more alike if you were twins — you and Corrinne." — 5 8- "Whoishe?" "He was a private in company F of our regi- ment'. I do not know where or what he is now." "Discharged ? Captured?" "Deserted !" . "Humph ! I am glad I am not his kinsman." "He was very young and perhaps not so greatly to blame. After all, it is hardly fair to say unqual- ifiedly that he deserted. He left on a furlough, and never returned or reported. The evidence, however, was much against him. His father visited him while the regiment lay at Rectortown, Virginia, and when he procured his furlough they left camp together, and both disappeared — not a trace of either has ever been discovered." "That was singular — that both completely dis- appeared — I understand you correctly, do I not?" "Yes: both vanished, instantly and totally." "They may have been captured or killed together. That a private should desert is not a matter of won- der, but that a civilian should disappear with him is incomprehensible if it is simply a desertion. Under the circumstances, I should surely hesitate to blight the man's memory." "Of course it is an open question ; but I think there can be but little doubt as to the soldier's in- tention. He had hastily married when the command was at Harper's Ferry, and of course his wife was —59- left there. On the morning he left camp he got a comrade to write to her, telling her that he had been shot, and sending to her all his letters and personal trinkets. I am satisfied from that that he- intended tQ desert — not only the service, but his wife as well." "Poor soul ! Then she supposes herself to be a widow, whether she is or not." " Doubtless she did at first ; but when Corrinne failed to report at the expiration of his furlough, he was looked for, of course — equally of course he was looked for where his wife was, and thus she learned the facts in the case as they really existed." "How did she receive it ?" "From grief in his death she flew into a wild, revengeful despair at his baseness." • "Poor creature ; she was to be pitied !" "Yes, certainly ; but life is full of woe and bitter- ness, despair and lamentation, as it ever will be, for the earth is trodden solid by the feet of heartless villains and scoundrels without conscience.'' CHAPTER IX. (©Rooming a flame. IFE passed very pleasantly for Major Hastings and his wife, and no change transpired till the January following their marriage, when he was transferred to Harrisburg, where he was kept on duty until the fall of 18(35. But he failed to secure further promotion. During the first year, of their marriage, Canary bore him a daughter, whom he obstinately named Eliza, in opposition to the desire of both his wife and his parents, who objected that the name was too common, and that neither the family of the Major or that of his wife had an Eliza among their relatives or intimate friends. He declared that his preference for that name, was a mere whim for which no reason could be given ; but he refused to yield even to their suggestions for an additional or copulative name, whether as affix or suffix, and the child was therefore christened Eliza. -6 4 - The name was a silent, unacknowledged tribute to that flower-covered memory of love. When mustered out of service the Major returned to Johnstown and settled down to business. He de- vote d himself closely to his family and attended assiduously to his investments, and prospered beyond the average. The ramifications of his commercial affairs were extensive and reached into many states. Although he availed himself of the services of agents, as much as possible, in order to be with his wife and child, he yet had to make long and frequent journeys to properly direct his enter- prises. CHAPTER X. (5oc| fe?e&& me! Eefiza! 2s?§L ^^mwt=^<>-& CHAPTER XIII. Isittfe G-fiza ^cli r^^ a iJriencj. '(f?9fe5S> N 1876, Major Hastings, with his little show was Eliza, visited the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, and passed several weeks in that most delightful of our eastern cities. What a world of delight the great to the child! Oh, the countless wonders displayed along miles and miles of aisles in those vast superstructures — visited daily for weeks and yet not all known ; their number so great that no human memory could find stowage for them. In the Art Gallery she often said : "Oh, papa, don't go yet. I could spend a long- lifetime here and never get ready to say good-bye to these beautiful things." "We had better go now; it is best, always, to depart before one really wishes to go, because return- so much the greater pleasure. Even ing is then — 9 2— the delights of these works of art would cloy if we made up our minds to devote all our time to them." "Then let us go to the Colorado pavillion and see that dear old Commodore Decatur." The child was an enthusiastic and zealous aide to the genial and frowsy old Commodore from Colo- rado, being a firm advocate of the superiority of the baby state over all her elder sisters in the Federal family, and stoutly maintained that its productions were the finest, its fruits the most luscious, its grains the most nourishing, its vegetables the choicest, its scenery the most charming, its climate the most de- lightful — in fact, whatever any other state had that was desirable she claimed for Colorado in a greater degree. And her naive manner in advertising her favorite state attracted no little attention to the ob- ject of her pride. Every day she guided her father to a particular tent for lunch, because the}^ were there served by a bright-eyed, fair-faced, dark haired girl of thirteen or fourteen years, with whom she had become very friendly, and who, sometimes, when she could be spared long enough from her duties, allowed her- self to be persuaded to sit with them and take a glass of the claret which the Major invariably ordered with their lunch. Occasionally the little waitress, who was called Emma Coyne, succeeded in obtaining a day's leave, —93— when she would accompany her stranger friends in their wonder wanderings. One day, at the Zoological Gardens, the children gave each other a detailed, though not uninter- rupted history, of their respective lives, much of which the Major overheard and listened to with interest. Eliza was well informed as to the animals indig- enous to Colorado, and fully explained the pecu- liarities personal to the coyote — with a stuffed sam- ple before her. There was also a stuffed mountain lion which drew from the little western maiden many narratives of depredations by that terrible beast. There were living bears of three species, native to the Rocky Mountains, together with buf- faloes, antelopes, prairie dogs, jack-rabbits, squirrels, grouse and other fowls, and birds from mountain and mesa. The favorites of the little friends were the prairie dogs, which Eliza pitied because they looked so homesick and altogether unnatural in their far-away home of detention. "How I should like to go to Colorado," Emma said, as she leaned over the wire lattice fence, tempt- ing a hungry looking prairie dog with a green twig- purloined froin an adjacent maple. "How / wish you could !" Eliza responded. "It must be so grand ! The great Rocky Moun- tains, and Pike's Peak, and the gold mines, and the —94- snow all summer, and the prairies, with flowers, and all the wild animals one can see!" She enumerated the objects of interest as they occurred in her thought, unclassified, but Eliza did not notice that fact, though it brought a smile to the lips of the Major. "Indeed, the mountains are grand; you never saw anything like them ! They appear to be differ- ent every time you look at them. Sometimes they seem so close that you think you might almost hear the miners at work, and then in an hour or two they will seem to be so far off that you couldn't ride to them in a whole day." "I never saw a mountain ; nothing but the big hills up the Schuylkill." •'Big hills! Why. Emma, there's not a big hill in Pennsylvania, 1 don't believe, only the Allegheny mountains. What you call big hills are not as big as the little hills that North Denver is built on, and folks don't even think of them as hills at all ; they're just called the Highlands, or the Heights." "Oh, I would so love to go out there!" "Can't you coax your mamma to move out there?" "We couldn't! It takes so much money to pay the fare, and we are too poor." "How much do you and your mamma get for a month's work?" —95— "I get two dollars a week here, and mamma gets ten dollars a month where she is — we couldn't save money enough, ever." "Papa, couldn't they get more than ten dollars a month in Denver?" "Yes; wages lor household help are three times that in Denver." "I would like to go, if only we could ; what does it cost, Mr. Hastings ?" "The fare to Denver is now about seventy-five dollars, without sleeper or meals on the way." "That would take two hundred dollars just to carry mamma and me to Denver. We couldn't raise so much if we should sell everything we have in the house." "How long has your father been dead ?" the Major inquired. "Ever so long; I don't even know. Mamma says I never saw him." "Poor child !" murmured the Major, thinking of his own daughter, who had never seen her father." — >3£gh-o^« CHAPTER XIV. pfurec£> ©aniei M EFORE starting on his return to the west with his daughter, the two little friends easily persuaded the Major to permit Eliza to pass one night with Emma, and together the)' left the Exposition grounds as soon as Emma's duties at the restaurant were ended for the day. Mrs. Coyne- and her daughter lived in a little two-roomed brick house in one of the poorest quarters of the city. The front room was both parlor and chamber; the other, both kitchen and dining haJl. The furniture was simple and inex- pensive, but quite sufficient for their unpretentious mode of life. Mrs. Coyne was yet a young woman, but with a worn, tired-out look, which imparted the appearance of age and suggested a life of grief. She received Eliza with a kindly interest, having heard Emma talk of her daily since their acquaintance began. — IOO — - "So your name is Eliza?" she said in the even- ing. "That is my name, too; were you named after your mother?" "Oh, no, mamma's name was Canary; she is dead now. Papa has told me, when I asked him ? that he named me so because he once had a sweet- heart called Eliza." "I shouldn't think your mother would have liked that." "I don't know whether she knew about the sweet- heart ; I'm sure, though, that papa would have had me named anything she wished, so I do not suppose she objected." "How funny it would be if everybody was named after their mamma or papa !" Emma said. "If they were," Eliza rejoined, "you would never know whom one was talking about. " "1 was once in Clearfield county in this state," Mrs. Coyne said, "and found a community very much like that. Almost the whole population was made up of the Gosses and the Kepharts, and I was both puzzled and amused by their hereditary names. Among the Kepharts the favorite name was Daniel, and their Daniels were well nigh in- numerable. They were designated as Old Dan, Old Dan's Dan, Dan, Dan's Dan, Young Dan, Young Dan's Dan, and so on through their Andys, Henrys, Jakes, Johns, Sams, and all the others, every one 101 having a son Dan. There was also a New Dan. These are all I can recall now. New Dan was so called because he was a new comer and unrelated to the old settlers. The Gosses were just as prolific of Jakes as the Kepharts were of Dans."* "How very confusing it must have been !" "It is the same now — 'tis but a few years since I was there. I have no doubt that these titles, like those of the European nobility, are hereditary, and that when Old Dan dies Dan becomes Old Dan, and so on. "Like the song : — 'Old Sam Simons And Young Sam Simons, Old Sam Simons' son Young Sam Simons Will be Sam Simons When Old Sam Simons is gone.' " Eliza sang the old long metre tune so often heard in country revival meetings to the hymn beginning : "Come, humble sinner, in whose breast — . " The ridiculous words and solemn air were ren- dered in such a comical manner that Emma was infinitely amused, and a sweet-toned though sad- dened laugh fell from the lips of Mrs. Coyne, who answered : "Very much that way, I have no doubt." "But, mamma, wasn't there anybody but Kep- harts and Gosses lived there?" *Faet! If you doubt, visit Woodward township, Clearfield county. Perm. 102- "Yery f ew? indeed. The Kepharts and the Gosses were inter-related in the most intricate manner, so that when a young man went courting he almost inevitably made love to a member of his own family." "How absurd !" "Those names were so common to the populace that one of the oddest court trials I ever heard of resulted from them." "Tell us about that, please?" "A man named Harve}^ Moore moved into the township shortly before I visited the place myself. He proved to be not only a very bad man, but ah extremely disagreeable and quarrelsome neighbor. At last a township meeting was called and he was soundly berated and a resolution was adopted say- ing : 'He has slandered the majority of his neigh- bors and it is the hope of the good people of this vicinity that he will depart from among us and return no more until he becomes an honest and a truth-telling man.' There were other resolutions and a long preamble, all of which it was made the duty of a minister living in the adjoining township to have published in the county paper. What is now called Clearfield was then called Oldtown, the county seat. A newspaper published there, called The Raftsman's Journal, was selected by the min- ister, Rev. Cyrus Jeffries, as the medium of publica- tion, and to that paper he sent an account of the — 103— meeting and a copy of the preamble and resolutions. Mr. Moore prosecuted Mr. Jeffries for libel. Senator Wallace, who then practiced law at Oldtown , appeared as Mr. Moore's attorney, and Bucher Swope, also an Oldtown attorney, appeared for Mr. Jeffries, as did also Ex-Governor Bigler. The suit attracted people from all parts of the country and even from Jefferson, Cambria Centre and Blair counties, for Mr. Jeffries was well known almost all over the state and the odd features of the con- troversy were in themselves interesting. When the defense was reached Mr. Jeffries proved, first, that Mr. Moore had repeatedly said : 'The Kepharts all make their living by stealing shingle timber and the Gosses all make their living by stealing shin- gles. To be a Goss or a Kephart is to be a timber thief by birth.' Then he proved that the Kepharts and the Gosses were 'a great majority of his neigh- bors.' The tax rolls and the poll books of the town- ship were submitted as evidence, and without leaving their box the jury found a verdict for the preacher. He was acquitted and Mr. Moore had to pay several hundred dollars costs." : "What became of Mr. Moore?' 1 "I believe that he still dwells among 'the great majority of his neighbors,' the Kepharts and the Gosses." "Did you live there when you were a girl, mamma ?" *This trial is no fiction. All the names and incidents given are correct. — 104 — "No, dear, I was there only for a short time, while you were very little." "Where did you live when you were a girl?" Eliza asked. "In Virginia." "Is that a nice country?" "Yes, I think so. Its scenery is grand, its climate is pleasant, its people both refined and hospitable." "What made you leave there?" "I grew so lonely and became so weary of quiet idleness. Shortly after I lost Emma's papa my mother died and I had no relative on earth but my baby ; so I sold the estate and wandered about from city to village, from village to country, all over Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York, till the agent into whose hands I had given the management of m} 7 money absconded, reducing me to absolute destitution. I chanced to be then in Philadelphia and so remained here." "How I do wish we could go to Colorado to live," said Emma, with a childish sigh. "It would cost too much to get there." "But just think, mamma, here you drudge for ten dollars a month, and I've never made over two dollars a week in my life ! And out there we'd get thirty dollars apiece every month — why, we'd get rich! Sixty dollars a month ! Just think of it!" — io5— "But we might not be able to get employment if we were there." "Oh, yes you could," Eliza interrupted, "there's always more people wanting help than can get it. I wish you could come ?" "Two hundred and fifty dollars would take us there; couldn't we get that amount by selling everything we have and by carefully saving all we can till the Exposition closes?" "I do not know, my dear ; I fear not." The sigh that wafted forth the mother's answer itself told of the hopeless heart from whence it came. "Do let us go right to work and try ; it would be so good for your health, mamma darling." The weary sigh of despondency had touched two tender young hearts and as the daughter made her anxious response she arose and wound the fair little arms affectionately about the mother's neck. At the same time Eliza urged : "If you are not strong it would cure you to live in Colorado. Papa went there because I was sickly and now I'm as strong as ever I can be." Thus the two little ones united in urging Mrs. Coyne to venture a life in the rich young state — the wealth-yielding, health -giving babe of the Union. And so eloquent was their earnestness that they succeeded in implanting in her mind a desire to emigrate, and in the morning when Eliza bade — io6— them a final good-bye, it was with a strong hope that she would in a few months have Emma close to her, so that their pleasant friendship might be continued. CHAPTER XV. @Jfte M a J or i t$> (ifiaritafcfe. N THE winter of 1880, Major Hastings, being in the Eagle River district attend- ing to some of his mining interests, which were both extensive and numer- ous, determined to return to his home in Denver to spend the holidays with his daughter. The morning of his start was fearfully cold and stormy. When the stage coach called to pick him up at his boarding house the major found its sole occupant to be a beautiful young woman whose extreme poverty was distressingly evident. He looked at her in amazement as she sat in a corner of the coach shivering and shrinking into the poor protection of its tattered curtains. The girl was most insufficiently clad in a cotton dress and with- out coat or shawl, while the Major wore a surplus of the warmest attire and was enveloped in an enormous ulster and had a pair of heavy traveling- robes to enwrap his limbs. I IO- "You must be cold," he said, "permit me to loan you this overcoat and comforter," and he divested himself of the ulster and a great fleecy comforter, substituting the robes for his own protection. The poor girl was too nearly perished to resist his kindly attention or do more than murmur her gratitude while he carefully wrapped her in his temporary gifts. "How far are you going ?" he asked, when he observed that she was suffering less. "To Denver." "Is that your home? "My mother is there, sir, sick and destitute. She is very sick and I am trying to reach her." "Is she a widow ?" "Yes, sir; these many years. We have no relatives other than each other — just mother and daughter." "How do you come to be in this out-of-the-way country by yourself?" "I came here because I could get better wages than I could get in Denver." "Where have you been employed ?" "In Mrs. Boyle's boarding house." "Pretty hard service there, is it not?" "Yes, sir; but I did not care for that I had to work from half- past four o'clock in the morning until half-past ten at night." — 1 1 1 — "I should think you would prefer less labor, even if it did procure smaller wages ?" "If I had not my mother to think of I would not — indeed, I could not — undergo and endure such a life ; but for more than a year she has been wholly dependent upon me, being ill. I have regularly sent her all my earnings, retaining nothing, even to clothe myself, till now, when she is so much in need of my presence, I can but barely reach her by sell- ing my only dispensable garment.'" "Do you mean to say that you disposed of your wardrobe in order to pay your fare to Denver that you might join your mother?" "I had not the money to pay my fare, sir, other- wise. But 'wardrobe' is too comprehensive; I had a fine coat which a lady in the east gave me after I had nursed her during a dangerous illness, and Mrs. Boyle was willing to buy the coat." "You should have borrowed the amount you required. It is terrible to set out on a mountain journey in such weather as this without ample pro- tection from the cold." "I would rather suffer than be in debt ; besides, I knew no one to whom I could appeal, who would be at all likely to lend me the sum necessary." "Ah, then, you do not really know the miners. Not one of those boarding with. Mrs. Boyle would have refused to lend you all the money you desired I 12- — or, indeed, to have given it to you with a free heart and an open hand, had they possessed it and known your strait." At the nooning station the Major sought the wife of the one merchant of the place, and to that lady he said privately : "I wish you to fit her out with shawls, hood, overcoat and wraps ; give her a good dress from your own wardrobe; if she requires them, also, an abundant supply of warm under-garments. See that she has everything that you can possibly sup- ply her with as long as an addition to her attire will add to her comfort. The expense will be mine ; let me know the amount as soon as you know it yourself." The commission was considerately, delicately and tenderly discharged, and the coach bore onward from thence two passengers with lighter hearts, and one of them buoyed with brighter hopes than it brought to the village. As the coach departed the wife of the merchant said to her husband : "There goes a lucky girl ; Major Hastings will marry her before the flowers bloom on the prairie again, and then she will become one of the great ladies of Denver. She is pretty enough to catch an older man than he is, too " — ii3— At Leadville the Major continued his kindly offices for the girl's comfort, conducting her to the Clarendon hotel, where he paid her bill for the night. The following morning they left for Denver by the South Park train and arrived in the evening. As they entered the city he handed to her his pencil and diary, saying : "If you will give me your name and address I will have my daughter, who is about your own age, call on you to learn how your mother is. If there is any way in which we can be of service to you tell Eliza ; if you require money or assistance of any kind do not hesitate at all to apply to us for it." She wrote the address as requested and the Major returned the book to his pocket without reading it. At the depot he called a carriage, placed her within it, asked where she wished to be set down, repeated her words to the driver, with whom he then settled for the service, shook hands with and said good-bye to his protege, and then stepped into another car- riage and was driven to his own home of luxury and love on Capitol hill. #1 .; r\ I l CHAPTER XVI. Mi iJineU "taifffe Gfiza'^ iJrienc). dyWM* T BREAKFAST the following morn- ^o|pl| ing, as the Major and his lovely daughter, now grown to womanhood, sat at the table, he told her the touch- ing story of the young girl's devotion to an invalid mother, and continued : '"And now, my child, I want you to call on them and spy out their necessities and supply them with all they need. Your own affectionate heart will suggest whatever will most conduce to the sick mothers comfort and to the faithful daughter's happiness, and you must see that it is provided in as graceful and delicate a manner as is possible. You will find Mrs. Coyne's address in the diary on my dressing-case. See that they lack nothing that is essential to their comfort." ''Mrs. Coyne! Did you say Mrs. Coyne?" and Miss Hastings arose excitedly. "Yes— what's the matter?" n8- "Did you learn the daughter's name? Was it Emma?" "Emma Coyne? — yes, that is the young woman's name! Where have you heard it? 1 ' "Oh, papa! Don't you remember? How could you fail to know her ? You have not forgotten my little Centennial friend, surely? 1 ' "I have not forgotten, of course, that you had a passing childish friendship for a little girl there; but I do not recollect her name." "Oh, papa, dear, how cruel of you not to know her ! "How cruel that you did not tell me last night; I must go to her at once ; her dear mother may be dead." "I certainly hope not; I most earnestly hope not." "It is so strange that she did not recognize you ! Did you not give her your name?" "No; under the circumstances, I did not care to tell her my name — while she was under my care — it would have seemed like asking her to say, 'Thank you, Mr. Hastings.'" -F^#" CHAPTER XVII. eco^en f^^^glSS HASTINGS obtained the diary and drove hurriedly to the address. She found Mrs. Coyne very low and Miss Coyne in a state of unutterable fear and distress. The joy of the poor girl over the recovery of her friend was equaled only by the gratitude, of herself and her mother to the Major for his kindness to the daughter. The best medical care was at once secured and all that could be provided to make the invalid com- fortable was supplied. Miss Hastings was almost constantly with the Coynes and took Miss Coyne out for daily drives while the physician who attended Mrs. Coyne com- pelled the daughter to walk to the Major's and back every day for the benefit of her own health. Under the skilful treatment and affectionate care accorded her Mrs. Coyne recovered very rapidly, and when preparations for the holiday festivities began she was able to walk about her room unaided. — 122 — In compliance with Miss Hastings' determined invitation the Coynes were to dine at the Major's on Christmas. Notwithstanding the mutual devotion of the two young ladies their parents had not met either at Philadelphia or in Denver. CHAPTER XVIII. Ufte eJTaneL of pro^icjenee. i'AWX gave promise that Christmas would be a bright, fair day, and the day kept the promise of the dawn Christ- mas was a bright day, fair and pleasant. Nature seemed as tranquilly happy as the masses who thronged the streets were peaceful and merry. Early in the forenoon. Miss Hastings sent the carriage to bring the Coynes, though dinner would not be served till four o'clock. How happy the two young ladies were ! They hung over their presents together, toyed most with such as they admired most; played and sang with each other and to each other ; told stories of love, travel and adventure; read Christmas stories from Dickens "in the voices,'' and romped not a little, till their youthful joyness infused new cheerfulness into the spirit of Mrs. Coyne, who, prompted by their persistent pleadings, pleased them by going to the 126 — piano. She played some exquisitely soft, tender and melodious airs which had been her familiar favorites in the days of her own girlhood. The Major was not expected to join the party until the dinner hour. He came in about three o'clock and proceeded to his own room to dress before meeting his guests. When he at length entered the drawing room he kissed his daughter, who affectionately and proudly took hold of his arm while he shook hands with Miss Coyne, to whom he said : "'Miss Coyne, I wisli you a merry Christmas, and 1 am delighted to find you looking so much better and happier than when I had the pleasure of first meeting you in Colorado.' 1 Mrs. Coyne was still at the piano when the Major entered, and as he saluted her daughter she swung around on the stool. When the Major released Emma's hand his daughter led him to Mrs. Coyne, saying : "Mrs. Coyne, permit me the pleasure of present- ing my papa, Major Hastings." Mrs. Coyne arose and bent her head as she curtesied in the fashion of the old school of southern ladies when meeting those to whom particular reverence or respect was due. The Major bowed deep. As they raised themselves erect, their hands joined and their eyes met, Mrs. Coyne sank back — T27— upon the stool, her face pale as the ivory keys of the instrument upon which she had just been playing. "Arthur!" "Eliza!" The two daughters looked on in speechless amazement and wonder. As soon as he could re- cover himself the Major said : "Eliza, my child, take Miss Coyne to your own apartments and await my summons." As the door closed behind his children he said: "Eliza, for twelve years I have had detectives searching for you. For one full year I did nothing, personally, but seek you. For two years I had the press of the country filled with advertisements for you — tell me, have you been aware of all this'/'* "Arthur, I have known of none of it ; I spent nearly five years searching for you through New York, New Jersey, Penns3dvania and Maryland — but I failed, everywhere, to hear of a Corrinne." "God forgive me ! That name was an alias. I was never known by it save as a private soldier in the Twenty-eighth Pennsylvania infantry. When I quit that service I discarded the name of Arthur Corrinne and resumed my own — Compton Hastings. Had you remained either Eliza Virginia or Eliza Corrinne, I must surely have found you years ago and spared you vast suffering and myself immeas- urable sorrow and regret." — 128— "I assumed the name I have since borne when I set out upon my search for you, thinking that if you wished to avoid me, as I knew after that meeting at Weverton you did, I would have more difficulty in approaching you, should I allow myself to be known as Mrs Corrinne." "Eliza, through all these years, despite all my perfidy, I have loved you ; if you will come back to me, God knows I wish to extend to you that protec- tion and devote to you that care and love which should never have been diverted from you." "Are you not my husband ? The father of my child? Oh, how I have tried to hate you — and yet, how I have loved you !" He gathered his long-widowed wife to his bosom and covered her face — which already seemed to bloom again in the beauty of its youth — with fervent kisses as in the olden days. After thorough mutual explanations, they de- cided to inform only their children of their previous relations, and to let the world understand that their marriage was an event of the day, the Major having long before learned that their marriage was legal, although as a bridegroom he was under an alias. They went out together into the brilliant day and walked down to the handsome house of Rev. Doctor Jeffery, and there they were quietly married — Compton Hastings and Eliza Hastings. They re- turned to the Major's residence as calmly as they — i 3 o— had gone forth. Reaching the parlor, the Major rang for a servant and sent for the young ladies, who had passed the time in anxiety, apprehension and wonder. When they came in he said : "My children, it is nineteen years ago to-day since this lady became my wife. Before your birth, Emma, my dear daughter, we were separated under circumstances of which you need not become in- formed ; we lost trace of each other and mutual search was unavailing. I married a second time and Eliza was born to me ; her mother died by an accident in Eliza's infancy — you were named Eliza as a tribute to the memory of Emma's mother. After Canary's death doubts again arose in my mind as to what fate had befallen my first wife, and again I searched long for her, always without success, till I ceased to hope. To-day the hand of Providence has restored her to me, and with my wife has given me a daughter. Since you went up stairs we have been re-married — and as we are now all at home and din- ner is ready, my dear wife, you can order it served at once, if you will." BY THE SAME AUTHOR NOW IN PRESS. TRIBULATIONS OF A TENDERFOOT. A BOOK OF COLORADO HUMOROUS ADVENTURES. V A Persecuted Being. For Circulars address H. B. Jeffries, 314 Larimer St., Denver, Colo. From Tribidaiions of a Tenderfoot. - : Seraph. The postal vandal who reads our letters en route. Farewell Rev., said Mav Yealord. From Tribulations of a Tenderfoot. Hermetically Sealed. Oh ! Look at that Funny Man From Tribulations of a Tenderfoot. The boy saluted him. He thought it had the colic From Tribulations of a Tenderfoot. A common occurrence. Durn that Goat ; it's ehawin' my apern From Tribulations of a Tenderfi oof. /