THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE ETHEL PARK RICHARDSON 
 AMERICAN FOLKLORE FUND
 
 MORE 
 PENNSYLVANIA MOUNTAIN STORIES
 
 OLE BULL'S CASTLE 
 
 From the painting b u C. H. Sh ea , er
 
 Jlennsirliranra 
 
 "Ye who love a nation's legends. 
 Love the ballads of a people. 
 That like voices from afar off 
 Call to us to pause and listen." 
 
 Longfellow 
 
 HENRY W. SHOEMAKER 
 
 Author of Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Verses, Etc. 
 
 1912 
 
 COPYRIGHTED 
 
 Published by The Bright Printing Company 
 Reading, Pennsylvania
 
 EXPLANATORY PREFACE 
 
 T of the readers of "Pennsyl- 
 vania Mountain Stories" and its 
 predecessor, "Wild Life in West- 
 ern Pennsylvania," were aware of 
 the purpose and origin of the legends, 
 but, for the benefit of the readers of 
 this book who have not seen the earlier 
 volumes, the author takes this opportunity 
 for explanation. In the first place, having 
 been born and educated in a great city, his 
 liveliest sensations and observations were 
 naturally aroused by visits which began at 
 an early age to the mountains of Central 
 Pennsylvania. As it is said that country 
 boys make the most eager reporters for city 
 newspapers, all the scenes being so new to 
 them, in the same way it fell to the lot of the 
 city-bred author to become a chronicler of 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Legends. Realizing 
 from the first that he was not a literary artist, 
 and following occupations which made his 
 visits to the mountains few and far between, 
 he would gladly have relinquished the re- 
 
 876405
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 searches to a more worthy pen, but as none 
 appeared and the work, when he was able to 
 get at it, appealed to him, he decided, using 
 the words of a distinguished writer, "To 
 follow the furrow to the end." In his pre- 
 face to "Wild Life in Western Pennsylvania," 
 a book with a misleading title, as it related 
 to the traditions and people and not the "wild 
 life" which generally means animals and 
 birds, of that region, he endeavored to ex- 
 plain the causes which led up to the publi- 
 cation of the book. When about ten years 
 old, he began strolls through the woods with 
 the late John Q. Dyce, a lover of nature, much 
 on the type of Thoreau. From him he first 
 learned the names of the trees, plants, flowers, 
 and birds, and later it was the old natural- 
 ist's delight to recount stories of the long ago 
 when Central Pennsylvania was being first 
 opened to civilization. A great many of 
 these tales he later found in the pages of 
 J. F. Meginness's "Otzinachson" and works 
 of similar nature. But there were others 
 which did not appear in the "Otzinachson," 
 Day's "Historical Collections," nor "The
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 History of the Five Counties." These related 
 to the Supernatural Element of pioneer life 
 and, from the number of them, the author 
 began to feel that he had opened up a verit- 
 able treasure house. About the same time 
 an aged Indian came to McElhattan, the 
 beautiful mountain retreat where the author 
 spent many of his boyhood days. This old 
 man claimed that he had once lived at Mc- 
 Elhattan, but most probably meant Nichols's 
 Run across the river, where the Indians ling- 
 ered for many years. The aged redman re- 
 counted to him the "Legend of Penn's Cave" 
 and it made a deeper impression than any of 
 the other stories he had heard. 
 
 From that time on new legends came to 
 his notice, but it was some years afterwards, 
 in 1903, when he attempted to transfer the 
 first one, "The Legend of Penn's Cave," to 
 paper. He enjoyed the work so much that 
 he followed it by writing a dozen more that 
 had been running in his mind "year in and 
 year out." He had the collection published 
 in a small book which was generously noticed 
 by the press of Central Pennsylvania. Then
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 four years passed, during which time he 
 heard more "mountain stories." In 1907 a 
 number of these were brought out in a larger 
 book entitled "Pennsylvania Mountain 
 Stories." It received wider newspaper no- 
 tices and several editions were issued. In 
 the preface of the earlier book and also in 
 the later one, the author explained the na- 
 ture of the contents, trying to impress the 
 fact that they were not imaginary tales, but 
 had a sound basis of historical fact ; that all 
 of the characters had actually existed; in 
 short, that the stories were true up to the 
 part where they touched upon the "super- 
 natural," but even that to some is debatable 
 ground. Those who read the introductions 
 understood the meaning of the books, and 
 as such they filled a certain place, being the 
 first known attempt to preserve the "Folk- 
 Lore" of Central Pennsylvania, Meginness 
 and his contemporaries, and the Archives at 
 Harrisburg, having about said the last word 
 on the historical part. In these books of 
 mountain legends, the author has endeavored 
 to print only such stories as found no place
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 nor would find a place in volumes of Central 
 Pennsylvania history. There is one excep- 
 tion in the present volume. In the story 
 called "Vindication of Frederick Stump," a 
 well-known individual is given considerable 
 space, but here it is to present a new version 
 of the crime for which he was blackened, and 
 most probably unjustly, in the pages of ac- 
 cepted history. The late Judge D. C. Hen- 
 ning of Pottsville, in his magnificent tribute 
 to the Schuylkill Valley, "Tales of the Blue 
 Mountains," stated that the ground-work of 
 every one of his stories could be verified in 
 the State Archives. The author of "More 
 Mountain Stories" has adopted a different 
 method, going into the "by-ways" after 
 stories which were practically forgotten or 
 too filled with the "witch-craft element" to 
 be included in the records of a State. At 
 the same time, many of the characters in his 
 stories were well known in their day, and 
 were it not for the fact that it might give 
 offense to their descendants through their 
 connection with "spooks," he would have 
 strictly adhered to their correct names. This
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 is especially the case with the stories which 
 happened only a few years ago, where practi- 
 cally all of the chief actors are living. But 
 one thing is certain, it shows that legends 
 are still being created in this "empty day," 
 especially those where shades of the de- 
 parted are figuring. The great value of leg- 
 ends is that they give to each mountain, 
 valley, rock, lake or waterfall mentioned a 
 more intimate and lasting charm. "Here such 
 and such a thing happened" is a happy sup- 
 plement for "Oh, what a beautiful sight." 
 We doubt not that Lewis's Lake would be al- 
 ways as popular without a legend, but with 
 one it grows in our interest. We all know 
 that the Scotch Highlands, the Irish Lakes, 
 the Rhine Country and the old castles in 
 Italy are visited annually by millions of peo- 
 ple as much on account of the legends con- 
 nected with them as for their natural at- 
 tractions. Of course, with these places some 
 of the greatest literary giants who ever lived 
 gave their best efforts to invest them with 
 the charm of romance. The Pennsylvania 
 mountain country lacks this as yet, but per-
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 haps some of the most fascinating regions of 
 the old world were first taken in hand by un- 
 skilled writers and later attracted the atten- 
 tion of the geniuses who immortalized them. 
 The author feels positive that the Pennsyl- 
 vania Mountains are a field rich in literary 
 material that will sooner or later be "discov- 
 ered." Whether this happens in the next 
 few years or not for a quarter of a century 
 is not material except the loss it affords to 
 the present generation of readers. As ex- 
 plained above, new legends are in the making 
 every day, so the "treasure house" can never 
 be exhausted. The work of collecting moun- 
 tain legends is most delightful, entailing as 
 it does trips afoot, on horseback or in "livery 
 rigs" through a country that is most varied 
 in its scenery and at all times grandly im- 
 pressive. All the types needed by novelists 
 or short story writers have been met with, 
 witches, outlaws, lumbermen, sang-diggers, 
 bar-maids, deerslayers and travelling preach- 
 ers. The author has found them all equally 
 attractive and most of them, when friendly 
 relations were established, had some quaint
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 legend or anecdote to repeat. Although, as 
 noted previously, the living characters and 
 those characters whose descendants are any- 
 way prominent have had to appear in the 
 volumes of "Mountain Stories" with altered 
 names. Yet in many instances, with regard 
 to places and localities, the names are un- 
 changed, so that readers desirous of taking 
 outings into the splendid Highlands where 
 the scenes of the stories were laid can do so 
 without mystification. Lock Haven can be 
 taken as a hub ; follow a line in any direction 
 and you will meet with the scenes of these 
 stories and perhaps learn some better ones 
 yourselves. It has been the author's effort 
 to transcribe the stories, except for the 
 changing of names, exactly as he heard them, 
 but sometimes this has been at the cost of a 
 happy or dramatic ending. There were some 
 sources of information that were far more 
 interesting than the information itself. We 
 have already mentioned the late John Q. 
 Dyce and how he cultivated our love of 
 wandering through the mountains and for- 
 ests, and the old Indian who revisited the
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 scenes of his youth and stopped long enough 
 to impart a dying tradition. And there were 
 others equally well-posted and companion- 
 able. The late Jacob Quiggle, of blessed 
 memory, who passed away on his ninetieth 
 birthday on October 17th, last, was a link 
 binding the present to the past. As a boy he 
 recalled the many visits to his father's house 
 of the noted Indian killer, Peter Pentz, and 
 how this huge frontiersman, with his shock 
 of stiff red hair and big, eloquent mouth, 
 would gather the boys about him at the fire- 
 side on winter evenings regaling them for 
 hours with his exploits. The late Seth Nel- 
 son was another survival of the latter pion- 
 eer days. Dying in 1902 at the age of ninety- 
 three years, he was a day or so older than 
 Gladstone; he had many and varied experi- 
 ences in the wilderness of the Sinnemahon- 
 ing. He used to say that he killed one hun- 
 dred elk and a thousand deer in Southern 
 New York State and Northern Pennsylvania, 
 and wolves and catamounts (Lynx canaden- 
 sis) too numerous to have counted. Jim 
 Jacobson, that strange half-breed whose
 
 Explanatory Preface 
 
 father is said to have been one of Ole Bull's 
 colonists on Kettle Creek, was a man worth 
 going miles to meet. He claimed to have 
 killed the last elk in Pennsylvania, in Potter 
 County, in 1875, and statisticians generally 
 acknowledge his having killed one in 1867, 
 while Col. Roosevelt gives him the credit of 
 slaying the "last elk" in 1869. Mrs. Anna 
 Stabley, who died at McElhattan last year, 
 aged seventy-seven, had spent all her spare 
 time collecting legends and quaint anecdotes 
 of the mountain people, her scrap books being 
 filled with valuable facts. John H. Chatham 
 of McElhattan, was eminently well fitted 
 through birth and education to do his part 
 towards the verbal preservation of the stories 
 of the old days in which his ancestors played 
 such a stirring part. He has loved the woods 
 and streams with a sincere devotion and is 
 one of the few "natives" who delighted in 
 studying the old-time traditions. And of 
 course there are others; the list would be a 
 long one of those who brightened the author's 
 hours with their marvellous reminiscences 
 and which made him regret that he had not
 
 Explanatory Preface xv 
 
 been born with a more facile pen. But 
 whether the stories last of not, few persons, 
 he thinks, have enjoyed a more delightful 
 youth. Perhaps if he had visited the moun- 
 tains oftener the spell might have lifted and 
 he would only have seen the stumps, fire- 
 swept hillsides, shrunken streams, poverty 
 and changeable weather. To him it was al- 
 ways and only a Glorious Land of Romance 
 where the sun was always shining and the 
 people were always smiling. He has tasted 
 true happiness in the Central Pennsylvania 
 Mountains and in this humble way strives to 
 repay his debt of gratitude by recording the 
 "higher and finer phases" of God's chosen 
 region. 
 
 HENRY W. SHOEMAKER. 
 
 New York City, 
 
 December 18, '11.
 
 WHEN THE PIGEONS FLY 
 
 BOUT half a mile below the 
 village of Loyalsockville, a 
 narrow road branches off to 
 the right from the main 
 highway, and winds away 
 among the hills. If you fol- 
 low it, you will go past fields 
 on the steep hillside, patches 
 of woods, pasture lots filled 
 with golden rod and mullein, and frequently 
 cross bridges of loose, unsteady planks over 
 the stream, shrunken to a mere thread, which 
 is as winding as the lane itself. In the bottom 
 where the creek flows, a few of the old-time 
 buttonwoods have survived, but there are in- 
 numerable stumps of white pine, hemlock, 
 oak and beech, which attest to the havoc of 
 the lumbermen in this secluded hollow during 
 the past twenty years. After several miles 
 the road attains a level stretch of high 
 ground, where through the recent slashings 
 
 17
 
 18 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 views of the highest point of the North moun- 
 tains are disclosed. 
 
 Fields of not very great width are on both 
 sides of the road, and back of them uneven, 
 and sadly mutilated woodlands. Several 
 browned piles of sawdust tell of the presence 
 in past years of the "portable" saw mills. 
 After a quarter of a mile the woods close in 
 to the road, but just before reaching there, 
 a little cottage can be seen through a clump 
 of half-dead apple trees. Across the road 
 from this cottage, in an abandoned field, and 
 on the edge of the woods, a very strange-look- 
 ing structure is standing. Made out of poles 
 and boughs, it is different from anything we 
 have seen on our travels. The genial, middle- 
 aged driver winks his shrewd, dark eyes, and 
 points to it with his whip: "Say, that's a 
 bough house for trapping wild pigeons; did 
 you ever see one before?" 
 
 Its spick and span appearance led us to in- 
 quire if there could possibly be any pigeons 
 in the neighborhood, especially since one of 
 our party had become a member of the com- 
 mittee which was vainly trying to rediscover
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 19 
 
 them. "There haven't been pigeons in this 
 county in twenty years," replied the driver, 
 "but there is a story back of that bough house, 
 and why it is repaired every year." He pulled 
 his long-tailed bay horses down to a walk, 
 and, leaning over the back of the cushioned 
 seat of the surrey, commenced his bit of local 
 history. 
 
 "In 1876, the year of the Philadelphia Cen- 
 tennial, that house we have just passed was 
 occupied by a soldier's widow, a Mrs. Mohn. 
 Her husband was killed at Chancellorsville. 
 She drew a pension. Mrs. Mohn had one 
 daughter, Clarice, said by everybody to be 
 the prettiest girl in the Loyalsock country. 
 She was smart, and got all the education that 
 was being given out. August of Centennial 
 year, she was nineteen years old, and her 
 young friends gave her a surprise party. 
 
 "She was different in looks from most of 
 the mountain girls, for she was a perfect 
 blonde. She was taller than the average, 
 very erect, and very slender. Her hair was 
 yellow-gold, but her eyebrows and lashes 
 were black. Her eyes, when she opened them
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 wide, were grayish blue, but she most always 
 kept them half shut, so you could never know 
 what she was thinking about. Some called 
 her 'sleepy eye,' but she was the most wide- 
 awake girl in the township. She had a fine 
 complexion, and very red lips, which some 
 thought were just a litle too full. Her nose 
 had an arch to it, but changed its mind and 
 turned up just a trifle at the end. Although 
 she made her own clothes, she always looked 
 well-dressed, and her mother had planned to 
 send her to Williamsport to make a milliner 
 or dressmaker out of her. 
 
 "All the boys were crazy about her, but 
 still she was popular with the girls. This 
 was a great pigeon country, and the birds 
 were slaughtered by the tens of thousands. 
 By '76 they were pretty well driven out of 
 their nesting grounds in the North moun- 
 tains, but they flew north in the spring and 
 south in the fall in flocks that actually dark- 
 ened the sun. Quite a few hunters from a 
 distance came here to enjoy the sport, espe- 
 cially in the fall. Some boarded in lumber
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 21 
 
 camps, but others preferred to get with pri- 
 vate families. 
 
 "The Widow Mohn always entertained a 
 few of these city hunters every year, but in 
 Centennial year she was only able to get one. 
 This fellow was from Baltimore, and if I ever 
 heard his name, have clean forgotten it. His 
 name wasn't mentioned much, and the old 
 postmaster who handled letters addressed to 
 him, has been dead for twenty-five years. The 
 Baltimore hunter was a good looking young 
 chap, full of life and energy, pleasant man- 
 nered and liberal. He came up here for deer 
 and pheasants, but an enormous flight of 
 pigeons turned his attention to them and he 
 said he had never had such good sport in his 
 life. 
 
 "He fell in with two other hunters old 
 Abe DeTemple and his son Nick and found 
 board with Mrs. Mohn. In the buckwheat 
 field across from the widow's home was a 
 great place for pigeons, and already an old 
 bough house was there, but the DeTemples 
 entirely rebuilt it. Pigeons in immense num- 
 bers were captured, and Abe and young Nick
 
 22 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 were kept busy shipping strings of dead birds 
 or crates of live ones to the young hunter's 
 friends in Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York 
 and Washington. Every day he would say 
 he'd start tomorrow on a deer hunt, but the 
 reappearance of pigeons would keep his at- 
 tention fastened. 
 
 "Pretty soon everybody began to notice 
 it wasn't the pigeons that interested him so 
 much, but Clarice. She was always out at 
 the bough house, helping him to crate the 
 birds, was eternally cleaning his guns, and 
 in the evenings we always saw them walking 
 together along the road through the woods. 
 There was an old box-swing between two 
 shellbarks in the yard, and they were always 
 swinging in it just before supper time. 
 When we passed by at night we could see a 
 light in the sitting room window, a thing that 
 never occurred before the young hunter put 
 in his appearance. 
 
 "The day before he left they went for a 
 long walk in the woods and were gone all day. 
 She went along, she 'had to do some shop- 
 ping' she said, when he went to Williamsport
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 23 
 
 to take the train, and Ed. Lovett who drove 
 them said they both seemed to feel very badly 
 when they parted. His last words to her 
 were : Til be back again next fall, when the 
 pigeons fly.' 'Try and make it sooner/ she 
 called to him, as he got on the car, and then 
 they both waved good-bye. He stood on the 
 back platform until the station was lost to 
 sight by the curve below the Seminary. 
 
 "We young fellows who worked on the 
 neighboring saw mills, and all admired Clar- 
 ice, could see she was considerably cast down 
 by the parting, and tried to cheer her up as 
 best we could. None of us succeeded very 
 well, excepting perhaps Nick DeTemple. He 
 had been around the 'Baltimore hunter/ as we 
 called him, and knew his ways, and she liked 
 to talk about him and lay plans for his visit 
 the following autumn. 
 
 "This threw Nick with her a good deal, 
 and some of the more jealous boys did a little 
 talking, but every day she went to the post- 
 office and got a letter from Baltimore, and 
 mailed one herself. She was always in good 
 spirits when the letters came, so we con-
 
 24 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 eluded that Nick was only encouraged as a 
 reminder of the absent one. But Nick was 
 on the alert to take every advantage of his 
 opportunity. Though he wasn't bright, and, 
 apart from being well-built, wasn't good look- 
 ing, he had a self-confidence that had no room 
 in its composition for anything but success. 
 
 "He had saved some money and occasion- 
 ally hired a horse and buggy and took the 
 girls riding. At Christmas he bought him- 
 self a horse and a sleigh, which soon came in 
 very handy. A protracted meeting began at 
 a church near Warrensville, and he invited 
 Clarice to go with him. She had been par- 
 ticularly moody of late, and her mother urged 
 her to go, and become interested in the religi- 
 ous entertainment. She did become inter- 
 ested to the extent that the old postmaster 
 said she failed to mail a letter to Baltimore 
 for four successive days, and when she did 
 send one off she found six of her absent ad- 
 mirer's letters in the box. 
 
 "She stuck them in her dress, but on the 
 way up the hill she began to take them out 
 and read them, one by one. Often she stopped
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 25 
 
 short and stood for a couple of minutes, as 
 if undecided about something. The next 
 thing the postmaster noticed was that no let- 
 ters from Baltimore arrived for three days. 
 Clarice came to the office daily and looked for 
 them. 
 
 "Then the letters began again, but the 
 rumor spread that Nick DeTemple and Clar- 
 ice Mohn were soon to be married. She wrote 
 every few days to Baltimore, and sometimes 
 received daily replies, but the correspondence 
 was never regular again. In April Nick and 
 Clarice drove to Williamsport, and came back 
 man and wife. On the way back they stopped 
 at the postoffice. There were three letters 
 for Clarice, and she borrowed a sheet of 
 paper and envelope and wrote a letter to Bal- 
 timore. 
 
 "She seemed very happy for several 
 months, but by the last of July she appeared 
 pale and wretched. Nick had begun to drink 
 again, so the neighbors declared. He had al- 
 ways been more or less of a 'boozer/ but now 
 that he had won the prettiest girl for miles 
 around, he seemed to want to celebrate his
 
 26 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 triumph with repeated sprees. There was 
 going to be an early fall, and by the first of 
 September the maples and gum trees were 
 tinted crimson. The nights assumed the chill- 
 ness of late autumn, and the 'Hallowe'en 
 wind' rattled the brittle corn stalks. The few 
 remaining crickets had a note of sadness in 
 their songs. One Saturday night Nick drove 
 to Williamsport, never to return. He got 
 into a row in one of the saloons along the 
 river front, and broke a decanter of whiskey 
 over the head of a big, hulking riverman. 
 
 "They carried him into the back room and 
 laid him on a sofa, but he was dead before 
 they could get medical attendance. Nick said 
 he was sorry, and told the proprietor, whom 
 he knew very well, he would go straight to 
 the police and surrender himself. He was 
 allowed to go, but whether he killed himself 
 in some lonely spot in the mountains, or 
 swung aboard a freight for Altoona, is still 
 an open question. Clarice heard the news 
 next day, and her mother said she had a hard 
 time to keep the girl from killing herself. 
 
 "She would not stir out of the house al-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 27 
 
 though the bright sunshine was every day 
 deepening the tints of the leaves on the 
 maples, gums and hickories. A few scatter- 
 ing flocks of wild pigeons were being ob- 
 served flying to the south, and once about two 
 weeks after the catastrophe at Williamsport, 
 she was seen on the back porch, with her 
 lovely white hand shading her eyes, watching 
 the flight of the birds. 
 
 "Two or three days after this, at dusk, 
 when few were moving on the roads, she 
 came out and went down the hill in the direc- 
 tion of the postoffice. The old postmaster 
 said she mailed a letter to Baltimore. A few 
 days later she came in again, and looked for 
 a letter, but none was there. She inquired 
 nervously of the old man how often the mails 
 were received, and then started homeward. 
 The next morning a memorable flight of 
 pigeons occurred, obscuring the heavens by 
 their myriad millions. 
 
 "Bright and early, with her mother, Clar- 
 ice was seen at work repairing the bough 
 house. The nets were brought out, and hung 
 on the porch to be aired and renovated. All
 
 28 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 day long the impressive flight continued, and 
 towards evening, with a light step, we had 
 not noticed in months, she started for the 
 postoffice. I met her on the hill, there was 
 color in her face, and she smiled just as she 
 did in the old days. Her face was a study 
 when I met her again coming back, it was 
 dark, but the stars gave enough light to see 
 the rigid lines which seemed to have aged her 
 ten years. The postmaster vowed she did 
 not get a letter, but I have always doubted it. 
 "When I passed by the house the next 
 afternoon I saw the doctor's buggy at the 
 gate. Mrs. Mohn was there talking to him, 
 and she called to me in a hollow voice that 
 Clarice was very sick. She had a bad fever 
 or something; at any rate, we didn't see her 
 for over a month. When we did it was not 
 the Clarice of old. It was an aged woman, 
 literally 'there were silver threads among the 
 gold.' Her face was pale, her eyes more 
 closed than ever, her lips were no longer full, 
 there were wrinkles where once had been the 
 bloom of youth.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 29 
 
 "But she was brave and went about her 
 household duties as before. A year passed, 
 and the grand spectacle of the wild pigeons 
 in flight occurred again. Clarice and her 
 mother were seen repairing the bough house 
 and airing the nets, which gave rise to the 
 rumor that she had received a letter. But the 
 birds came and went, and the long winter 
 followed, but with spring fewer pigeons were 
 noticed flying northward. 
 
 "That fall scattering flights took place, 
 and Clarice put the bough house in perfect 
 order. The following year there were still 
 fewer pigeons, and after 1881, only a few 
 stragglers came this way. But even after 
 1890, when they ceased coming altogether, 
 Clarice was true to her purpose, and repaired 
 the bough house every autumn. She seldom 
 went to the postoffice, except at this time, 
 and people out of kindness hid in the brush 
 when she passed, so as not to break in on her 
 sorrowful thoughts. All night long a light 
 was noticed in the sitting room window. Last 
 spring her mother died; she was close to 
 seventy-five years old, and we thought that
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Clarice would move away, or at least let the 
 bough house run down. 
 
 "But last fall, after the maples and gums 
 had assumed their glowing colors, she went 
 to work manfully and set it to rights. Even 
 the net was carefully mended and aired, and 
 hung for days on the wall inside the porch. 
 Clarice looking older than ever was at the 
 postoffice twice, and her solitary, angular 
 figure, would have brought tears to a stone. 
 She seems to think that the young hunter 
 from Baltimore will come back sometime 
 'when the pigeons fly,' but his return is as 
 improbable as the hope that we will ever see 
 again the Passenger Pigeon, noblest and most 
 beautiful of all the birds of America."
 
 II 
 
 THE LAST ELK 
 
 T was a long, but far from a 
 tedious drive from Sala- 
 manca to the little nook in 
 the hills where old Jim 
 Jacobson lived. Old man 
 Frank, who ran the leading 
 livery in the town, with his 
 long white beard and gen- 
 eral manner that suggested 
 a Mormon prophet, put us in the hands of Bill 
 Thorpe, a big, broad-faced Irishman, and our 
 team was a pair of little bay mustangs, quick 
 as lightning and always wanting to run off. 
 The morning was beautiful, and the roads 
 good, so we were in the Reservation before 
 long, whirling along past the wretched huts 
 of the Indians, which reminded us forcibly 
 of the hovels of the peasants in Ireland. Oc- 
 casionally we met the flat-faced stoical half- 
 breeds, with their slow walk, and wooden
 
 32 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 rigidity of hands and bodies. In a few bog 
 ponds groups of Indians, men and children, 
 were fishing for carp, and as the day ad- 
 vanced, some stalwart "braves" could be seen 
 resting under the trees while their wives hoed 
 garden. There was an utter absence of bird 
 life, and not a single tree of noticeable size, 
 as these poor survivors of the greatness of 
 the Senecas to save themselves from going 
 away to work destroyed everything that na- 
 ture put within reach of them. Bill Thorpe 
 seemed to feel happy in the reservation; it 
 took him back, he said, to the days when he 
 used to be in the West. 
 
 That was in 1880, there were still buffaloes 
 arid wild Indians in Western Kansas. Once 
 he saw a herd of five hundred buffaloes cross- 
 ing a stream. Another time he saw cowboys 
 and Indians fighting over a herd of several 
 hundred buffaloes; all the buffaloes were 
 killed, but six Indians and one cowboy also 
 fell in the encounter. There must be a few 
 wild buffaloes in the West yet, there is such 
 a big country for them, to range over, he 
 continued. We reminded him that 1880 was
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 33 
 
 more than a quarter of a century in the past ; 
 it would be delightful if there were wild buf- 
 faloes; we had been West ourselves within 
 the past few years, all was inclosed in barb- 
 wire, and the last wild bison were killed by 
 taxidermists in Lost Park, Colorado, about 
 1900. "Too bad," said Bill, "I was never 
 able to get west of Cleveland since 1883." In 
 the distance we could see the long white 
 buildings of the Quaker school for Indians, 
 at Tunesassa. Here philathropic Philadel- 
 phia "Friends" over a century ago bought 
 a large tract of land on the edge of the reser- 
 vation, and sent teachers out to civilize and 
 instruct the aborigines. After all these years 
 the only appreciable result is that there are 
 fewer Indians, disease took a stronger grip 
 on those who took most kindly to the methods 
 of the civilizers. All this school did was to 
 accelerate the effort of nature to decimate 
 the Redmen to make room for the whites. 
 Once the school authorities had some very 
 magnificent white pine timber on the tract, 
 but now all was gone except one patch which 
 stood back of the school buildings, and a port-
 
 34 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 able sawmill, manned by sweating, dirty half- 
 breeds, who stopped work as we passed, was 
 sending it the way of all noble pine trees in 
 these evil days. 
 
 Quite a bunch of the big trees were still 
 standing, their great, slight, graceful heights, 
 sending towards the blue heavens a hundred 
 and fifty feet of perpendicular grandeur. A 
 slight breeze was stirring in the feathery 
 needles in their topmost boughs and they 
 seemed to be whispering a prayer of fare- 
 well to the beautiful world they would soon 
 have to quit so ignominiously. Back of the 
 school there runs a railroad, which carries 
 the logs from a vast body of timber land 
 farther in the hills. These hills, at least 
 those seen from the banks of the Allegheny 
 river, are as bare and barren and sombre as 
 the treeless skyline of the Nile Valley. Our 
 way led up the same hollow through which 
 the log road ran, but the tracks were across 
 a little trout stream from us, which sparkled 
 in the sunshine save where it disappeared 
 below the great decaying logs of pine and 
 hemlock which had been cut and thrown into
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 35 
 
 the stream to rot and symbolize man's reck- 
 less waste of the bountiful gifts of nature in 
 America. A couple of mourning doves flew 
 out of a hazel thicket, and we began to talk 
 of the awful destruction of the Passenger 
 Pigeons but a few years before. Buffaloes, 
 timber, pigeons, soil, all have been wiped 
 out that men might fancy they had gotten 
 the last cent out of existence. Three miles 
 up the hollow, we left the main road, and 
 turned to the left into a narrower, and 
 stonier lane. At the X road were several 
 dilapidated shanties, but evidently inhabited. 
 "These fellows," said Bill, "have gotten a new 
 lease of life since this big lumbering opera- 
 tion started. Years ago they lived by work- 
 ing in the woods and hunting in Pennsyl- 
 vania, but until this job opened they hadn't 
 been away much in several years." As our 
 time was limited we fed our horses at the 
 roadside near a little creek, and even at that 
 the afternoon was well advanceed, and the 
 air decidedly cool when Bill, pointing with 
 his whip at a little red house in a hollow 
 ahead of us, said: "There's where old Jim
 
 36 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Jacobson hangs out." We wanted to know 
 how old a man he was and Bill replied, "He's 
 old for a half-breed, about 60, maybe not that, 
 but those fellows age quickly." When we 
 drew near the place, we saw a weazened old 
 man, whose pale hair was turning white, sit- 
 ting on a log, breathing heavily. "That's 
 Jim," said Thorpe. The old fellow had just 
 cut down a large white pine which stood by 
 the road near the far end of his garden. The 
 old impulse was irresistible ; he had at length 
 cut down the only good-sized tree to be seen 
 for miles. "Pretty busy for an old man," 
 called Thorpe cheerily, as he stopped his 
 horses in front of the aged half-breed. "Yes, 
 sir," he smiled, "the darned old tree has been 
 shadin' th' garden for years, and I just up 
 and downed it." We were introduced to the 
 old chap, Bill adding that we "had come a 
 good many miles to meet the hunter who had 
 killed the last elk in Pennsylvania." Jacob- 
 son seemed to like this, and he pulled his corn 
 cob pipe out of his vest-pocket, and began 
 to fix it for a smoke. "Put your horses in 
 the barn 'cross th' road, an' I'll have to tell
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 37 
 
 you all about it." We all went to the barn, 
 the old Indian following, and it was on the 
 door step of the horse stable where we heard 
 the story of the passing of the elk in the 
 Keystone State. "I have killed twelve elk in 
 Pennsylvania," the old man began. 
 
 It may have been against the law, or any- 
 how against popular opinion, so we didn't 
 talk much at the time and the only ones that 
 got into history are the last two or three that 
 were landed. "When did you kill the first 
 one?" we inquired. "I killed my first elk in 
 1863, when I was 14 years old," replied the 
 old fellow proudly. "I was born in Penn- 
 sylvania ; my father was one of the Norwegi- 
 ans that came to Potter county with Ole Bull, 
 and my mother was a daughter of Sam Jim- 
 merson, a chief of the Senecas. My full name 
 is Samuel Jimmerson Jacobson. Around the 
 time of the war the elks began to get real 
 scarce, and all us hunters decided to get all 
 we could, as they wouldn't last long. The lead- 
 ing people in Lock Haven, Clearfield, and 
 Coudersport were against this killing, but 
 there were no railroads and no game ward-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 ens, so we did just as we chose, and got our 
 elks. We always found them in swamps, and 
 we surrounded the swamps and got as many 
 as three and four out of some of them. I killed 
 my next to last cow in the Flag Swamp, in 
 Elk county, in November, 1867, and it was 
 noticed in the papers, and caused a lot of talk, 
 as most people in Pennsylvania, all except 
 us hunters, thought the last elk in the state 
 had been killed long before. I knew at the 
 time that there were two or three survivors, 
 and I had them marked to kill at the proper 
 season. Smith Hunter, a raftsman, got ahead 
 of me with a cow which hung around the 
 headwaters of Mill Creek, in Elk county. 
 That was in November, 1869. There was one 
 elk left even after that. It had headquarters 
 in the dense hardwoods south of Roulette, in 
 Potter county. LeRoy Lyman, like myself, 
 a half-breed Indian, and a prosperous 
 farmer at Roulette, wanted to get the animal 
 alive to keep as a relic, and offered a prize 
 of $75 if it was brought in alive. In the 
 winter of 1871-72, I was working in a big 
 job half-way up Youngwoman's Creek, and I
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 39 
 
 heard the offer of Lyman's, whom I knew 
 very well. When I knocked off in the spring, I 
 footed it over the mountains to his home, and 
 offered to do the trick for him. He toid me 
 where the elk hung out, and I started on the 
 trail. 
 
 "Within a day I got a sight of the elk, and 
 it was the prettiest looking animal I ever 
 saw. It was a bull, with full set of horns, 
 and the prettiest hide you could imagine. It 
 was a browner color than any I had seen be- 
 fore, although Pennsylvania elks were much 
 darker than the elks in the West. I worked 
 on all kinds of plans to trap and coiner him 
 so I could lasso him, but others out after the 
 reward used dogs and he travelled further 
 and further from his old hiding place. My 
 money ran out and Lyman kept me going 
 with cash and supplies and I camped in the 
 woods until November. My hunt had some 
 success, for I killed five deer, three cata- 
 mounts, two wild cats and a wolf. But I 
 didn't get the elk, and finally Lyman said he 
 wouldn't stake me any longer.
 
 40 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "I had to go back to the woods, and worked 
 all winter on the Sinnemahoning. In the 
 spring when our logs were floated the old 
 fever was back on me and I tramped over to 
 see Lyman again. He said the elk was back 
 in its old haunts among the swamp maples 
 or elkwood (Acer Pennsylvanicum) , which 
 grew about the ravines below his farm. 
 Everybody had been working cutting saw- 
 logs that winter, so the animal had ventured 
 back. I repeated my old games, but the elk 
 was too slick. Pretty soon I learned he had 
 another follower besides myself, a big brown 
 wolf, and it was a case of which would get 
 him first, the wolf or me. 
 
 "My first idea was to kill the wolf, but he 
 was craftier than the elk. I chased the elk 
 two months steadily and one morning in July 
 I was coming back to my shack after an all 
 night chase, when I came face to face with 
 him. He was looking poorly, and as we eyed 
 one another, I heard the underbrush crack, 
 and I saw that wolf jumping to cover. He 
 had been eyeing us both ! I lost my temper, 
 and swore I'd get the elk before the wolf, so
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 41 
 
 I aimed my gun and shot the bull through the 
 heart. I got him to my camp, and skinned 
 him and preserved the head. Then I went 
 to see Lyman but he swore, and cursed, and 
 said he would not give me one cent for a dead 
 elk. I had wasted six months of my time 
 and had nothing but a dead elk on my hands. 
 Lyman would not even let me spend the night 
 at his house ; said he would have me arrested 
 if I didn't clear out at once. I had a little 
 money, so I joined a man selling lightning 
 rods who carried the elk head and myself to 
 Germania in his covered wagon. There I knew 
 an old German named Osch, who sometimes 
 mounted deer heads and stuffed birds. I put 
 the head with him, and he made a fine job 
 out of it. I got a good job in Germania that 
 fall driving stage, and stayed there until early 
 in 1876, when I got the idea I could get big 
 money by exhibiting the head of the last elk 
 killed in Pennsylvania at the Centennial ex- 
 position. 
 
 "I had old Osch box the head, and, I started 
 by train from Lock Haven in high spirits. 
 When I got to Philadelphia I could not find
 
 42 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 anybody who would put me in touch with the 
 parties at the head of the Exposition, so I 
 hung around town until August, spending my 
 money, with the head stored in the trunk 
 room of my hotel. One evening I was walk- 
 ing along Market street, and I noticed the 
 name "Summerson" above a liquor saloon. 
 That name sounded familiar, as I had known 
 a lot of boys named Summerson in the lum- 
 ber woods. I went in and asked for the land- 
 lord. He was a big fellow, with a foreign 
 accent, and he told me he was a Scotchman, 
 no relation to my old friends up the state. 
 He agreed to my proposition to exhibit the 
 head of the last elk killed in Pennsylvania 
 over his bar, and woud give me the job of 
 cleaning out the bar room. The head didn't 
 make the hit we hoped, as most of the cus- 
 tomers said they didn't believe it had been 
 killed in Pennsylvania. 
 
 "I wrote to LeRoy Lyman to get a letter 
 from him to use as a certificate, but he never 
 replied. Towards Christmas Summerson said 
 he would have to let me go, so I told him if 
 he would give me a ticket to Lock Haven I
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 43 
 
 would let him keep the elk head until I could 
 return him the money. I got a job on Fish 
 Dam Run, and I never felt like sending the 
 Scotchman the money to redeem that devilish 
 elk's head. I had begun to feel sorry I killed 
 it, and the very sight of it made me feel ter- 
 ribly queer." There was a pause. Bill Thorpe 
 looked at his watch; it was half -past five. 
 "You'd better stay for supper," said the old 
 hunter. "I'm all by myself and I can't give 
 you any elk meat, but if you like ham, I can 
 fix you out with that." Supper over, we left 
 the old half-breed at the gate, and after we 
 said good-bye, he turned to re-enter his mis- 
 erable abode, looking as forlorn and helpless 
 as the last elk in Pennsylvania, which he had 
 so relentlessly slain.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE PASSING OF A GHOST 
 
 O M R R W," soliloquized 
 Fred Parmentier, a jobber 
 in the Cross Forks region, 
 as he sat on the crumbling 
 rampart of Ole Bull's castle, 
 "we will clean up that 
 patch of timber around the 
 boiling spring, then, except 
 for the few trees standing 
 among the hardwoods on the top of the moun- 
 tain, the job will be finished." 
 
 He looked over his shoulder up the steep 
 ridge to where a body of giant white hem- 
 locks stood huddled together, as if for mutual 
 protection, in a narrow gully. Around them 
 on all sides was the ruin left by the loggers 
 and bark-peelers, the thousands of freshly 
 felled and peeled trunks, none of which had 
 as yet been sawed into sixteen or twelve feet 
 lengths, the thousands of stumps cut six feet 
 high, and likewise peeled. 
 
 44
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 45 
 
 The last rays of the September sun gave 
 a flesh-pink tint to logs and stumps, and a 
 browner and more sombre tone to the huge 
 piles of bark ranked at regular spaces, at a 
 distance resembling tiny huts dotting the hill- 
 side. Logs and bark exuded a pungent and 
 not unattractive odor. Here and there were 
 mature hardwoods, sugar maples, beeches, 
 birches and poplars, with trunks clean of 
 limbs for eighty feet, surmounted with frow- 
 sled, broken tops, wrecked by the felling of 
 the hemlocks. Interspersed with these were 
 younger trees, beeches and hemlocks mostly, 
 some topless and others bent double by the 
 recent devastation. 
 
 The jobber's gaze now rested on the valley 
 below, to the broad public highway on the 
 other side of Kettle Creek, where his crew 
 of over fifty men, making a vivid picture in 
 their gaily colored shirts of red, blue or pur- 
 ple were wending their way, in an irregular 
 line to the shanties. Smoke was circling 
 upwards from the chimneys of the kitchens, 
 betokening that supper would soon be ready. 
 A cow-bell was tinkling melodiously from
 
 46 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 somewhere among the water birches by the 
 bed of the stream. He was aroused from 
 his musing by some one in a cheery voice call- 
 ing out "Good evening, boss," and he looked 
 down and saw one of his men, Joe Markley, 
 climbing up the hill, over the mass of pros- 
 trate logs. 
 
 "What brings you here at supper time?" 
 he called to him good naturedly. 
 
 "Lost my watch this afternoon," was Joe's 
 reply. "Why haint you down there your- 
 self?" 
 
 "Oh, I was just figuring out a few things, 
 you know we finish tomorrow ; we're putting 
 all the crews in the hollow above the Boiling 
 Spring, and that'll soon make an end of it." 
 
 Markley kept on climbing while he con- 
 versed with his boss, and soon had passed the 
 ruined castle, and, crossing the "bench," was 
 on his way up the face of the high mountain. 
 It was a hard climb, and he was pretty well 
 out of breath when he came to the spring, 
 where he rested before starting his hunt for 
 the missing watch. The timber had been 
 cut that day to the lower edge of the spring,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 47 
 
 but the shade of the tall hemlocks above it 
 hung over the crystalline pool of bubbling 
 water. 
 
 Markley picked up a tomato can and took 
 a drink, stroked his long blonde moustache, 
 then he pulled a couple of apples from one of 
 his pockets, and began eating them in lieu 
 of supper. Darkness crept on so quickly, 
 that when he laid his head back on the moss 
 for a moment's repose the watch was for- 
 gotten, and he was dozing. It was pitch 
 dark when he roused himself, looking around 
 as if surprised at his surroundings. He did 
 not know whether to spend the night at the 
 spring, or attempt the perilous climb down 
 the mountain. 
 
 High on the summit back of him he could 
 hear a fox yelping among the mature hard- 
 woods. When it died down and became still 
 again, he thought he heard footsteps on the 
 moss. 
 
 Soon he saw a slender figure clad in gray 
 approaching him, it was a young girl; he 
 marveled how she could be here such a dark 
 night, there must be something the matter
 
 48 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 with his eyes. In gentle tones she spoke to 
 him: "This is Joe Markley, I believe?" 
 
 Joe hesitated a full minute before answer- 
 ing, and, then said simply, "It is." 
 
 "This timber is to be cut tomorrow," she 
 said, "it will be my last time here tonight. I 
 wanted to see you so much." 
 
 Joe was thoroughly perplexed, especially 
 as the visitor seemed a total stranger to him. 
 "I don't remember you ; why do you want to 
 see me in such an infernal lonesome place?" 
 
 "Don't you remember me?" said the girl 
 sadly, "you used to know me well. I am Hazel 
 Trego." 
 
 "Hazel Trego," echoed Joe; "you can't be, 
 why she was found murdered nine years ago 
 this coming October." 
 
 "I am Hazel Trego just the same," re- 
 plied the girl quietly. "At least the spirtual 
 part of her, the part that we are taught goes 
 to Heaven when we die." 
 
 "Then you are a ghost?" asked Joe. 
 
 "Probably that is the best name for me; 
 I have found Heaven seemed further off since
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 49 
 
 I left the life than it did when I was teaching 
 Sunday School at the Ox Bow." 
 
 "Then you don't think you'll live forever 
 like the Good Book tells us?" inquired Joe 
 incredulously. 
 
 "I am afraid not ; tomorrow night this time 
 I will be a few disconnected particles of 
 spirit, growing fainter every hour. By the 
 next morning I shall not be at all. Spirits 
 are a part of their environment. Just as 
 there is a silver light in a forest of original 
 white pines, a blue light in a forest of white 
 hemlocks, a green light in a forest of red 
 hemlocks, and when you cut the trees the 
 light goes with them. The fragments of my 
 personality are a part of the lights and 
 shadows of this grove, and tomorrow you are 
 to destroy it. 
 
 "I have the ability to transport myself 
 considerable distances, but only where the 
 lights and shadows of this forest fall ; beyond 
 it I am nothing. Quite often during the past 
 six years since they began destroying the 
 forest, spirits terribly frayed and uncertain 
 would waft themselves to this Spring, which
 
 50 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 possesses certain stimulating qualities, and 
 gasp, and try to say a few words, before dis- 
 solving into emptiness. There was old Reu- 
 genberg, the crippled civil war veteran, who 
 was waylaid and killed for his pension money 
 on the hill above Germania; he drifted here 
 after they lumbered out the grove where he 
 died ; he tried to tell me where he buried a pot 
 of gold, but he was nothing before I could 
 catch his syllables. And Tony Capella, the 
 Italian camp boss, who was slain by his 
 drunken men on a Saturday night; he came 
 here alter they cut the giant pine under 
 which he breathed his last; he wanted to 
 forgive an enemy in the old country, but I 
 could not learn the name; he fell into thin 
 air with a groan. And Leonard Murns, the 
 highwayman of the Pike, who hanged him- 
 self in a hunter's shanty when he saw his 
 sweetheart out walking with another man; 
 with all his bravado that broke his heart 
 he wanted to send her a few words of love 
 through me, but I never had a chance to 
 transmit his message.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 51 
 
 "Then there was Edna Stryker, that little 
 girl who was murdered and thrown in a 
 swamp ; she was here for several nights, cry- 
 ing piteously, and begging that her spirit per- 
 sist until she could be sure an innocent man 
 was not punished for the crime ; she was last 
 here on a moonlight night and its rays ab- 
 sorbed her, so she came no more. There were 
 others, but too faint to recognize, some had 
 come too far, others had spent themselves 
 in their frantic efforts to speak to every one 
 they met on the way. 
 
 "But as I left the living world here, I am 
 strongest here, but just the same, I cease to 
 be even a spirit, when these beloved hemlocks 
 fall. There are spirits that inhabit houses; 
 they are a part of the lights and shadows of 
 the house; they go into nothingness if it is 
 torn down. They cannot transport them- 
 selves like a spirit of outdoors, but must con- 
 fine themeselves to a garret, chamber or stair. 
 
 "But even if a forest is not cut, or a house 
 demolished, a spirit cannot survive delivering 
 its message. The effort of speech separates 
 the particles, it's gone. If this grove were
 
 52 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 not to be cut tomorrow, and I talked to you 
 this way, I would vanish anyway, but as the 
 trees are to go, I might as well have my talk." 
 
 She paused and looked the amazed woods- 
 man full in the face, calming him by the 
 charm of her girlish beauty. "I hear Oscar 
 Shandy is back," she said when she resumed. 
 
 "Oscar Shandy!" shouted Markley. "The 
 hell you say ; why he's the man who " 
 
 "Murdered me," replied the shade of Hazel 
 Trego. 
 
 "Why do you want to know about him, 
 he'd be the last man on earth " 
 
 "I would love to see him again, before I 
 go into the void ; I saw you several evenings 
 before it was dark enough for me to materi- 
 alize. I knew you were his friend ; I met you 
 the winter I taught school at Westport. I 
 saw you break the guard and your watch fell 
 in a cranny in the rocks; it made me very 
 happy, because I knew you would return 
 after it. It is now in the crevice in that rock 
 right before you. I want you to give a mes- 
 sage to Oscar, will you, please?"
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 53 
 
 "I sure will," replied Markley, "but where 
 is he ? I never heard of him revisiting these 
 parts since they put that reward on his cap- 
 ture nine years ago." 
 
 "You will find him in Lewisburg, but you 
 must not judge him harshly; he is not to 
 blame, I will tell you all about it. Oscar and 
 I kept company since I was 14 years old. He 
 was the only man I ever cared for, and 
 though I would have loved to have married 
 him, he never once mentioned the subject. 
 When I was 18 I began to teach school, and 
 taught short terms at Westport, Keating and 
 Sinnemahoning. 
 
 "When I went away Oscar would conceive 
 the idea that I was receiving attention from 
 other men, and would come to see me, and 
 abuse me terribly, of ten in the presence of the 
 families with whom I boarded. This caused 
 talk and cost me many friends. But as 
 friends dropped away I loved him the more, 
 seeking to make up the deficiency of other 
 companionship in him. He worked in the 
 woods every summer, and once or twice rail- 
 roaded in winter, but he never held anything
 
 54 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 long. He had flirtations with dozens of other 
 girls, but I loved him too much to protest, 
 and often cried myself to sleep for fear some 
 one would get him away from me. He would 
 show me letters he was mailing to girls, and 
 packets of letters he had gotten from them, 
 but this only stimulated my adoration, as I 
 liked to feel my lover was 'a ladies' man.' 
 
 "You recollect what a fine, big fellow he 
 was, and what grand dark eyes and hair he 
 had ; why I openly told him he was the hand- 
 somest man in the world. In the summer 
 after my 20th birthday I had a chance to 
 teach a while at Oleona, the regular teacher 
 being down with typhoid. I boarded with 
 Mrs. Steenerson, a Norwegian widow, whose 
 house is now used by Fred Parmentier, your 
 boss, as the main shanty of his camp. Mrs. 
 Steenerson had two daughters about my own 
 age, and in every way the home was a pleas- 
 ant one. 
 
 "Soon after my arrival a young man named 
 Arthur Renninger, they called him Professor 
 Renninger, came to visit his grandparents at 
 the next farm. He was well educated, being
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 55 
 
 principal of a high school somewhere down 
 country. Though he was only 26 years of 
 age, he had graduated from a Normal School 
 and a college, had travelled in a number of 
 states, which made him an interesting talker. 
 But that was all ; I could never have cared for 
 him; he wore glasses, had a long thin nose, 
 and pale yellow hair. He wasn't my ideal in 
 the least. 
 
 "He tried his best to be attentive to me, 
 gave me books to read, and often joined me 
 when I was walking back from school. He 
 met me so often that I suspected he waited 
 for me; he could not have been on the same 
 road at the same hour so many times by acci- 
 dent. At last I told him I had a sweetheart, 
 but it didn't seem to make any difference. He 
 became even more attentive, as if he fancied 
 he could 'cut out' as handsome a man as 
 Oscar. His attentions became tiresome, so I 
 was rude to him whenever I could, especially 
 when others were present. I guess he took 
 the hint, for he became more shy, and only 
 saw me occasionally when he dropped in at
 
 56 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 my boarding place to give me a new book or 
 magazine. 
 
 "One mild October evening after supper I 
 walked up the road to the schoolhouse to get 
 a book I had forgotten. On the way back I 
 saw a man's figure coming towards me. I at 
 once supposed it to be Professor Renninger, 
 so I walked fast so as to shorten as much as 
 possible the inevitable stroll with him. But 
 mind you, the Professor was not a horrid 
 fellow, only my love for Oscar was so intense 
 I felt it dishonorable to be in another's com- 
 pany. When I got closer I saw it wasn't the 
 young teacher, but a larger man, and then I 
 made out it was none other than Oscar 
 Shandy. 
 
 "He greeted me with a lot of swearing, for 
 the poor fellow had been drinking. 'You 
 walked fast to meet your lover, that ?' I 
 tried to protest in as loud tones as I could 
 muster that I had no lover other than my 
 Oscar, and fibbed by saying that I walked 
 faster so as to be with him. I did not want 
 him to know I ever thought of the teacher. 
 But he would not believe me, and went on to
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 57 
 
 say how he knew everthing about my meeting 
 the fellow on the road, his visits to my board- 
 ing place, and so on. 
 
 "I continued to deny, and went so far as 
 to ridicule the personal appearance of poor 
 Arthur Renninger. 'Why, he wears glasses/ 
 I protested. But Oscar's angry passions 
 were growing more uncontrollable every 
 minute. Finally with a volley of oaths he 
 seized me by the throat, and choked me untij 
 I knew no more. Later I sort of half regained 
 consciousness, and recognized that I was in 
 my lover's arms, and that he was carrying 
 me up the mountain. I felt so happy to be 
 in his arms I made no effort to speak. 
 
 "It was a long climb, but not hard like the 
 one you had this evening, for then the moun- 
 tains were covered with white hemlocks, and 
 free of all underbrush. About twenty feet 
 below this spring you can see that lot of long, 
 flat rocks. He laid me on one of them, and 
 began to lift some of the others. After he had 
 made a sort of excavation he picked me up 
 again, and laid me in it. He stooped over and 
 placed his large hand, which was very cold,
 
 58 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 on my heart. I was dimly conscious even 
 though my heart must have ceased beating 
 my spirit was disentangling itself from the 
 bodily shell. 
 
 "No doubt he was satisfied I was dead, for 
 he rolled a number of the large flat stones 
 on top of me, and I seemed to hear his foot- 
 steps as he climbed the mountain and disap- 
 peared over the summit. All at once I felt 
 myself enveloped in a blaze of blinding white 
 light I was part of the air, but not of it 
 I could see the rudely made grave where my 
 poor body rested. 
 
 "When daylight came I was still among the 
 trees around the Boiling Spring, but felt my- 
 self fainter and weaker. As night fell, I 
 grew stronger, and could move from place to 
 place ; I was mistress of my soul's progress. 
 I could distinguish time by daylight and dark. 
 I seemed to have more volition than when 
 alive. I brought myself to the edge of the 
 public road, determined to leave the lonesome 
 mountain, but the different lights and 
 shadows of the roadway and the sky above 
 diluted my spiritual essence, and to save my-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 59 
 
 self from annihilation I hurried back to the 
 cool, vivifying atmosphere of the spring. In 
 a few days a band of searchers discovered my 
 remains, and carried it away. How they 
 found out I was stowed away in that out of 
 the way spot, I know not some of the men 
 wept, as they were carrying the remains 
 down the hill. For a long, long stretch I 
 never saw a living thing around the spring 
 except the wild animals and birds. I once 
 saw a great tawney panther with his breast 
 torn off by buckshot, drinking here, and 
 groaning with agony he crawled away to 
 die. Deer often drank here, and wildcats 
 played their comical games among the flat 
 rocks. I saw one once pounce on a wild 
 pigeon as it was drinking; its mate flew 
 away. These were the only wild pigeons 
 that came here during my stay. 
 
 "Owls, foxes and porcupines came about 
 in abundance, and occasionally a pine marten 
 or a fisher fox. Two wolverenes fought to the 
 death on the brink of the spring, and their 
 bodies rotted away on the scene of their aw- 
 ful struggle. Occasionally hunters stopped
 
 60 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 to drink the fine water, but none came here 
 in the dark, when I had the power to make 
 myself known. 
 
 "You came here at the right time. What 
 is more, you are a reliable person, and if 
 Providence does exist, you were surely sent 
 here to bear my message to my beloved Oscar. 
 I heard of his return to these parts by 
 listening to a party of six hunters talking 
 while they ate their lunch at the spring. It 
 was during the deer season last November. 
 They had been drinking whiskey freely, and 
 said things that were best kept to themselves. 
 One of them, more inebriated than the rest, 
 remarked that he had been to Lewisburg the 
 week previous, and had met the fugitive mur- 
 derer, Oscar Shandy, who was back and 
 working as night man in a livery in the alley 
 at the rear of the Commercial hotel. All the 
 party said he had a lot of nerve to return, 
 with the big rewards still in force, but the in- 
 formant added that he had grown a mus- 
 tache and kept his curly hair cropped close 
 as a disguise.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 61 
 
 " 'Still he's the same old Oscar we used to 
 know,' he went on, 'having a gay time with 
 all the waitresses at the hotel, and going on 
 sprees every Saturday night.' Although at 
 the end of their conversation on the subject, 
 the hunters agreed to tell no one of Oscar's 
 return, I feared them because they were 
 drinking men. I hoped they would remain 
 until dark, so I could materialize and send 
 him a message, but alas, about 4 o'clock they 
 gathered together their rifles and traps, and 
 made off. My fears grew greater and greater, 
 especially when I saw the forest being de- 
 stroyed, for I knew I must go with it. But 
 you have come in time to take my message 
 tell Oscar to be careful and not let them 
 catch him, and tell him that I love him more 
 than ever." 
 
 This last sentence was uttered clearer and 
 more distinctly than anything she had yet 
 said. With the final word she faded from 
 sight, blending and combining with a ray of 
 golden sunlight from the early dawn which 
 sparkled on the ever-changing surface of the 
 Boiling Spring.
 
 IV. 
 
 THE STORY OF LEWIS'S LAKE 
 
 HE scenic beauties of Lewis's 
 Lake, re - named Eagles- 
 mere, are too generally 
 known to need further de- 
 scription. This wonderful 
 body of water spread out 
 on the summit of a moun- 
 tain twenty-two hundred 
 feet above sea level, has at- 
 tracted visitors from all parts of the country. 
 Costly hotels and summer cottages line its 
 banks, interspersed among patches of the 
 original hemlock forest, making it in every 
 respect the most unique and attractive resort 
 in Central Pennsylvania. 
 
 Like most of the interesting spots in the 
 mountains, it has its legend. The legend 
 is an old one, in fact one of the very oldest 
 that have been handed down from the earliest 
 inhabitants of this mystic region. It goes 
 back to a period a thousand years ago, 
 
 62
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 63 
 
 when parts of Europe were as wild and full 
 of superstitions as the land of the Redmen 
 across the sea. Those competent to judge 
 state that the bottom of Lewis's Lake has 
 never been sounded, and the old term "bot- 
 tomless" applies to it as well as it did any- 
 where. This gives a sort of scientific con- 
 firmation to the tale, providing, so to speak, 
 a basis of faith, to those who want to be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 Every Indian in the West Branch Valley 
 and its tributaries knew the legend, but it 
 was equally familiar to the aborigines along 
 the Allegheny or by the shores of Chesa- 
 peake Bay. It was a strange circumstance 
 that no matter where the story was told, it 
 was always the same, even to the smallest 
 detail. What is now Lewis's Lake, so the 
 Indian story ran, was once a great open 
 chasm, in the depths of which was an en- 
 trance to the Underworld, or realm of spirits. 
 If in the flesh an Indian had left undone an 
 important work, or had wronged his tribe 
 or an individual, at death his shade was
 
 64 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 halted at the "Gate to the Unseen," and sent 
 back to do penance. 
 
 It was always with a feeling of doubt that 
 spirits descended the long flights of steps 
 at dusk ; few were wise enough to determine 
 if they would be allowed to enter in peace, 
 or be ordered back to jibber and flit and beg 
 forgiveness of their enemies. Only those ad- 
 mitted through the sacred portals were 
 happy, but even that was supposition, for no 
 spirit that had entered ever returned to de- 
 scribe the Paradise. 
 
 No living being was allowed to explore the 
 abyss, which was guarded by a force of six 
 hundred aimed high priests, Indians of the 
 highest integrity and honor. The Indian 
 kings were hereditary guardians - in - chief, 
 and so deeply they felt their responsibilties, 
 that they had followed the divine injunction 
 to "keep out," at least as far as tradition 
 could be followed into the shadowy past. 
 
 At the time of this story, the king of the 
 combined tribes of Indians in what is now 
 Pennsylvania was old Peaceful Valley, whose 
 reign lasted the unusual period of sixty-three
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 65 
 
 years. On the tenth year of his reign he had 
 conquered his last enemies, so that during 
 the greater part of his sway his authority 
 had been undisputed. He was of a devoutly 
 religious nature, many miracles having oc- 
 curred while he conducted sacrificial services 
 at the Gateway to the Underworld. At length, 
 "full of years and honors," his infirmities 
 overcame him and at the ripe age of ninety- 
 seven years he passed away. 
 
 His funeral, the greatest ever recorded in 
 Indian history, lasted ninety-seven days. The 
 priests who were specially gifted with the 
 power of seeing spirits of the dead descend 
 into the abyss declared that when Peaceful 
 Valley's shade reached the portals it was 
 greeted by a troop ol angels wearing crowns, 
 denoting kingly rank, and said to be an un- 
 precedented honor. His eldest son, who was 
 to inherit the throne, was named Stormy Tor- 
 rent. Seven feet tall, loud, and disagreeable, 
 he was the complete antithesis of his la- 
 mented father in disposition. Perhaps, hav- 
 ing waited so long to inherit the power, his 
 nature had become soured. Toward the
 
 66 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 latter part of the ninety-seven day funeral 
 he went off on a hunting expedition, explain- 
 ing that the pomp and pageantry tired him. 
 
 When a great event took place, it lasted 
 the number of days that would corres- 
 pond in years to the age of the chief partici- 
 pant, consequently Stormy Torrent, aged 
 forty-six, was to have a forty-six day coro- 
 nation. He did not miss a moment of it, and 
 it was a sumptuous affair, exceeding in cost 
 and labor any coronation held previously, so 
 swore the servile historians of the court. The 
 new king enjoyed the ceremonies, and became 
 so intoxicated by the songs, hymns, poems, 
 and addresses in his honor, to say nothing 
 of the human sacrifices, that he imagined 
 himself to be the greatest and most exalted 
 human being that had ever walked the earth. 
 
 After the grand events were ended, and 
 life settled into its ordinary routine he began 
 to suffer horribly from discontent and ennui. 
 He wanted to do something "new" every day, 
 taxing his advisors and attendants to the 
 utmost in furnishing sensations. If he had 
 been a warrior he might have started puni-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 67 
 
 tive expeditions against some tribes who re- 
 sented paying the enormous tribute levied 
 towards the expenses of the coronation, but 
 he was indifferent to all forms of fighting. 
 
 As he liked human sacrifices and the tor- 
 turing of criminals, it was adopted on a large 
 scale, and friendless or infirm Indians were 
 tempted to commit crimes in order that they 
 might be seized and roasted alive or cut to 
 pieces for the kingly edification. He did not 
 like the ordinary forms of hunting, only ani- 
 mal drives, where thousands of beasts met 
 death at one time. His huntsmen were kept 
 busy night and day collecting the poor beasts 
 in corrals for the purpose. He must needs 
 have a fresh wife every week and the dis- 
 carded ones were killed so that a woman who 
 had been loved by the king could not become 
 the wife of one of his inferiors. 
 
 A month after the coronation he was on the 
 point of going crazy, for the want of "some- 
 thing new." Half of his ministers had com- 
 mitted suicide after having exhausted their 
 stock of suggestions for his diversion. One 
 night while he was tossing on his couch, rest-
 
 68 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 less and unhappy, an idea came to him, which 
 made him jump to his feet and dance with 
 savage glee. He would do what no other 
 human being had dared; he would descend 
 into the Underworld, see what it was like, 
 converse with the shades of his illustrious 
 ancestors, and then come out again, steeped 
 in divine wisdom. 
 
 He called his advisors around him, order- 
 ing that all of his tribe able to travel should 
 start immediately in different directions and 
 bring every Indian within a radius of four 
 hundred miles to the north of the abyss, to 
 watch his majestic descent into the Spirit 
 Land. The tribesmen went away in happy 
 frame of mind, as they knew the farther they 
 separated themselves from the vain-glorious 
 despot the safer their lives ; some pretended 
 to lose themselves in the trackless forests, 
 and never came back. 
 
 The inhabitants of the domain were given 
 the space of two moons to assemble. Indians 
 being naturally restless and curious, it was 
 not difficult to gather them by the thousands 
 around the entrance to the "unknown world."
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Many of them had never had a look at the 
 new king, and this was a fine opportunity to 
 see him at his best when he was scorning tra- 
 dition and showing himself the equal of the 
 rulers of the land of shades. 
 
 The morning appointed for the great per- 
 formance dawned bright and clear. Stormy 
 Torrent, when he peered through the flaps 
 of the royal tepee, was amazed at the vast 
 concourse of spectators. He turned to his 
 minister of state and remarked that he had 
 not dreamed he held sway over so many souls. 
 When a loud beating of drums announced 
 the time had come for the mighty ruler to 
 sally forth, there was an hour's delav be- 
 fore he appeared. If the truth were known 
 Stormy Torrent was suffering from a bad 
 case of stage-fright. 
 
 Like a pampered grand opera star he re- 
 fused to "go on" unless some added induce- 
 ment was given. When, for the fiftieth time 
 he peeped out of his tent, his eyes rested on 
 the slender form of an Indian princess from 
 the shores of Lake Erie who was strolling 
 past. She was Laurel-Eyes, the beautiful
 
 7Q Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 daughter of an old chieftain named Purple 
 Boneset. Stormy Torrent gazed at her with 
 longing glances, and then called to his min- 
 ister of state. "Bring that beautiful prin- 
 cess to me at once," he commanded, and the 
 aged minister did his bidding to the letter. 
 
 Returning with the reluctant maiden, who 
 was followed by her perplexed father and 
 brothers, the minister was told to array her 
 in costly garments so she could accompany 
 Stormy Torrent on his mission to the Under- 
 world. Perhaps her father and brothers dis- 
 liked the idea, but they were at length con- 
 soled by the appearance of the mighty 
 ruler, followed by the graceful figure of the 
 Princess Laurel-Eyes. The couple presented 
 a striking picture, and were loudly and loy- 
 ally cheered. Stormy Torrent wore a trail- 
 ing robe spangled with silver and gold, while 
 his head-dress was of eagle feathers, dyed 
 many colors. The Indian maiden was simi- 
 larly attired except that instead of the eagle 
 feathers she wore a head-dress of dove's 
 wings.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 71 
 
 As they neared the entrance, the priestly 
 class began a song of praise, being joined in 
 the choruses by the entire multitude. Thus 
 far it looked as if the affair was to be a com- 
 plete success, and as the pair descended the 
 long flights of steps they were pelted with 
 thousands of flowers. But on the moment 
 they disappeared from view the heavens 
 darkened, and were racked with terrifying 
 peals of thunder and flashes of lightning. 
 These were followed by the most awful down- 
 pour of rain that had ever occurred in the 
 memory of the oldest squaw. 
 
 The solemnity of the occasion was for- 
 gotten, and everyone from high priests to 
 chained captives ran pell mell to cover. Hun- 
 dreds of women, children and old persons 
 were trampled to death in the mad rush. 
 Class distinctions were abandoned, the most 
 aristocratic pricesses hiding their heads un- 
 der the blankets of burly slaves. Many fell 
 over the edges of the chasm, and took an in- 
 voluntary "header" to the land of ghosts. 
 
 The turbulent downpour seemed to con- 
 centrate itself on the "great opening," pour-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 ing from above and draining in from the sur- 
 rounding hills. The abyss began rapidly fill- 
 ing with water, which rose higher and higher, 
 until it presented the appearance of a vast 
 lake. 
 
 Some of the shrewdest priests had climbed 
 to the tops of trees, expecting to witness a 
 miracle, an apotheosis of Stormy Torrent 
 emerging unharmed from the seething, 
 churning, frothy depths. But the day of 
 miracles had passed. When the depression 
 was full to the brink, the storm ceased as 
 suddenly as it had commenced. 
 
 With the cessation came not the slightest 
 trace of the missing king or his fair attend- 
 ant. The priests prayed and chanted, and 
 went through their mystic dances; a thous- 
 and infants were offered as sacrifices, but 
 Stormy Torrent had vanished as completely 
 as if he had never existed. 
 
 During the night the great crowds of In- 
 dians began moving off to their homes. A 
 new day brought rich sunshine, and a cloud- 
 less sky, which looked down on the waters 
 of a beautiful, tranquil lake, clear as crystal
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 73 
 
 and inscrutable as the mystery of life itself. 
 
 Centuries have passed, but it has never 
 receded nor grown less. 
 
 But the Indians never quite became ac- 
 customed to its presence, and ascribed to it 
 many supernatural qualities. When storms 
 arose, they said, out towards the center, the 
 waters always surged and boiled and leaped 
 upwards like a geyser, and from the foam 
 could be seen the face and outstretched arms 
 of a beautiful maiden. 
 
 Sometimes if the wind died down for an 
 instant, a voice calling for help could be 
 heard, but would be lost again in the wailing 
 of the tempest. Sometimes young braves, 
 with a spirit of the sheerest hardihood, would 
 venture out in their canoes to try and rescue 
 the unfortunate derelict, but they were al- 
 ways swamped and drowned before reaching 
 their goal. 
 
 When the Indians were driven to the north, 
 and white settlers pitched their camps on 
 the shores of Lewis's Lake, they also were 
 lured into peril and death by the entreaties 
 of this unhappy siren. Two young French-
 
 74 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 men were drowned about 1760, leaving their 
 hepless widows and children in the awful 
 wilderness. 
 
 After their fate the story spread, and now 
 no one bothers to notice the struggling figure 
 when the storms agitate the center of the 
 lake. It does seem as if some day the beauti- 
 ful Laurel-Eyes will be freed, as her part 
 in the forbidden visit to the Underworld was 
 not of her own choosing. But as for Stormy 
 Torrent, in durance vile, in tortures hideous, 
 he is probably doing penance now, in the in- 
 most recesses of the earth, a being who dared 
 to penetrate into the realms reserved only 
 for the happy shades of the departed.
 
 THE LAST PACK 
 
 ES," said old Sam Emery, 
 "those are genuine wolf 
 skins, all right," and he 
 brought his foot down 
 heavily on one of them to 
 emphasize his words. We 
 had been admiring four 
 foot-rugs made of these 
 brown, bushy hides, which 
 were quite a curiosity in Pennsylvania. "I 
 value them next to my wife and family," he 
 went on, "because I killed them myself. They 
 belonged to the last pack of wolves in this 
 state." 
 
 We were indeed surprised to hear this in- 
 formation, as we had long wanted to see a 
 Pennsylvania wolf hide, so as to be satisfied 
 as to the variety of wolf which formerly in- 
 habited our forests. Instead of a solemn wait 
 for dinner at the lonely little house where 
 we had stopped, having missed our road and 
 
 75
 
 76 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 gotten into White Deer Valley instead of 
 Sugar Valley, we were to be treated mean- 
 while to some information for which we had 
 been searching for several years. 
 
 It is in the most out-of-the-way corners 
 where we learn the most precious facts, and 
 anyone who does not travel will find the solu- 
 tion of even some of the simplest problems in- 
 terminable. All can be made easier by abid- 
 ing by the principle of "luck in travel." 
 
 "It was before your time," continued old 
 Emery, "but the papers all had accounts or 
 how a party of us raftsmen wiped out a pack 
 of twenty hungry wolves. Nobody thought 
 anything of it thirty years ago, as all kinds 
 of fierce adventures were being reported 
 from the wild regions in the central part of 
 the state. Isiow, if a man kills a good-sized 
 bear he gets a column and his picture in the 
 North American. 
 
 "When we killed twenty wolves WP got a 
 few lines in the country papers, and not one 
 Philadelphia papers copied it. I can show you 
 the notices now, if you want to see them," 
 and the old man went to the shelf beside
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 77 
 
 the clock, and took down a much-used cook 
 book. Pasted in the back were several clip- 
 ping's from poorly printed newspapers, yel- 
 low with age, telling in a few 'brief lines how 
 a party of raftsmen had been attacked by 
 wolves, but had succeeded in killing all of 
 them. 
 
 That was about all, although the incident 
 deserved to have been prominently featured. 
 
 "Those are pretty short notices," I said, 
 as I handed back the book. "Won't you tell 
 the entire story?" 
 
 "Dinner won't be ready for fifteen minutes 
 yet, and I'll try to give it to you the best I 
 can, before you are called by the woman." 
 
 After putting some more wood in the stove, 
 for it was a raw, overcast October day, he 
 took his place in his chair and began his in- 
 teresting narrative. "There were six of us 
 on a raft coming from Clearfield early in 
 April, 1879 ; the weather was bitter cold, and 
 there was snow on all the mountains. Our 
 raft had been poorly built, and after we left 
 Williamsport it seemed to be loosening all 
 over. A short way above Muncy, as the
 
 78 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 water was running high, we got pretty un- 
 easy. 
 
 "We pushed in and tied in a snug little 
 eddy at the foot of the big Bald Eagle moun- 
 tain. That was a pretty wild country in those 
 days, but even within the past twenty years 
 the engineers on the railroad which runs 
 along the foot of the mountain, often saw 
 deer on the track, and one evening a big buck 
 jumped the bank into the river to the amaze- 
 ment of all the passengers of the west-bound 
 mail. The Bald Eagle mountains come to an 
 end at this point, and back in them all kinds 
 of animals were found. 
 
 "The wolves made their last stand there, 
 and in the Seven mountains just west of 
 them. There are a few stray ones to this 
 day, but the packs are gone forever. There 
 had been some terribly cold weather in 1878 
 and 1879, and lots of snow, which made the 
 wolves which lived in these mountains very 
 desperate. 
 
 "Formerly old settlers said this pack num- 
 bered several hundred, but they were trapped 
 out and died off until when we met them they
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 79 
 
 had less than two dozen. The night we tied 
 up in the eddy was more like January than 
 April; there was a cold wind and sleet fell 
 most of the time. We were eating supper 
 about seven o'clock in the evening; it was 
 dark, when we first heard the wolves bark. 
 
 "Some said they were dogs running deer, 
 but we were too old hunters for that, and it 
 wasn't long before we all were saying 
 'wolves.' By the time supper was over the 
 barking became so loud that it seemed as if 
 the animals were in the thick woods just 
 above the railroad track. We thought when 
 the east-bound train came by it would scare 
 them off, but it had no such effect, they were 
 only louder than ever. 
 
 "There were no houses for half a mile 
 above or below where we were moored ; even 
 on the opposite bank it was bare and cheer- 
 less. I had a shot-gun which I used to kill 
 birds on the river, and all of us carried re- 
 volvers, so we felt certain if we were attacked 
 we could come out victorious. Ira Sloppey, 
 who was a great wolf hunter, said he never
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 heard of wolves attacking men, but they 
 would always fight if cornered. 
 
 "Just as the noise was at its worst, we 
 heard the 'dip, dip/ of the paddles of a dug- 
 out coming near us in the darkness. Some- 
 one had evidently seen our light and was go- 
 ing to find out our connection with the ugly 
 yelping on the hills, we thought. The boat 
 pushed alongside and a tall, lean Yankee, car- 
 rying a rifle, got out, and introduced himself 
 as Hiram Atwood. 
 
 " 'Boys, oh, boys,' he said, 'do you know 
 there is a pack of wolves on the bank above 
 you? It is the first I've heard here in seven 
 years, and I calculated if you hadn't the 
 spunk to go after 'em, I would.' I spoke up 
 and said, 'as long as they weren't bothering 
 us, we felt it was best to let them alone.' 
 
 "Then the Yankee went to his boat and re- 
 leased a small, hound-like dog which he had 
 tied to the seat, and lifted it up the steep 
 bank to the railroad track. He came down 
 in a few minutes and told us to load our arms 
 and stand in line to await developments. 
 
 "All of a sudden the noise became louder
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 81 
 
 than ever, like hell let loose, and in half a 
 minute that little hound was back on the 
 raft, shivering at her master's feet. In an- 
 other half minute we could see the green 
 eyes of the wolves, like tail lights on a 
 caboose, coming across the tracks and down 
 the bank. Oh, but they were big fellows, you 
 can see how they looked from these rugs. 
 
 "Just as the leader of the pack reached the 
 first log of the raft Atwood had him down 
 with a bullet between the eyes, and each of 
 us selected a victim and brought him down. 
 Some of the tailenders stopped short, half 
 way and Atwood brought them to earth 
 easily. Four or five which were hit, turned 
 and made across the tracks into the trees. 
 
 "When the excitement was over we went 
 after our pelts, and we found we had killed 
 eighteen. Some of them were very thin, but 
 all had good, thick hair. We spent the night 
 skinning and dressing the hides, and threw 
 the nasty carcasses into the river. 
 
 "Atwood said that every wolf he hit was 
 a dead one, and suggested we go out in the 
 woods next morning and find the ones that
 
 82 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 got off. We found one dead wolf near the 
 top of the mountain, and on the way back 
 the dog chased out one that was wounded 
 from behind a big burnt stump, which stood 
 above a spring near the railroad. Atwood 
 finished him with the butt of his rifle. So 
 we got twenty out of a possible twenty-two 
 or three. 
 
 "Atwood did most of the killing, but he 
 only took a dozen hides as his share, and let 
 us have eight to divide among ourselves. We 
 left them all with him, however, to collect the 
 bounties. When we got back from our trip 
 I stopped off at Muncy and walked out to his 
 place, and collected our share of the hides. 
 Two had fallen to my share, but later I 
 bought two more from a couple of the boys, 
 and I'm mighty glad I did. 
 
 "The rest mistreated theirs, used them to 
 cover the seats of wagon boxes, and they soon 
 came to nothing from outdoor use in all kinds 
 of weather. I had mine made into these rugs, 
 where they will be always useful and remind 
 me of that devilish night in the eddy. But, 
 as I told you before, there are still some
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 83 
 
 wolves in these parts. I saw one myself in 
 Penn's Valley last spring. 
 
 "It gave me a look, and must have recog- 
 nized me as one of the boys that wiped out 
 his family tree, for he dropped his tail be- 
 tween his legs and made for the brush like 
 a whitehead." As he said this the kitchen 
 door opened and his "old woman" came in 
 and announced that dinner was ready. The 
 clock said "half -past four," which meant that 
 we would have a twenty mile drive before us, 
 mostly after dark, through what was once 
 the great wolf country. "Oh, how I wish 
 the wolves could be met with again," I whis- 
 pered as a substitute for saying grace!
 
 VI. 
 
 STORY OF THE SULPHUR SPRING 
 
 HE Gipsy caravan, with its 
 wagons painted green and 
 white, and with green tas- 
 sels and jingling bells on 
 the horses, halted on the 
 road opposite the Sulphur 
 Spring. Bill Stanley, the 
 hefty chieftain, had gotten 
 out, and was offering a tin- 
 ful of the water to the women of the party. 
 "This would have been a royal place to 
 camp," he remarked, after everyone had re- 
 fused the odoriferous refreshment, "if only 
 the water was different." 
 
 Old Aaron Swartwout, veteran of the Mexi- 
 can and Civil Wars, who had followed the 
 Gipsies in his broken down buggy, up the hill 
 from Loganton, had drawn near to listen to 
 the talk, now could remain silent no longer. 
 "The water was different once, it used to be 
 the best spring in all these valleys, only it 
 
 84
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 got cursed in Indian times, and took on that 
 awful taste and smell." The Gipsy chief 
 looked at the white-bearded old veteran a 
 minute, and then inquired good-naturedly, 
 how the bewitching occurred that could have 
 destroyed the general usefulness of this copi- 
 ous source of water. 
 
 "Well, sir, it was this way," said the old 
 man, leaning against the wagon, with one 
 foot resting on the hub. "Golden Treasure 
 was the king of the Indians in this valley, 
 and with the exception of Mountain River 
 in Penn's Valley, was the greatest ruler the 
 redmen had at that time. He had one daugh- 
 ter, the Princess Flower of Mirth, for whom 
 he planned a brilliant future. His first idea 
 was to marry her to Red Panther, old Moun- 
 tain River's only son, but he was struck by 
 lightning and killed while defying the Storm 
 God, which put an end to hopes in that di- 
 rection. 
 
 "Away down the country was a mighty 
 chief called Iron Mountain, who had a son, 
 My Hills and Valleys, said to be a most prom- 
 ising young warrior. Warfare with adjoin-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 ing tribes, which took her father away, de- 
 layed sending ambassadors to arrange the 
 union, and the beautiful Flower of Mirth was 
 often left alone for weeks at a time in the 
 kingly encampment, a quarter of a mile down 
 the road from where your wagons are stand- 
 ing at present. Of course, there was an alert 
 bodyguard to prevent sudden attack on the 
 camp, and plenty of women of all ages, but 
 the difference in rank kept all of these at a 
 distance, which meant that the Princess was 
 unmolested most of the time. 
 
 "One summer evening there was a comet 
 in the sky, and the Princess, knowing that it 
 generally foretold some war or pestilence, 
 concluded she would go out into the moun- 
 tains and get a good look at the celestial vis- 
 itor. She was not a good walker, having 
 been carried in litters all her life, and when 
 she had gone only a few steps to the spring, 
 felt tired and sat down on a rock to rest. 
 She had not been there very long when she 
 saw the figure of a young Indian approaching 
 out of the hemlock wilderness.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 87 
 
 "The night was so clear she could see his 
 face plainly, and noticed that while he was 
 not good looking, his appearance was striking 
 and unusual. He was short, squarely built, 
 with a large head, curly hair, deep set eyes 
 and a sharp straight nose. He carried large 
 baskets heavily laden, in each hand. When 
 he saw her, he apologized for his intrusion, 
 and would have passed on, had she not asked 
 him if she was going in the proper direction 
 to obtain the best view of the comet. 
 
 "The young Indian told her he was going 
 to see the comet himself, and would feel hon- 
 ored if he could escort her to a magnificent 
 point of vantage he had lately discovered. 
 It was a rash act for the Indian Princess to 
 accompany a stranger to the top of a moun- 
 tain, at night, as it was an excursion likely 
 to end in one of two ways either she would 
 be. ill used, or would fall in love with her es- 
 cort. On the way, the stranger explained 
 that he was gifted with the .power of second 
 sight, and that he had been driven from his 
 tribe far in the west, because of certain evil 
 spells cast over his tribesmen, of which, he
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 assured the Princess, he was entirely inno- 
 cent. 
 
 "Since the appearance of the comet, he had 
 been visiting the mountain top every night, 
 trying to unfathom its meaning. His studies 
 were almost completed, and tonight he ex- 
 pected to know fully what was in store for 
 the residents of the valley, which we now 
 call Sugar Valley. The Princess was natur- 
 ally interested in such a weird and remark- 
 able young man, and in the charm of his 
 conversation and enthusiasm, forgot his 
 rather uncouth appearance. 
 
 "When they reached the summit, they 
 stood together on a great flat boulder, watch- 
 ing silently the huge, brilliant, virile comet, 
 tearing its way through the heavens, leaving 
 a trail behind which seemed like the atoms 
 of shattered stars that had tried to dispute 
 its onward course. The Princess felt cold 
 and instinctively drew near to her com- 
 panion, and soon their hands were touching, 
 and before long his arm was around her. She 
 had never been close to a man before, and 
 the thrill which the stranger sent through
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 her, vibrated and throbbed from head to foot. 
 
 "She forgot all about time, and the heav- 
 ens were swallowing up the stars when they 
 began their downward climb. On the way, 
 she asked him if he had read the secret of the 
 comet to his satisfaction. He was slow to 
 answer, but finally told her that he could 
 see nothing in it that meant disaster to her 
 father, or her family, or to any other Indian, 
 except himself. He said it disclosed the story 
 of his own ruin, and that this night of happi- 
 ness was to be one of the last he would ever 
 experience. 
 
 Flower of Mirth chided him for being so 
 downcast after they had spent such a bliss- 
 ful evening together, and he was inconsolable 
 until she promised to meet him at the spring 
 the next evening. It was almost daybreak 
 when he left her at the outskirts of the en- 
 campment, and skulked off into the dense 
 forest. The next night she was true to her 
 promise, and met him, and they reclimbed 
 the rocky mountain, and marveled at the 
 comet, and became loving to one another off 
 there by themselves on that remote pinnacle
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 of the world. The stranger did not reveal his 
 rank, although if he was gifted with the 
 power of second sight it gave him a title of 
 nobility, but even at that he must have been 
 far below the Princess in birth, still such a 
 difference counted for nothing, as they made 
 love and let the hours slip by. 
 
 "For ten nights consecutively they met, 
 each one seemingly more enchanting than its 
 predecessors. On the eleventh night, at dusk, 
 the stranger was sitting on the rock by the 
 spring, waiting for the Princess Flower of 
 Mirth, anticipating another gladsome session 
 on the mountain peak. In his hand he held 
 a small bunch of carefully selected wild- 
 flowers, the only tribute he could bestow upon 
 his beloved, as he was not a hunter. He had 
 to wait longer than usual, and was getting 
 impatient, when he heard bursts of laughter 
 on the path leading to where he rested. 
 
 "Pretty soon he discerned the form of the 
 Princess, but by her side was the towering 
 and athletic figure of an Indian youth, 
 trimmed and tufted with elks' teeth and eagle 
 feathers, betokening his high rank. Back of
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 91 
 
 the couple, at a respectful distance, marched 
 two aged chiefs; one of them was Golden 
 Treasure, and the other was evidently the 
 father of the Indian Prince. Flower of Mirth 
 and her companion were evidently deeply in- 
 terested in one another, for they continued 
 to laugh, and their steps were light and joy- 
 ous. When they reached the spring the stal- 
 wart Prince leaned down to fill a gourd full 
 of water, and, while he did so, the Princess 
 turned her head away, so as to look as if she 
 did not see the stranger rising from the 
 nearby rock, with the bunch of flowers in his 
 hand. 
 
 "As the Prince handed 'her the water, she 
 had to look in the direction of the stranger, 
 who stepped forward smilingly, and at- 
 tempted to give her the 'flowers. As he held 
 out his hand, old Golden Treasure, who had 
 come close beside him, dealt him a terrible 
 blow on the side of his head, and -he fell for- 
 ward on his face on the flat slab laid out be- 
 fore the spring. As he struck it he began 
 to change quickly, losing all semblance of 
 human form, while the terrified quartet,
 
 92 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Flower of Mirth, her father, Golden Treas- 
 ure, and her new lover, My Hills and Valleys, 
 and his father, the old chief, Iron Mountain, 
 cowered against the trees and vines in ab- 
 ject terror. 
 
 "Gradually his form was blended into a 
 compact mass, which then began to elongate, 
 and assume a greenish tint, and take on 
 masses of scales. The hair fell out of his 
 head, and a smooth gleaming scalp sprouting 
 horns, and a rounded jowl with fangs and 
 hateful greenish-yellow eyes materialized. 
 The monster, when the transformation was 
 complete, rose to its full length, spitting 
 venom in every direction. 
 
 "This was too much for the stalwart My 
 Hills and Valleys; he leaped at the reptile 
 with his war club, but before he could strike 
 a blow, it had turned, and quick as a flash, 
 squirmed into the rocks back of the spring, 
 from which the crystalline water gurgled. 
 As it vanished, Flower of Mirth fell to the 
 earth unconscious, and the old chiefs, and 
 My Hills and Valleys, seized gourds of water 
 to dash over her brow.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 93 
 
 "As they dipped up the water the smell 
 was unbearable, and Iron Mountain, with 
 more hardihood than the rest, touched his 
 cup to his lips, dropping it instantly with a 
 shriek of disgust. The Indian encampment 
 was aroused, and rushed out in a body, light- 
 ing their way to the spring with blazing pine 
 torches. The dazed victims of the unwhole- 
 some tragedy were carried back to camp, 
 but it was days before they recovered their 
 senses. 
 
 "When old Golden Treasure was able to 
 move about, he ordered the regal encamp- 
 ment moved to the furthest western extrem- 
 ity of the valley, and all the tents and bowers 
 were burnt. My Hills and Valleys, after the 
 episode, began to "cool off" in his lover-like 
 propensities, and it was only when Chief 
 Golden Treasure threatened to declare war 
 against his people, that his father induced 
 him to go ahead with the ceremony, which 
 united him to the Princess Flower of Mirth. 
 
 "The marriage took place and the couple 
 started eastward, but were ambushed and 
 cut to pieces by unknown Indians, directly
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 across the valley from the fated spring. But 
 despite this retribution of blood, the water 
 never regained its pristine sweetness, but 
 seemed to grow fouler tasting and more ill- 
 smelling as the years went by. No one ever 
 sees a snake of any description near the sul- 
 phur spring, as they all feared the monstrous 
 serpent that coiled itself within the rocky re- 
 cesses of the source on that awful night, 
 when My Hills and Valleys, and Flower of 
 Mirth plighted their troth. 
 
 "Last year, when Halley's comet ruled the 
 heavens, some boys who were driving home 
 late one night from a festival at Rosecrans, 
 saw what looked to them like a giant saw-log 
 lying across the road opposite the spring 
 house. They got out of their wagon to roll 
 it away, but as they drew near, it commenced 
 to squirm and vanished with a mournful 
 groan in the tall grass and bushes by the 
 spring. 
 
 "Perhaps the uncanny stranger had hoped 
 the comet would bring back the spirit of 
 Flower of Mirth, but as a writer aptly put it 
 in deploring that each happiness exists but
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 95 
 
 once, 'the first fine rapture was not to be 
 caught again,' and he was doomed to disap- 
 pointment. It cannot be believed that the 
 perfidious Indian Princess is at ease, in the 
 Happy Hunting Ground." 
 
 "Whew," said Bill Stanley, "that's a hel- 
 cramite of a story; let's get out of here 
 double quick." He climbed into the driver's 
 box, cracking his long whip, and the bells 
 on the ill-assorted horses were soon jingling 
 as they hauled the green and white wagons 
 across the bridge and were lost to view 
 among the hemlocks.
 
 VII. 
 THE PANTHER HIDE 
 
 UT in the White Mountains, 
 that great, irregular gran- 
 ite range that forms part 
 of the natural boundary be- 
 tween Union and Snyder 
 counties, is what might be 
 styled a "Devil's Den." A 
 huge sink, it is, covering an 
 area of possibly five hun- 
 dred acres, situated on the summit of one of 
 the highest mountains. Until a few years 
 ago on account of the expense of removal, 
 and breakage, the original timber was stand- 
 ing in this natural "reserve." 
 
 The trees, mostly white pines, did not grow 
 very close together, but each one rose from 
 a pile of loose, moss-covered rocks, as if for- 
 tified against the inroads of man. There were 
 many speculations as to the origin of this 
 vast sink. Some said it was once a lake, like 
 Lewis's Lake, which is called by the hotel- 
 
 96
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 97 
 
 men, Eaglesmere. Others declared it to be 
 the crater of an extinct volcano, which 
 sounded most plausible, as the exact centre 
 was depressed and full of fissures; the sides 
 were deeply covered with broken stones vary- 
 ing in size from a baseball to boulders weigh- 
 ing a ton. 
 
 These loose rocks made natural caverns, 
 and were sought out as hiding places for the 
 wild animals of the neighboring regions. 
 Packs of wolves were driven out only after 
 great effort and a few stragglers still make 
 it their retreat. 
 
 Bears, foxes, wild cats, catamounts, pan- 
 thers, raccoons, fishers and wolverenes were 
 killed there. Eagles, innumerable hawks, 
 ravens and buzzards frequented the dizzy 
 heights of the pine trees. It was a hard 
 place for hunters to approach, but when they 
 did, they were nearly always rewarded with 
 a good bag. 
 
 A season never passed without a couple 
 of bears being trapped, and for a number of 
 years, annually, panthers were taken out. 
 A period of ten years had ensued without
 
 98 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 a panther having been killed, but rumor 
 was persistent of one being seen about the 
 "den." One winter the cold weather set in 
 before Thanksgiving, and panther tracks 
 were noticed in every direction. 
 
 None of the settlers in the fertile ravines, 
 or on the slopes of Jack's mountains to the 
 south complained of losing any stock, still it 
 was an uncomfortable feeling to have a pan- 
 ther wandering about so close to the farm 
 houses. As winter progressed the brute 
 seemed to lose his shyness, and appeared to 
 about every unarmed person on the moun- 
 tain. Children coming home from Sunday 
 school at Troxelville, would see it lying in 
 the road ; it would show its deference by get- 
 ting up and letting them pass. Women, whose 
 husbands were out hunting or cutting logs, 
 would find it curled up in the manger when 
 they went to the stable to hunt for eggs. It 
 would lie still until they left the barn, then 
 it would crawl out of its nest and start for 
 the "tall timber." Men in buggies and wagons 
 would see it crouched on rocks or logs by the 
 roadside, but it never stirred a muscle until
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 they were safely out of sight. No one with 
 a rifle, or even a revolver, could see it; it 
 seemed to have a scent which was trained to 
 the smell of gun barrels and powder. 
 
 Out of a hundred persons who had met 
 with it, and a hundred more whose premises 
 it had visited, not a soul could say that it had 
 acted towards them and their property other 
 than in a "genteel" manner. In one of the 
 loneliest hollows, a young hunter named 
 Johnny Gorman, had made his home for sev- 
 eral years. He lumbered a little, cleared a 
 few acres in his spare time, and built a fair 
 sized house. It looked like a layer-cake, it 
 had so many different kinds and sizes of lum- 
 ber in its construction. The mountaineers 
 called it "the house of many colors." When 
 he got it finished he began to feel lonely, so 
 his fancy rested upon pretty Mildred Huey, 
 the daughter of a farmer who lived near the 
 old distillery in the Middle Creek Valley. . 
 
 Johnny was a handsome fellow, with clear 
 cut features, a good nose, and a square, de- 
 termined chin; there was nothing against 
 him on that score but he was somehow ac-
 
 100 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 counted shiftless. His life in the mountains 
 and his hunting and fishing exploits gave 
 color to that reputation. Mildred was sent 
 to an aunt in Lock Haven, considered a vast 
 distance from Troxelville, and her parents 
 breathed contentedly for a time. Johnny, so 
 as not to attract notice, left his horse at 
 Glen Iron, and walked to Lock Haven, met 
 the girl; they took out a license, and were 
 married. 
 
 She told her aunt to write the folks what 
 she had done, then she returned with her 
 husband to his many-colored house in the 
 mountains. On the drive out from Glen 
 Iron, where they had come by train, while 
 lying in Johnny's arms, she confided to him 
 that her family were "hanted," that is they 
 were followed by ghosts, and he must not be 
 surprised if he saw some around their new 
 home. The bridegroom laughed heartily; he 
 did not believe in any such thing ; ghosts were 
 played out ; they belonged only to old people. 
 
 The horse was pulling up a steep pitch in 
 the road, when all at once he stopped, and 
 began to back down hill. It was not quite
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 101 
 
 dark, so the keen-eyed woodsman looked 
 ahead for the trouble before he even began 
 to urge the animal forward. To his sur- 
 prise, he saw a monster panther sitting on 
 its haunches in the road on the summit of the 
 rise. He forgot about the dangers of a horse 
 backing a buggy down a steep hill, yanked 
 out his revolver, and fired four shots at the 
 impertinent brute. It never stirred, his usu- 
 ally true aim had gone amiss. Then the buggy 
 struck a rock and overturned, and Johnny, 
 Mildred, her suit case, the cushions and robes 
 were in a tangled mass among the huckle- 
 berry bushes. 
 
 Luckily the horse did not try to run, and 
 nobody was hurt. One wheel was, however, 
 irretrievably dished, so they rigged a pole 
 to keep the buggy steady, threw the suit case 
 aboard, and the newly-married couple walked 
 the balance of the distance. The panther 
 had disappeared while they were repairing 
 the turnout, so they saw no more of it until 
 after they got into the house and had retired. 
 
 The night was cold and frosty; there was 
 a half -formed moon. They had barely settled
 
 102 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 in the four-poster, when the most hideous 
 screaming was heard in the garden. They 
 looked out, and beheld the panther crowded 
 in the lea of the paling fence, howling at the 
 moon like a sentimental watch dog. Johnny 
 called to his hounds, but they were strangely 
 apathetic. He struck a light, and loaded his 
 new Savage rifle, model of 1899, and took 
 careful aim at the beast, which lay less than 
 fifty feet away. The shots rang out, but in- 
 stead of a dead panther, there was no pan- 
 ther at all. 
 
 "Were we dreaming, Mildred?" said 
 Johnny, after he had looked in vain for a 
 bleeding carcass. He climbed into his cordu- 
 roy trousers and went into the garden. Mil- 
 dred, a pretty picture of fright and inno- 
 cence, stood inside the half-closed door call- 
 ing to her beloved not to run any chances. 
 He saw the spot where the animal had laid, 
 but it had evidently cleared the palings with 
 one bound. He went around to the kennel, 
 only to find both dogs sound asleep. He 
 roused them, and gave them a clubbing, but 
 the poor beasts never knew what it was for.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 103 
 
 He returned to the house and the balance of 
 the night was spent in peace and comfort. 
 
 The next night no panther was about, and 
 the day after that Johnny took his horse to 
 go to Glen Iron to make some purchases. 
 Mildred, who was washing, said she didn't 
 mind his absence for a few hours. About 
 noon she fancied he ought to be back, so she 
 looked out of the front door. Outside the 
 gate lay the panther sound asleep. She hur- 
 ried to the back of the house, and called the 
 dogs, but this time they were among the miss- 
 ing. She didn't know much about the use 
 of firearms, but not being lacking in courage, 
 she seized Johnny's rifle, which was loaded, 
 locked the door, and took aim through the 
 open window. The bullet went through one 
 of the palings of the gate, but the panther, 
 unscathed, got up, stretched himself, and 
 sauntered away. 
 
 Less than five minutes later her husband 
 appeared. He had heard the shot, and guessed 
 what it meant. He would have doubted that 
 she had actually seen the animal were it not 
 for the impression of its body in the mud.
 
 104 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 That night there was nothing unusual, but 
 the one following, they heard, but did not see 
 the intruder. The next morning they started 
 for Glen Iron in the buggy, meeting Adam 
 Straub, an old-time hunter, on the road. 
 
 "I'm on my way to the 'sink,' " he told 
 them, as he held up his rifle proudly. "I've 
 set a trap for that panther that comes 
 through this country every winter he's 
 bolder than ever this year. This is the tenth 
 year I've been on his trail, but I sort of feel 
 this year he'll bite the dust." 
 
 "We were just going after you," said 
 Johnny, "that panther's not in the 'sink,' at 
 present, his headquarters are around our 
 house this is my wife I just married," 
 pointing proudly to the pretty looking black- 
 eyed girl by his side. 
 
 "At your house, that damned panther ; he's 
 got an awful nerve. Why can't you, after 
 all the bears you've finished, take him into 
 camp?" 
 
 "I've shot at him a dozen times," said 
 Johnny sheepishly, "but I think the brute's 
 bewitched, I can't hit him."
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 105 
 
 "Can I spend the night at your place?" 
 asked old Straub. 
 
 "Cert," said Johnny, "we'll turn around, 
 and this afternoon we can lay our plans, and 
 if we two don't get him in the next forty- 
 eight hours we'll know the reason why." 
 
 They drove back to the house of many col- 
 ors, with old Adam tramping along behind. 
 They had a jolly time arranging the cam- 
 paign, and at bedtime the old hunter was as- 
 signed to the room adjoining the bridal cham- 
 ber. The moon was nearly full, and its soft 
 light mellowed the garden, the picket fence, 
 the stumps, the field of burnt saplings be- 
 yond, the gaunt yellow pines along the edges 
 of the clearing. 
 
 At midnight a scream like a woman in 
 agony was heard among the pines. It grew 
 nearer and nearer, and Johnny and old Adam 
 were at the windows with rifles ready. Out 
 of a thicket of chestnut sprouts a dusky form 
 appeared, seemingly magnified fourfold by 
 the moonlight. It paused and glared at the 
 determined men in the windows of the house 
 across the lane. The rapid click-bang-bang
 
 106 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 of two rifles resounded on the frosty night, 
 but the panther remained rigid until the last 
 cartridge was spent, and calmly turned 
 around and retreated. 
 
 "Young man," called old Adam through the 
 partition, "that's no panther we've been fol- 
 lowing, it's a deil; no wonder he couldn't be 
 trapped. Does that wife of yours come from 
 a 'hanted' family? If she does, it explains 
 why the varmint is making a specialty of 
 parading around your premises." 
 
 "She sure does come from a 'spooked' fam- 
 ily," answered Johnny. Mildred raised up 
 in bed and looked at him wistfully as if she 
 wondered he would love her less for it. "Go 
 to sleep now," called old Adam. "I'll fix that 
 panther in the morning. I can lay any spook 
 or witch in the country. There's not one 
 of them can stand up against me. Good night, 
 everybody." 
 
 Johnny could hear the "click" as he turned 
 out his lamp, and climbed into his couch. 
 About daylight the old hunter struck out for 
 Glen Iron, but in the early afternoon he was 
 back carrying several bundles. These in-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 107 
 
 eluded a plumber's torch and a cartridge 
 mold. He asked Johnny for his cartridge 
 box and took several of them, prying out the 
 leaden tips. Then he melted three silver dol- 
 lars, and put the metal in the mold. When 
 they had cooled off, he placed the silver tips 
 in the cartridges from which he had removed 
 the lead. 
 
 "Tonight that hex, or panther, or whatever 
 it is will die," he solemnly declared as he 
 loaded the rifle with the silver bullets. The 
 winter moon shone through the frost-laden, 
 vapory atmosphere just as it did the night 
 before, the gaunt yellow pines with their up- 
 lifted branches fringed the sky-line at the 
 edge of the clearing. 
 
 Johnny and Mildred seated themselves by 
 the window of the room on a heavy trunk, 
 while old Adam drew his bed to the window 
 of his room and awaited developments. At 
 midnight the first faint cries of the panther 
 echoed from the ravine behind the pines. 
 Closer and closer it came, roaring like a 
 lion when it reached the slashings, descend- 
 ing to a guttural growl as its head emerged
 
 108 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 by the edge of the lane. Adam Straub, lying 
 across his couch, took careful aim, "crack- 
 bang-bang" went the rifle, and with a cry 
 intensely human, the panther sprang twenty 
 feet in the air, and lay quivering in the 
 middle of the road. 
 
 Adam carrying the rifle, and Johnny with 
 his hunting knife were by his side in a min- 
 ute, but he was stiff and dead, so they pro- 
 ceeded to skin him. The animal was a male, 
 and measured by Mildred's tape eleven and 
 a half feet from tip to tip. There was no 
 sleep for any of the household that night. 
 
 At dawn, the ground being frozen hard, 
 the flayed carcass was buried in a hole that 
 had been started for a well, and rocks and 
 stumps were thrown in to fill it. After 
 breakfast the hide was put in the wagon, and 
 the trio drove to Middleburg to "show off" 
 the unusual trophy. The court-house was 
 closed, so they could not claim a bounty that 
 afternoon but they exhibited the hide on the 
 steps of the Jefferson hotel across the way 
 where it was viewed by hundreds of people. 
 
 Next morning there was some question
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 109 
 
 about paying the bounty, as none had been 
 paid on panthers in fifteen years, and the 
 treasurer wanted them to leave the hide with 
 him until he could get an opinion from the 
 county solicitor. Johnny refused, and took 
 it to the tannery, to have it made into a rug. 
 In due course of time he received word it was 
 finished, so he came after it, taking it again 
 to the court-house. The county treasurer 
 said he doubted if any bounty could be paid 
 on a tanned hide, which made Johnny angry, 
 and he threw it into the wagon box and 
 started for the White Mountains. At his 
 home it was admired by the mountaineers 
 for a few days, then he put it for safe 
 keeping on a trestle in the garret ; it was too 
 valuable to be scuffed about as a rug. One 
 thing was lacking, the tanner had omitted to 
 provide it with glass eyes. 
 
 Time passed, the "panther scare" was for- 
 gotten, and another autumn was at hand. 
 One October night Johnny and Mildred were 
 returning from a call at the home of a couple 
 named Schultz who had started to build a 
 house and clear some land about two miles
 
 110 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 down the hollow. Half-way home they heard 
 a cracking of dry underbrush. The moon's 
 rays giving them a clear vision, they were 
 horrified to see a hideous object bob out of 
 the bushes and cross the path. It was the 
 hide of a panther flapping along on some dis- 
 jointed carriers, and it looked all the world 
 like a manikin propelled by a string. They 
 might have thought it a joke, for Hallowe'en 
 was near, had not the thing let out a pitiful 
 squall and besides Johnny had in his vest 
 pocket the key to the Yale lock of the attic 
 door where the hide was kept. 
 
 It disappeared in a thicket of young hem- 
 locks and the dismayed couple hurried to 
 their home. They went to the garret find- 
 ing the lock untouched, but on opening the 
 door saw the hide was not to be found. In 
 the morning, fearing they had been dream- 
 ing- in the moonlit woods, they re-opened the 
 p.ttic, but this time the hide lay in the same 
 position across the trestle as it had been 
 placed there several months before. That 
 night they were awakened by the awful bark- 
 ing of the dogs, and from the window they
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 111 
 
 could see them in bitter conflict with a hor- 
 rible unsteady monster without eyes in the 
 corner of the yard. The dogs were pretty 
 well scarred when they examined them the 
 next morning, but to convince themselves, 
 Johnny and Mildred went to the garret and 
 examined the hide. It had been tanned 
 with the skull and teeth left in, and the white 
 fangs were covered with fresh blood. 
 
 Brave man that he was, Johnny dropped 
 the hide, and with Mildred rushed from the 
 garret. They harnessed the horse, and drove 
 as fast as they could to find old Adam 
 Straub. The good old man was getting sup- 
 per when they reached his humble cabin in 
 the foothills near the old furnace, but he lis- 
 tened with interest to the recital. 
 
 "It was very dumb of me not to have 
 thought of that," he answered slowly. "Spend 
 the night with me, and tomorrow go back and 
 bury that panther hide in the same pit with 
 the carcass; then you will have laid this 
 ghost for good and all. They tell me," he 
 went on, "some Indian that was killed by one 
 of your wife's ancestors took on a panther's
 
 112 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 form, and that is the creature which has been 
 seen in these mountains for so many years. 
 I don't reckon there's been a real panther in 
 Snyder county since 1885, when they paid 
 bounty on one at Middleburg. If the silver 
 in my shell had been pure, you wouldn't 
 needed to have buried the hide, but it wasn't 
 pure, so it's worth any trouble to get rid of 
 such a pest." 
 
 Johnny and Mildred drove leisurely back 
 to the house of many colors, walked boldly 
 up the attic stairs, carried down the great, 
 smooth, tawney hide. It seemed a pity to 
 lose it, but they threw it in the pit on top of 
 the disintegrated carcass. Johnny filled the 
 hole solidly with rocks and stumps, and after 
 a lapse of ten years the couple have never 
 been disturbed by its presence.
 
 VIII. 
 MARSH MARIGOLD 
 
 E were driving, one afternoon 
 in July, through the east 
 end of Brush Valley, and 
 Bonnie Dundee, our faith- 
 ful horse, trotted at the 
 proper gait to enable us to 
 take in all the sights of this 
 quaint, out of the world 
 region. I had not been this 
 way for five years, and every mile or so 
 would decry some act of vandalism perpe- 
 trated since my former visits; a giant tree 
 felled here, an old log cabin razed there, and 
 a gaping quarry opened on a quiet hill-side 
 over yonder. 
 
 My companion, better versed than I in the 
 vagaries of the local temperament, was ex- 
 cusing the desecrations "that tree shaded 
 the field," "that old house was tumbling 
 down," "the poor man needed the money 
 and had to begin quarrying," or "the price 
 
 113
 
 114 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 of timber tempted the widow," and so on, 
 putting a less uncomplimentary construction 
 on their acts. When we came within a mile 
 of Livonia I began to look ahead along the 
 straight road to catch sight of the two huge 
 wild cherry trees, which stood by the road 
 below Moses Smitgall's barn. But I could 
 only see one tree, and as we drew near, the 
 high-cut stump showed where the other had 
 recently stood. 
 
 "What a terrible shame to have slashed 
 down one of Francis Penn's Betrothal Trees," 
 I cried out in righteous indignation. "That 
 is the worst thing we have seen on the entire 
 trip. I don't see what harm it could have 
 done if left standing." 
 
 My companion was equally upset by what 
 was a real act of vandalism, and after we 
 passed Stover's and started up the mountain 
 to cross into Sugar Valley, I went over the 
 story of the Betrothal Tree, Francis Penn, 
 and the beautiful Indian maid, Marsh Mari- 
 gold. 
 
 About the middle of the Eighteenth Cen- 
 tury, Richard Penn, the Proprietary of the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 115 
 
 Province of Pennsylvania, had sent a number 
 of young surveyors into the central part of 
 his domain to lay out and draw maps of the 
 various parcels of land which were to be 
 turned over to desirable settlers. Among 
 them was one young man, who, by birth and 
 talents, was clearly above his fellows. He 
 was Francis Penn, son of a full cousin of the 
 Proprietor, and a graduate of Oxford and 
 holder of degrees from two German univer- 
 sities. His early philosophical bent had led 
 him into religious speculation, and beginning 
 as a member of the Church of England he 
 swung into deism, then adopted the beliefs of 
 the Friends like his immortal relative. 
 
 In this last affiliation he was perfectly 
 happy and the staid Quakers appeared proud 
 to own him as one of their number. Despite 
 his life of study and religious experience, he 
 had led a stormy career, as far as went 
 affairs of the heart, and that was the sole rea- 
 son of his presence in the wilds of Pennsyl- 
 vania. He had been betrothed to one of the 
 most charming young girls in England, Lady 
 Elizabeth Vane-Tempest, who favored him
 
 116 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 ahead of a score of other acceptable suitors. 
 
 All seemed to go smoothly with the young 
 couple until two weeks before the wedding, 
 when her ladyship disappeared. At the same 
 time a Dutchman, short, and ill-favored, who 
 served in a dragoon regiment quartered near 
 her father's town house, dropped out of 
 sight. They were apprehended together on 
 the point of embarking for Holland and the 
 fellow jumped into the channel to save his 
 neck, and escaped. The girl was brought 
 home, but Francis Penn never noticed her 
 existence again. 
 
 As a vision of blonde loveliness she was 
 unexcelled, her exquisite coloring and fea- 
 tures being partially preserved in an unfin- 
 ished painting by Romney which is some- 
 times handed out of the store-room for the 
 edification of art critics at the ancestral halls 
 of her family in Surrey. 
 
 But Penn was to have his revenge. One 
 night on Fleet Street he was jostled by a 
 low-browed villain in sailor clothes, who, see- 
 ing the young Quaker in the garb of his 
 faith and doubtless unarmed, thought he
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 117 
 
 could antagonize him, and in the scuffle 
 knife him easily. But the youthful Quaker 
 was not so easy, and met the sailor's jostle 
 with a powerful wrench, which sent him reel- 
 ing into an iron railing where he ran a picket 
 through his eye into his brain, dying in the 
 gutter in a few minutes. As Penn bent over 
 the expiring wretch he recognized the fea- 
 tures of the Dutch dragoon who had eloped 
 and abandoned the beautiful Lady Elizabeth 
 Vane-Tempest. 
 
 After that disagreeable incident he sailed 
 for Pennsylvania, where he was assigned to 
 the surveying corps, and made rapid progress 
 with his work. His appearance so closely 
 resembled that of William Penn that he be- 
 came a prime favorite with the Indians. The 
 older chiefs declared it was the Apostle of 
 Brotherly Love come back to life again, and 
 he was often sent into turbulent localities to 
 restore tranquility by his presence. He re- 
 fused many offers of advancement, saying 
 that he would only remain temporarily in the 
 province and could only hold a position from
 
 118 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 which his resignation at any day would be 
 of no moment. 
 
 The government had been having consid- 
 erable trouble with a brave called Rock Pine, 
 whose headquarters were the entire eastern 
 part of what is now Brush Valley. He had 
 ambushed and slaughtered one surveyor, and 
 the provincial authorities were undecided as 
 to how to adjust the case. Francis Penn was 
 suggested, so the young man, accompanied 
 by a body-guard of five friendly redskins, set 
 out for an interview with the recalcitrant 
 warrior. When they reached his tent, they 
 found the old fellow sitting on a panther's 
 hide, smoking. At first he refused to look 
 up, but when he heard two of the body guards 
 laugh at some witty remark of their white 
 leader, he raised his eyes. Having met 
 William Penn years before at Skakamaxon 
 and noting the remarkable likeness, he was 
 on his feet in an instant, apologizing as he 
 termed it for the "rudeness of an old, half- 
 blind hunter." Within an hour he granted 
 all the demands of the proprietary establish- 
 ment and offered to indemnify the family, if
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 119 
 
 there were any, of the dead surveyor whom 
 he acknowledged was slain by some of his 
 tribesmen. He invited the party to remain 
 a month with him; they elected to remain 
 over night. 
 
 At dinner time young Penn made the ac- 
 quaintance of old Rock Pine's daughter 
 Marsh Marigold, and he remained the month. 
 Our general idea of Indian Maidens comes 
 from pictures of flatfaced Sioux and from the 
 hosts of underbred, and mixed blooded 
 squaws who follow Wild West shows or at- 
 tend government schools. The Indian girls 
 of royal blood, long ago, especially the Sene- 
 cas, were noted for their beauty and not a 
 few Europeans fell victims to their charms. 
 
 In Virginia it was the same way. Indian 
 princesses were courted, and Pocahontas was 
 feted and admired when her English hus- 
 band took her to his old home. 
 
 "In the first place she (Marsh Marigold) 
 was not copper colored, her complexion was 
 white, but in cold weather a little red showed 
 in it. Her eyes were almost black, deeply set 
 and expressive, with long black lashes and
 
 120 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 narrow arched brows. Her lips were the color 
 of corals and just full enough to show that 
 her nature abounded with love. Her teeth 
 were a most attractive feature; they were 
 small, luminous like pearls, and set in even 
 rows. She was tall rather than short, erect, 
 and slender, her dark hair was soft and on 
 damp days was inclined to curl. Her nose 
 was just a trifle aquiline, but the nostrils 
 were well-moulded, open. The nose was not 
 straight, but was a little more pronounced on 
 the left side than on the right. This tripled 
 her beauty, for she was one person on the 
 right side, another full face, a third on the 
 left side, all equally radiantly lovely. Her 
 manners were open and kindly, and she gave 
 the impression of frankness and honor." 
 
 We would be at a loss to present such a 
 detailed description of the personal appear- 
 ance of this now almost forgotten Indian girl, 
 but for the discovery ten years ago, of Fran- 
 cis Penn's journal in an old chest in the ruins 
 of Fort Augusta at Sunbury, from which the 
 above is quoted, but that is another story.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 121 
 
 Penn took to her at once, while she seemed 
 to seek his society. The first evening they 
 violated all Indian customs by taking a long 
 walk together to the waterfall half-way up 
 the mountain above Livonia which still 
 splashes down over the rocks, but in dimin- 
 ished quantities. Next day the young Eng- 
 lishman announced he would remain in the 
 valley for some days in order to complete 
 some elaborate maps. Everybody seemed 
 pleased, and the courtship apparently ad- 
 vanced with each evening. 
 
 Having had troubles of his own, Penn hesi- 
 tated about asking Marsh Marigold if she 
 had any other lover. If he had he might have 
 learned a sad story. A young redskin named 
 Leaning Birch courted her, but his shiftless- 
 ness had estranged old Rock Pine, and he had 
 ordered the youth driven from the camp. The 
 couple had met clandestinely in the forests 
 several times, but the old warrior became 
 wise to this, and threatened Leaning Birch 
 with being burned at the stake if captured. 
 The shiftless Indian apparently skipped the 
 country and the romance ostensibly ended.
 
 122 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 At the end of a month Francis Penn and 
 Marsh Marigold decided to marry, and so in- 
 formed old Rock Pine. Had it been any other 
 white man he would probably have been tom- 
 ahawked on the spot, but William Penn's rela- 
 tive and likeness was too desirable a person- 
 age, and he gave the young couple his fondest 
 blessings. The betrothal took place with full 
 ceremonial, and in honor of the occasion Penn 
 and his promised bride each planted a young 
 wild cherry tree as a token that "the early 
 blossoming of their love would bear fruit by 
 a speedy marriage." 
 
 Then Penn's relative bade au revoir to the 
 adorable Marsh Marigold, to Rock Pine, and 
 all the other members of the tribe, and 
 started with his body guard for Philadelphia 
 to make arrangements for the wedding and 
 embarking for England. He was to return 
 in about a month. Marsh Marigold, the beau- 
 tiful, pined for days after he had gone, and 
 often walked to the waterfall alone, and sat 
 by the swift torrent for hours thinking of 
 her absent lover. Francis Penn was not less 
 ardent, for he sent back swift Indian runners
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 123 
 
 every few days while on his journey with 
 messages protesting his love and eternal de- 
 votion. 
 
 One morning while the girl was seated by 
 the waterfall, meditating and despondent, 
 she heard the patter of moccasined feet on 
 the pine needles. She looked around, and to 
 her dismay, she saw the figure of Leaning 
 Birch. The shiftless and discarded lover 
 looked the picture of misery. He was lame, 
 had lost one eye, and the left side of his 
 mouth was cut back clear to his ear, and every 
 tooth on that side was missing. Had he 
 looked his natural self she would have 
 scorned him, but his mutilated face aroused 
 her pity, and she listened to his addresses. 
 He sat down beside her, and soon was pour- 
 ing out his tale of woe. He had been cap- 
 tured and sentenced to death down country, 
 had escaped, been captured by another tribe, 
 but had broken loose from his captors al- 
 though not without being pounded, gouged, 
 and slashed after the manner indicated by 
 his appearance.
 
 124 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Then Marsh Marigold told her story, how 
 she had met Francis Penn, the distinguished 
 young Englishman, who had fallen in love 
 with her; he was even now on his way back 
 from Philadelphia to make her his wife and 
 take her to preside over his estates in Eng- 
 land. The crafty ex-lover saw his opening, 
 and asked her if she thought she could leave 
 her beloved mountains, would she be happy 
 so far from home, among a strange people, 
 and was it not a big risk for so young a girl 
 to take? This set the maiden to thinking, 
 and after the five hours talk she went back to 
 her father nursing a new sorrow. Though 
 she had made no appointment, a strange in- 
 stinct drew her back to the waterfall next 
 day. Leaning Birch joined her, and that 
 afternoon when she returned she felt that her 
 Indian suitor had been misjudged, and wasn't 
 such a bad fellow after all. 
 
 After the third meeting she decided she 
 would never go to England, after the fourth 
 she would run away to the north with Lean- 
 ing Birch. With him she concocted a mes- 
 sage to Penn, to be delivered to the runner
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 125 
 
 who would arrive that night with tidings of 
 the young suitor's speedy arrival. She was 
 to meet Leaning Birch at a point several 
 miles down the main path from the camp and 
 help him intercept the runner. Behind the 
 broken stump of a tree they waited, and when 
 the breathless runner came by, Leaning 
 Birch sprang forward and knocked him 
 senseless with a heavy staff. When the un- 
 fortunate messenger "came to" Marsh Mari- 
 gold gave him her message, which he put 
 in his belt, and Leaning Birch gagged and 
 tied him securely to the stump. 
 
 That done they retraced their steps, start- 
 ing up the mountain in the direction of Sugar 
 Valley. He had it planned that they would 
 hide in the Oriole caves in Nippenose Valley 
 for a week and make a raft in the under- 
 ground current and float out to the Susque- 
 hanna river and then gradually work their 
 way north until they were lost from possible 
 pursuers in the mazes of the Black Forest. 
 But they had not gone any further than the 
 waterfall when Marsh Marigold began to 
 change her mind again. First she walked
 
 126 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 along silently, paying no attention to the 
 glowing plans for the future as outlined by 
 her companion. Then she summoned cour- 
 age and told him she did not love him, that 
 she adored and admired the personality and 
 character of Francis Penn. It was not too 
 late, they could return and release the Indian 
 runner, and he could have time to get away 
 to the caves before Rock Pine learned the 
 story. She would confess all to her fiance, 
 and she knew he would forgive her. 
 
 Leaning Birch listened to this talk with ill- 
 concealed anger, and caught her by the arm 
 as if to drag her away with him. She swung 
 herself loose, and started to run down the 
 rocky path. The hideous Indian made after 
 her, but she was fleet of foot, and he was 
 lame. She seemed to be gaining on him, so 
 he lurched forward and knocked her to the 
 earth with his hickory staff. As she at- 
 tempted to rise he beat her down, finally 
 splitting her skull with a final savage blow. 
 
 The Indian maiden died with the name of 
 Francis Penn on her lips, and her cowardly 
 murderer started up the mountain again.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 127 
 
 When he reached the waterfall he attempted 
 to cross the creek, but his lame foot slipped 
 into a crevice in the rocks, which held him as 
 in a trap. He howled and cursed, and dragged 
 and tugged, but he was a hopeless captive. 
 After some hours he drew his hunting knife 
 and attempted to cut off his foot, but when he 
 saw the blood flowing he was too cowardly to 
 persist. 
 
 At daybreak he heard the sound of many 
 footsteps and muffled voices drawing nearer 
 and nearer. Soon to his horror he beheld 
 Rock Pine, grim and menacing, accompanied 
 by a hundred tribesmen armed for battle, 
 the Indian runner with his head bandaged, 
 and a stalwart figure clad in black, with set 
 face ivory white, the bereaved Francis Penn. 
 As they approached with measured tread, 
 Leaning Birch wondered what his fate would 
 be. Most probably slow torture of some kind, 
 he reasoned, but he was quickly put out of 
 the way very differently. Out of the funeral 
 procession the Indian runner executed one 
 of his famous leaps, at the same time un- 
 sheathing a long, thin knife. He was on top
 
 128 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 of the murderer as quickly as an eagle 
 pounces on a lamb, and cut his heart out be- 
 fore anyone could utter a protest. 
 
 With screams of agony the fiend yielded 
 up the ghost, and died with Francis Penn 
 looking him full in the face. Turning to Rock 
 Pine, the unfortunate lover said quietly, 
 "Bury him under the waterfall so that the 
 pure rivulets will cleanse his evil spirit." A 
 dozen braves lifted out the great flat stones, 
 and the reeking body of Leaning Birch 
 minus the heart which the Indian runner 
 hung on his belt, was dropped with a splash 
 into the bottom of the watery cavity. Then 
 the slabs were thrown over him, and the 
 waterfall went tripping its way as before. 
 
 In the afternoon Marsh Marigold was laid 
 to rest between the Betrothal Trees and 
 Francis Penn said farewell to Rock Pine, 
 leaving immediately for the East, never to 
 return. He fell sick at Fort Augusta, where 
 he wrote many pages of his journal, which 
 was stolen from him by one of his Indian re- 
 tainers the night before he set out from there 
 for Philadelphia. Strange to say the manu-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 129 
 
 script has come to light after a hundred and 
 fifty years. 
 
 As for Penn, he was last heard of in India, 
 where he is said to have died of a pestilence 
 about 17&5. It seems a pity that a narrative 
 like this must revive the memory of such a 
 foul monster as Leaning Birch, but evil 
 spirits have a greater knack of persisting 
 than good ones. It may be satisfying to some 
 to think that his soul is not at rest. 
 
 Old settlers declare that every year on the 
 night of the anniversary of the crime a dis- 
 torted being, up to his waist in water, can 
 be seen seated in the bowl of the waterfall. 
 A red discharge gushes from a gaping hole 
 in his left breast, and he holds his hands con- 
 vulsively over the wound as if to try and 
 staunch the flow. But it continues to pour 
 forth, and mingles with the eddies and whirls 
 and froth of the pool. Sometimes when the 
 winds are high, he cries out sharply, as if his 
 caged spirit wanted to escape into the storm. 
 Always on the day after particles of reddish 
 substance are found in the pool, and adhering 
 to the rocks of the stream along the gorge.
 
 130 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Doubters say it means there is a deposit of 
 iron ore somewhere, but those who have seen 
 the hideous bather know it is the soul's blood 
 of his eternal expiation. Maybe with the 
 cutting down of one of the Betrothal Trees 
 the spell is broken, but there are many who 
 believe that Leaning Birch will appear again 
 this September.
 
 IX. 
 
 STORY OP THE PICTURE ROCKS 
 
 ICTURE ROCKS as the name 
 of a postoffice, Picture 
 Rocks the name of a rail- 
 road station in Lycoming 
 county, are known to most 
 everyone. True enough, the 
 rocks are to be seen, but it 
 is hard for the most imag- 
 inative to discern how they 
 could have obtained their name. The sur- 
 face, ripped and scarred by landslides, quar- 
 ries, the running of logs and the frosts and 
 thaws of years, seem too uneven to have ever 
 displayed an artist's handiwork. 
 
 Many declared that they were named be- 
 cause of their "picturesqueness," and not 
 from any portraits or signs cut or painted on 
 their face. But the early settlers had a story, 
 and not such an old one, either, which told 
 of a day when the great rocks which rise 
 from the base to the summit of the moun- 
 
 131
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 tains at this point, were as smooth as modern 
 blackboards in a cross-roads school house. 
 
 For five or six successive centuries the In- 
 dian chieftains in the Loyalsock and Muncy 
 Valleys had pictorial records of their great- 
 est victories painted on the rocks. The In- 
 dians were adepts at discovering and mixing 
 colors, and the artistic sense, though to us 
 seemingly crude, had many elements of dig- 
 nity and impressiveness. In later years one 
 chief had attempted to have- the pictures cut 
 and not painted on the rocks, but the strata 
 was too soft and probably started the disinte- 
 gration that was followed by the white lum- 
 bermen and quarriers. 
 
 It is difficult to assign a date to a legend 
 of this kind, but we assume that it was about 
 the year 1760, when a party of French settlers 
 from Berks county found their way into the 
 fertile regions around the Picture Rocks. 
 The year before, Wolf's Pathway, a noted 
 Seneca "King," had crushed a serious insur- 
 rection among his tribesmen, and in the 
 skirmishes and battles including a "canoe" 
 battle fought at night on the Susquehanna,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 near what is now Nippeno Park, over a 
 thousand redskins of both factions were 
 killed. 
 
 It was the wish of the conquering chieftain 
 to have his success perpetuated pictorially 
 on the rocks, so he commissioned his young 
 cousin, Fisher Fox, the most talented Indian 
 artist in the entire country at that time, to 
 paint the historic occurrence. He was to re- 
 present the fight in the canoes at night, with 
 the triumphant followers of Wolf's Pathway 
 climbing into the boats of their enemies, and 
 killing them with their stone-headed clubs. 
 
 On the shore the women were to be shown 
 running along lighting the way of their 
 heroes, with huge fire-brands. To accom- 
 plish this, a painting done some thirty-five 
 years before, depicting the victory of the 
 father of Wolf's Pathway Old Merciless 
 over his life-long adversary, Golden Treas- 
 ure, with the intrepid old warrior in the very 
 act of splitting his rival's skull with his toma- 
 hawk, while the victim's henchmen stood by, 
 too awed by the proceeding to rush to his 
 succor, had to be obliterated. Indians, at
 
 134 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 least in these old days, were anything but 
 sentimental. 
 
 This took considerable time, but Fisher 
 Fox had a daring scheme in mind, which soon 
 began to blossom forth on the expansive 
 background. The central figure was to be 
 Wolf's Pathway himself, attired in full chief- 
 tain's regalia, standing with one foot in his 
 own canoe, while the other was in another 
 boat on the throat of one of the leading in- 
 surgents. With each hand he was choking 
 to death two other noted rebels who were 
 in the same canoe as the wretch being ground 
 beneath his heel. 
 
 One bright morning in July he was high 
 on his scaffold of white birch poles, painting 
 away at the heroic figure of Wolf's Pathway, 
 when he heard the singing of songs in a for- 
 eign tongue, down among the hemlocks by 
 the bed of the stream. Years previously, in 
 order to give a better view of the historical 
 paintings a vast clearing had been made in 
 front of the Picture Rocks. Every chief who 
 had his deeds emblazoned there decreed a 
 fresh clearing of this space, so that it was
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 135 
 
 always open, and the buffaloes, elk and deer 
 often grazed there. The singing grew nearer, 
 until several heavy covered wagons drawn by 
 oxen, with outriders on horseback, came in 
 sight. 
 
 The Indian artist put some extra flour- 
 ishes to his brush, and mixed in richer and 
 deeper tints to "show off" to the strangers. 
 As he was alone, he was in a decidedly ami- 
 cable spirit. The ox teams halted directly 
 below the scaffolding in order that the trav- 
 ellers might look at the painting and faces 
 began to peer out from the back of the 
 wagons, and children clambered down on the 
 grass and ran about and played. One young 
 woman, with a particularly heavy head of 
 dark brown hair and sparkling hazel eyes, 
 looked out and caught the eye of the artist. 
 As she did so, she called out in French : "Who 
 ever saw such a foolish looking picture; 
 aren't you ashamed of yourself?" 
 
 Fisher Fox knew a little French and could 
 guess the rest from her gestures and laugh- 
 ter, and he scowled deeply and cursed under 
 his breath at this ridicule of his masterpiece.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 But some of the other members of the party, 
 especially the men on horseback, were not so 
 critical, and loudly praised its execution. 
 Perhaps they were afraid to offend the In- 
 dian lest he complain to his chief, and start 
 hostilities with the Frenchmen. At any rate 
 they stayed so long and talked so much that 
 they decided to halt where they were, and a 
 couple of the men, having found heavy 
 springs of water nearby, announced that they 
 would make their homesteads on the spot. 
 
 Until they had time to erect their one- 
 roomed log cabins the pioneers lived in their 
 wagons, and the broad sward at the foot of 
 the rocks soon presented an animated aspect. 
 The horses and oxen were picketed, chickens 
 and geese were released from their coops, and 
 not a few dogs and cats made thmselves at 
 home under the heavy trucks. The dogs 
 barked in a chorus with the wolves and foxes 
 at night. The cats had a rich feast on birds 
 which were so plentiful and tame, that they 
 were easily caught. 
 
 The settlers killed nearly a hundred buffa- 
 loes the first month and their hides and flesh
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 137 
 
 were hung to dry on poles about the camps. 
 During these hunting expeditions, which con- 
 sumed days, when it would seem the men 
 ought have been building their huts, for the 
 summer was passing rapidly, the women and 
 children remained around the wagons, 
 guarded by old Etienne Binet, whose name 
 has been corrupted into Binney, by unap- 
 preciative generations. 
 
 Binet was an expert shot, and was ac- 
 counted capable of guarding the party in case 
 of Indian attack, which seemed unlikely, as 
 the land pre-empted had been paid for long 
 previous to the settlers arriving in the valley. 
 The young dark woman who had laughed at 
 the Indian artist's frescoes on the Picture 
 Socks, began to show some interest in the 
 production as it developed from day to day. 
 Being agile, in response to an invitation from 
 him, she climbed up and took a seat beside 
 him, and watched him mix his colors nd ply 
 his facile brush. 
 
 The two became quite friendly, and gradu- 
 aly grew able to talk together freely. She 
 told him that her name was Georgie Dupre,
 
 138 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 a cognomen now known in Pennsylvania as 
 Dippery, that she was the wife of Bernon 
 Dupre, the leader of the band of settlers. 
 Before her marriage her name was De La 
 Planche, now called Plank, and her father, 
 old Jacob De La Planche, was one of the best 
 known of the earliest French pioneers of 
 Berks county. Her husband and her father 
 had quarreled, she said, over some cattle, and 
 the former had decided to move "up coun- 
 try," hence their appearance in the Muncy 
 Valley. 
 
 Fisher Fox, the artist, was a curious type 
 of Indian. He was undersized, of a deep 
 copper color, had small, pale eyes, a rather 
 poorly chiselled biggish nose, a sensual mouth 
 and a shock of very long coarse black hair. Ha 
 became most assiduous in his attentions to 
 Georgie Dupre, which no one else noticed, as 
 the other women were too busy cooking, sew- 
 ing and tending children, to figure out if a 
 Frenchman's wife was spending too much 
 time with an Indian decorator. 
 
 Fisher Fox was always over his day's work 
 early, though there were probably no Unions
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 139 
 
 in his day. So when Bernon Dupre came 
 back at night from the chase, he always 
 found his wife sitting demurely in the sha- 
 dow of his wagon. One morning Georgie 
 met Fisher Fox climbing down from his 
 roost, and he told her he was heading for a 
 certain mountain top to dig some more paint 
 rock. She asked him when he would be back 
 and he said before sunset, so she begged to 
 accompany him. They had not gone far into 
 the forest when a terribe rainstorm arose, 
 and the Indian led his fair comrade into a 
 cave to escape a wetting. It was cold in the 
 cave, so he built a fire, and they both sat 
 around it to get warm. They became drowsy, 
 and fell asleep, and when Georgie awoke, she 
 was lying in the arms of Fisher Fox. 
 
 Srange to relate, she made no effort to 
 break away, and the wily Indian seeing this, 
 held her tighter and tighter. It was a more 
 blissful embrace than she had ever felt from 
 her husband or from any of the boys she had 
 known before her marriage, and there in the 
 cave she momentarily imagined that her cop-
 
 140 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 per-colored lover was the handsomest and 
 noblest man she had ever seen. 
 
 Love making and time do not run on the 
 same schedule, so when the fire had burned 
 so low that the cave became deadly cold, 
 Fisher Fox had to gently lay her aside, to 
 throw on some more wood. Georgie smoothed 
 out her hair and brushed her skirts, and went 
 to the opening of the cavern to see how the 
 storm progressed. When she got there she 
 screamed loudly, for two reasons, it was pitch 
 dark outside, and a monster black bear, the 
 rightful tenant of the cave, was standing 
 looking at her quizzically. Fisher Fox rushed 
 to her assistance, but the bear, scenting dan- 
 ger, lounged off into the underbrush, where 
 he kept still. 
 
 When Georgie saw the Indian she sobbed 
 in mingled French and Seneca, of which In- 
 dian tongue she now knew a few dozen 
 words: "You told me I would be in camp by 
 sunset, now it may be day after tomorrow. 
 Heaven alone knows how long we have been 
 in this cave!" The Indian smiled at her, 
 confessed that he had never been so happy
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 141 
 
 before in his life. This remark sealed the 
 French girl's fate. She elected to remain 
 with Fisher Fox. 
 
 She told him that her husband had an aw- 
 ful temper, was always beating the horses 
 and oxen, had knocked down her father, a 
 man seventy years old, and she feared if she 
 went back he would handle her roughly. The 
 fire was again blazing brilliantly, so the clan- 
 destine lovers returned to it, and remained 
 another indistinguishable period. 
 
 By this time the rain had ceased, and the 
 sky was clear, so they started in the direc- 
 tion of the main camp of Chief Wolf's Path- 
 way, at the base of the North mountain. They 
 expected a friendly greeting at least, but the 
 great warrior flew into a passion when he 
 saw his artist appear with the attractive 
 French girl. He did not mind the girl so 
 much as the fact that Fisher Fox had 
 left the grand painting unfinished, and under 
 circumstances which looked as if it never 
 could be completed. He vented his anger by 
 ordering the couple out of camp, and sent 
 two giant braves to escort them to the river
 
 142 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 and provide them with a canoe to go down 
 stream. 
 
 There was no use of Fisher Fox protesting 
 that the settlers living on the shores would 
 shoot him if they saw him paddling down 
 stream with a white girl, it was a case of run 
 the risk, or die instantly. Where the "Sha- 
 mokin Dam" was built many years later, the 
 canoe was in readiness, and Fisher Fox and 
 his pretty sweetheart, with enough provi- 
 sions for ten days, were put in it and shoved 
 into midstream. All went well and no one 
 noticed them until they were below the pres- 
 ent town of Liverpool. Another terrific 
 storm arose and the frail canoe was tossed 
 about like a chip. 
 
 Fisher Fox was a careful steersman, but 
 was no match for the revolving currents. 
 Sometimes they drifted near to shore, other 
 times they barely grazed the jagged rocks in 
 the centre of the river. Georgie was thor- 
 oughly alarmed and kept praying, but no one 
 in peril ever took an escapade more coolly 
 than the curious visaged Red Man. Once 
 when they were drifting towards shore the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 143 
 
 canoe was swept under the overhanging 
 branch of an enormous elm tree, which hung 
 far out over the water. 
 
 Quick as lightning Fisher Fox grabbed it 
 with both arms, and swung himself up on it, 
 as the canoe swept underneath. It did not 
 take Georgie long to note the cowardy act, 
 and to realize she had been deserted in the 
 "big river" in a tiny boat. She tried to grab 
 at the branch, but was not quick enough, and 
 was soon out of its reach. Fisher Fox called 
 to her, with that treacherous voice, so notice- 
 able in Indians. "What a foolish looking pic- 
 ture you make, all alone in that canoe, aren't 
 you ashamed of yourself?" Then he ran along 
 the branch, "shinned" down the massive 
 trunk, and disappeared up the bank. 
 
 The canoe, with its hapless occupant now 
 drifted to the centre of the stream, towards 
 where two mammoth stones raised their 
 swarthy heads. There is a narrow channel 
 between, not wide enough for a boat to pass. 
 "If I strike one of those rocks I am lost; if 
 we head in between, I'm saved," shouted the 
 poor girl in a frenzy. Fortune was with her,
 
 144 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 and the diminutive craft headed straight for 
 the narrow opening and stuck fast. Georgie 
 had a hard task to climb up one of the slip- 
 pery rocks, but she succeeded. There she 
 seated herself, utterly exhausted. 
 
 She wanted to lie down, but was afraid that 
 she would fall asleep and roll into the angry 
 river. It was very painful to keep awake all 
 night, but the next morning the sun came 
 out, and there was a brisk wind from the 
 northwest, the "Keewaydin" as the Indian 
 called it. Two Germans, armed with guns, 
 were strolling along the shore watching for 
 birds that might have drifted in with the 
 storm. One of them spied Georgie sitting 
 on the rock so glum and disconsolate. 
 
 "Oh, Balzer," he shouted, "dere's a giant 
 sea bird, watch me shoot it." But Balzer 
 had keener eyes than Johann. "Dot's no sea 
 bird, dot's a woman !" Balzer looked again, 
 his friend was correct, and with the imper- 
 turbability of their race, they walked leis- 
 urely for two miles to where their dugout had 
 been "beached" and pushed up stream and 
 rescued the grateful castaway.
 
 VINDICATION OF FREDERICK STUMP 
 
 NOTICED in one of your 
 'Mountain Stories,' " said 
 old Aaron Swartwout/'that 
 you speak of Frederick 
 Stump as 'a hardened 
 wretch,' and accuse him of 
 the cowardly murder of 
 many Indians. In the first 
 place he was my ancestor, 
 and I would naturally stand up for his mem- 
 ory, but apart from that he has been slan- 
 dered in every history of Pennsylvania, and 
 needs a defender. Instead of being a mur- 
 derer he was a peaceful settler, although after 
 he had punished some Indians for fiendish 
 conduct, he was much persecuted by them, 
 and by many of the whites, to whom the 
 crafty Red Men had persistently misrepre- 
 sented him. 
 
 "Stump, in early life, was a great admirer 
 of Indians, but almost from the outset he 
 
 145
 
 146 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 became embroiled with them, and their 
 hatred of him was as intense, as his former 
 love had been strong. He cleared a fine farm 
 in the Middle Creek Valley, and was develop- 
 ing into a personage of some political im- 
 portance when his final trouble with the Red 
 Men took place. True enough, he had al- 
 ready been in a dozen skirmishes with In- 
 dians, and had had his thumb bitten off in a 
 hand to hand conflict near Fort Augusta, but 
 in the Middle Creek Valley he lived for five 
 years without having a word with any of the 
 tribesmen. 
 
 "He had a favorite nephew, Balzer Min- 
 nich, who, though a rough-looking individ- 
 ual, brutal and illiterate, had obtained a beau- 
 ful wife in the person of Georgie Dupre, a 
 woman well-known in Colonial history. He 
 had saved her life from drowning, and out 
 of gratitude or perversity, she went to live 
 with him. She had another husband, but 
 he had disappeared while hunting for her 
 after she had eloped with an Indian named 
 Fisher Fox. She was amazingly beautiful, 
 clever, and full of life, and her child by Min-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 147 
 
 nich was considered the handsomest infant 
 'in the five counties.' 
 
 "Stump gave them three hundred acres of 
 land by the creek, some five miles from his 
 own home, and in a wild locality. Minnich 
 worked hard to clear it, and had built a com- 
 fortable homestead. Some of the fields were 
 on the other side of the hill from the house, 
 and he would go out in the morning to work 
 in them, leaving his wife and child alone. 
 Georgie was an expert shot, and one night 
 when an eleven foot panther got on the roof, 
 she opened the door and shot it between the 
 eyes as it attempted to jump down on her. 
 She had a coat made out of its hide, with the 
 part from the skull as a cap, and it was a be- 
 coming outfit, the yellow tawney skin show- 
 ing off to advantage her jetty black hair, 
 laughing hazel eyes, and clear complexion. 
 
 "She was literally afraid of nothing and 
 her horsemanship was proverbial. She had 
 ridden the winner of a race from Swinefords- 
 town to Selinsgrove, a distance of ten miles, 
 through the woods, over logs and creeks, al-
 
 148 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 though after the finish, Otetiani, her pony, 
 dropped dead. 
 
 "One October afternoon, while her hus- 
 band was away and she was shooting wild 
 pigeons as they alighted on the tops of the 
 original pines which stood across the creek, 
 she thought she saw an elk moving among 
 the laurels. She aimed as carefully as pos- 
 sible, and fired, but a human cry of terror 
 made her realize that she had been uninten- 
 tionally gunning for a man. The next minute 
 a squatty figure in Quaker costume appeared 
 on the bank, and, the water being low, waded 
 over to where she stood. He had kept his 
 face to the ground, but when he looked up 
 she saw it was none other than her old lover, 
 Fisher Fox. He had abandoned her in a 
 canoe in a flood in the 'big river,' so she was 
 angry enough to kill him on the spot, but 
 he threw up his hands and plead for mercy, 
 when she made a move to shoot. 
 
 " 'Please forgive me,' he cried, 'I am in 
 fresh and terrible trouble. I accidentally 
 killed a respectable Quaker gentleman and 
 am escaping from Harris' Ferry in his
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 149 
 
 clothes. I came here by accident only, I as- 
 sure you, and if you will spare me and not 
 tell any white men, I will go my way and 
 never return.' Woman like she dropped her 
 threatening attitude, and the Indian moved 
 by the cabin, which he peered into, and, per- 
 ceiving the infant in the cradle, passed into 
 the wood beyond, without another word. 
 
 "To see that he meant no mischief Georgie 
 followed him a few minutes later, but she 
 could detect by his footprints that he had 
 gone straight ahead. Not caring to dig up 
 the past with her husband, she kept mum 
 on her disagreeable visitant, and the next 
 day Balzer went as usual to his clearing job 
 across the hill. 
 
 "A month passed uneventfully and the in- 
 cident was forgotten. Frederick Stump had 
 become very fond of the child, who had been 
 named for him, so one sunshiny morning 
 Minnich started on horseback to take the 
 little chap to spend the day with him. 
 Georgie, surrounded by her dogs and guns, 
 remained at home, as she had often done be- 
 fore. Late in the afternoon she decided to
 
 150 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 take a rest, and bolting the door, stretched 
 herself face downward, as was her custom, 
 on a bench, and was soon asleep. 
 
 "The crack of a gun awoke her, and she 
 turned around, and peered out through the 
 window, only to see her favorite hound drag- 
 ging himself towards her with blood flowing 
 out of his mouth. Before he reached her 
 another shot resounded, followed by the pite- 
 ous yelping of her other dog. She knew the 
 Indians were after her, so she jumped from 
 the bunk and trained her musket for the ap- 
 proach of her enemies. The wounded dog 
 was crouching outside, but was too weak to 
 bark. 
 
 "In about five minutes she heard noises at 
 the back of the cabin, first there were foot- 
 falls, then a crackling and sputtering, which 
 told her the cowardly Red Men were setting 
 it on fire, in order to 'smoke' her out. She 
 vowed then and there to die in the ruins 
 rather than give up, but she hoped to have 
 a shot at her tormentors before all was ended. 
 The flames soon began to eat a hole in the 
 stout wall, but she never budged. This ex-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 151 
 
 asperated the Indians, and one appeared 
 around the corner and started to look in the 
 window. Georgie caught him where she 
 had hit the panther, and death was instan- 
 taneous. His fate showed the others that 
 she was not coming out, so they resolved to 
 'storm the castle.' 
 
 "Protecting themselves with slabs from 
 the woodpile, they 'rushed' the door, which 
 though ribbed with iron bands had to give 
 way to the combined strength of four sturdy 
 savages. As it fell in Georgie fired, but 
 without effect, and the crowd overwhelmed 
 her. She fought like a tigress, but they 
 wrenched her gun and knife away and in the 
 struggle all her clothes was torn off. The 
 biggest Indian choked her until she was black 
 in the face, and then slipped a gag in her 
 mouth. 
 
 "After she was thus subdued, the big fel- 
 low rushed her out of doors, but none too 
 soon, for a final gust of flame engulfed the 
 whole cabin and it was soon in ashes. Out- 
 side he whistled loudly, while he was binding 
 her arms securely. Georgie recovered her
 
 152 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 senses gradually and her first impression was 
 the horrible one of seeing Fisher Fox still 
 clad in his Quaker habilaments, appearing 
 from the woods where she had first heard 
 the gun shot. She was so incensed, she al- 
 most burst the gag in her mouth, and strug- 
 gled with her pinioned arms until the ropes 
 ate into the flesh. 
 
 "It was no use, she was only a captive, 
 bound and without clothing. When Fisher 
 Fox came near he began to laugh in his high, 
 falsetto voice, and put his arms around the 
 helpless woman and began kissing her. Then 
 he said, 'Come along, dear, we will be always 
 together from now on.' She would not stir, 
 so the other Indians grabbed her shoulders 
 and dragged her forward. She let herself 
 fall again and again, rather than move an 
 inch, so they picked her up and carried her 
 through the forest, taking turns. They must 
 have gone about five miles up the creek, when 
 Fisher Fox said they would pitch camp for 
 the night. 
 
 "It was a foolish thing to do, but some of 
 the other Indians had been getting tired and
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 153 
 
 cold and grumbled loudly. As his authority 
 over them was not very pronounced, it was 
 hard to do otherwise. Georgie was uncon- 
 scious from cold by this time, so a big fire was 
 kindled, and she was laid by it to thaw out. 
 When she opened her eyes, Fisher Fox was 
 by her side, and began asking her if she 
 would love him again. She shook her head 
 violently, and closed her eyes, so she could not 
 look at the monster. It was no use, for he 
 shook her roughly, bawling out shrilly for 
 an answer. 
 
 "The enemies of Marshal Saxe say that he 
 persecuted Justine Favart because she would 
 not reciprocate his love, but that was not a 
 circumstance to the arrant brutality of this 
 rejected Redskin. At last he could restrain 
 himself no longer and screamed : 'If you will 
 not love me, I'll have you tied to a tree and 
 lashed until you do.' He had hardly gotten 
 these words out of his mouth when two pow- 
 erful, bearded figures emerged from the 
 laurels. They were Balzer Minnich and 
 Frederick Stump.
 
 154 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "The latter had returned to spend a few 
 days at the Minnich home. Finding the 
 house in ashes, the dead Indian and signs of 
 a struggle, they tracked the party through 
 the snow, leaving the baby tied in a basket 
 on the back of one of the faithful horses, and 
 guarded by one of Stump's giant bear hounds. 
 Minnich rushed forward with an oath and 
 grabbed Fisher Fox by the throat. When he 
 downed him he began to carve him into rib- 
 bons with his hunting knife. 
 
 "Stump was on the other three Indians, 
 who were thoroughly frightened, and 
 knocked them senseless, one by one, with the 
 butt of his musket. Then he cut their throats 
 and piled them in a heap. The Indian women 
 who were encamped nearby, cut their own 
 throats and one butchered her child so 
 as not to fall into the hands of the whites. 
 Minnich left Fisher Fox to slowly bleed to 
 death and covered Georgie with his coat. She 
 again became unconscious, and he left her 
 by the fire, while with Stump he surveyed the 
 bloody job. 'We must get rid of these bodies,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 155 
 
 or the sight of them will kill the girl/ said 
 Stump. 
 
 "Minnich stamped on Fisher Fox's dying 
 face until it became a jelly, and then joined 
 his uncle in carrying the corpses to the bank 
 of the creek. There they knocked a great 
 round hole in the ice, and threw the bodies 
 down it, as if into a sewer. 
 
 "By this time Georgie had recovered again, 
 and was refreshed to see no signs of the re- 
 cent tragedy. With Minnich carrying her, 
 they started in the direction of the burnt 
 cabin. On the edge of the clearing they came 
 to where they had left the baby, finding him 
 asleep and safe. 
 
 "Georgie felt so happy after her adven- 
 ture, that she leaped on one horse with the 
 child, while Minnich and Stump mounted the 
 other. It was now nearly daybreak, and in a 
 couple of hours they were landed in front of 
 Stump's big log mansion. 
 
 "All the neighbors were informed of the 
 burning of Minnich's cabin and the attempted 
 abduction of his wife, and heartily approved
 
 156 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 of the summary disposal of the dastardly 
 Indians. 
 
 "But the affair was not to end so pleas- 
 antly. Early in February there was a heavy 
 snowfall and grand sleighing. Minnich and 
 Georgie, with their child, took advantage of 
 it to return to Berks county, where her 
 father, Jacob De La Planche, had a planta- 
 tion at the foot of the Blue mountains. It 
 was fortunate they did, for the breaking up 
 of the ice in Middle Creek brought ten grue- 
 some, mutilated corpses into the Susquehanna 
 below Selinsgrove. The local authorities, 
 wishing to please the Indians, determined to 
 make an example of the 'murderers.' 
 
 "Frederick Stump was accused, and to 
 shield Georgie and her family from further 
 trouble, took all the blame on himself. He 
 was thrown into prison, but a determined 
 mob of sympathizers broke down the jail, 
 and he was carried away on their shoulders 
 in triumph. Feeling was so strong that he 
 was not re-arrested, but he left the Middle 
 Creek Valley and moved into Franklin
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 157 
 
 county, later being joined by Georgie, her 
 husband and son. 
 
 "But a stain was put on his name that grew 
 deeper with the years. After his death it 
 exceeded all bounds, and persons who waxed 
 sentimental over the wrongs of the Red Men 
 used him as a 'horrible example.' 
 
 "It is as hard to change history as the 
 course of a river, so many worthy men are 
 eternally damned by it. While Frederick 
 Stump had his faults, he was not a cold- 
 blooded murderer, even of Indians ; he merely 
 checked a cruel plot againt a defenseless 
 woman, and set an example to all other Red 
 Men, similarly inclined." 
 
 I told old Aaron Swartwout I would be 
 glad to make use of this story some day, even 
 though I knew that history would not be 
 changed a jot by it. It was a satisfaction to 
 hear this story, and have a prejudice re- 
 moved, for, like many students of Central 
 Pennsylvania history, I had always regarded 
 Frederick Stump as a monster of inhumanity. 
 Even in his remote day it was probably true 
 that "a good Indian is a dead Indian."
 
 XI. 
 
 THE CROSS ON THE ROCK 
 
 AVE you ever seen the cross 
 on the rock?" said the old 
 half-breed. I had several 
 hours of a wait before me 
 at Keating station for the 
 afternoon train, east bound, 
 and the acquaintance with 
 this aged native had prom- 
 ised to pass the time very 
 pleasantly. I had never even heard of this 
 "natural wonder," so I asked where it was, 
 and if we had time to go and look at it. 
 
 "I begged the contractors, when they were 
 building the railroad not to destroy it, and 
 they let it be, but I call its preservation a 
 miracle," he added. "Yes, we can go and 
 see it, it is not far up the creek." So I left 
 the party of trainmen who were sitting on the 
 platform of the freight house whittling the 
 planking with their sharp case knives, and 
 accompanied the Indian along the newly- 
 
 158
 
 THE CROSS ON THE ROCK
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 159 
 
 graded railroad which follows the West 
 Branch in the direction of Clearfield. 
 
 It was not a long walk, and I felt amply 
 rewarded for the effort. The rock, high and 
 massive, rises from the right-of-way, and on 
 its side is a perfectly proportioned cross, cut 
 deep into the strata. "Who could have done 
 that?" I inquired. "The early French pion- 
 eers, or rather one French missionary, a 
 priest, did it," said the half-breed. "He 
 tried to convert the Indians hereabouts 
 to Christianity, over two hundred years 
 ago. He had striven for weeks to con- 
 vert them, but they were a wilful and 
 superstitious lot, and defied him until he 
 carved that cross. Then a catastrophe oc- 
 curred, in which the missionary and most of 
 the natives lost their lives, at least that's 
 what I've heard from the very old people. 
 The early inhabitants of this point, where 
 the West Branch and the Sinnemahoning 
 come together, were an independent tribe; 
 they claimed allegiance to none of the sur- 
 rounding Indians, and by victorious wars 
 proved their right to self government. They
 
 160 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 were lighter colored than Indians generally, 
 and some of them had grey or bluish eyes. 
 
 "They claimed descent from European 
 sailors who had come to the American conti- 
 nent a thousand years ago. In this they 
 were probably incorrect, as their religion had 
 nothing in it that savored of the old world 
 beliefs ancient or modern. They had a 
 multitude of divinities and were always add- 
 ing new ones to the list; also discarding 
 older ones who failed to answer their pray- 
 ers. A religious revival had taken place 
 among them shortly before the coming of 
 the French missionary. 
 
 "Several of the leading warriors while on 
 their way to a buffalo hunt on what we now 
 call the 'barrens' saw to their amazement a 
 most beautiful young woman, wading in the 
 river at the mouth of Trout Run. She wore 
 a flowing cloak made from the spotty hides 
 of fawns and trimmed with gauzy draperies 
 as fine as spider webs. The morning sun 
 shining on her hair, gave out a glint of rich 
 gold, and the same tint was very noticeable 
 in the lustrous dark eyes. The Indians for-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 161 
 
 got the chase and started to follow her, but 
 she always kept far enough ahead so that 
 they could not catch up to her. Her way 
 led up the run, and every now and then when 
 she passed through an opening made by a 
 windfall, the sun would gild and glisten on 
 her beautiful hair and eyes. As one man, 
 they called her 'Golden Glow,' and, completely 
 fascinated, followed her to the creek's head- 
 waters. There she disappeared, but they 
 found themselves in the midst of the largest 
 herd of buffaloes they had ever seen. There 
 were thousands of the animals bellowing and 
 running about among the tall trees. Inter- 
 spersed with them were considerable num- 
 bers of moose and elks, while deer were too 
 plentiful to be worth noticing. 
 
 "Every Indian in the party had been to 
 this hunting ground previously, but never 
 had game shown itself there in such abund- 
 ance. The brutes seemed anxious to be 
 slaughtered, so the hunters turned in and 
 killed them by the hundreds. They were 
 weeks in gathering together the hides and 
 drying the choicest meats, and built heavy
 
 162 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 sleds to draw them down the mountain 
 at the next snowfall. Before they departed 
 there was an unusually early snow, and they 
 got all their sleds into the valley without an 
 accident. 
 
 "When they met their tribesmen they 
 started to tell of their wonderful fortune, but . 
 their friends were so anxious to tell of the 
 strangely beautiful maiden they had seen in 
 the river and how the fishing and hunting 
 had been better than they had ever heard of it 
 that they refused to listen. To emphasize 
 the good fortune, a tribe of Indians who had 
 been at warfare with them for some years, 
 came and voluntarily surrendered, giving 
 themselves into servitude. 
 
 "Before anything of a favorable nature 
 would occur 'Golden Glow' was always seen 
 in the river or on a steep hillside, or resting 
 under a beech tree near the council house. 
 She never answered when they spoke to her ; 
 she disdained gifts they offered her, and no 
 one could get within a hundred yards of 
 where she stood. The older gods having 
 been far less generous, were discarded root
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 163 
 
 and branch, and the worship of 'Golden Glow' 
 substituted. 
 
 "She was so beautiful that all the young 
 braves aspired to the priesthood, a calling 
 that had in the old days been decidedly un- 
 popular. The handsomest braves, after much 
 rivalry, were selected, and practiced their 
 rites with dignity and reverence, but the 
 mysterious divinity did not deign to notice 
 any of them, although she often appeared to 
 them when at prayer or chanting hymns in 
 her praise. 
 
 "She was the most accommodating divinity 
 imaginable, for she always seemed to answer 
 their supplications, and could be actually 
 seen, even if her face did not betray any 
 emotions at the homage paid her. 
 
 When Father Ernest Laborde appeared at 
 the confluence of the two rivers he met with 
 the first serious obstacle that had confronted 
 him in a career of over ten years in the wild- 
 erness. 
 
 "Here was a tribe of Indians entirely sat- 
 isfied with their religion, having a tangible 
 divinity who was beautiful to look at, and
 
 164 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 who invariably favored their supplications. 
 Of course he disbelieved that anyone had 
 ever really seen her, for he had prayed as 
 fervently as any, and knew others even more 
 devout, yet none had ever heard so much as 
 the rustle of an angel's wing. Gently, though 
 firmly, he tried to persuade the Redskins that 
 they only saw their divinity with eyes of 
 faith, that not being material they had never 
 actually seen her, in the sense that we see a 
 rock, a tree, or a bird. 
 
 "Every member of the community, old 
 enough to reason had seen her, and no 
 amount of argument could convince them 
 otherwise. If this Christian faith possessed 
 divinities that would come and live in their 
 midst and grant such bountiful favors, they 
 might listen, but let Father Laborde first ad- 
 duce some of his proofs. The good priest 
 had brought a delicately carved cross of rose- 
 wood, and one calm evening, feeling so dis- 
 couraged, that he was on the point of leaving, 
 he built a stout foundation of stones and 
 mud and set the cross on it. He was only 
 thirty yars of age, well proportioned and at-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 165 
 
 tractive looking, and failure rested heavily 
 on his impetuous soul. 
 
 "From a worldly standpoint the conver- 
 sion of these masterful Indians at the 'meet- 
 ing of the waters' meant much to him. If 
 they were converted the French trading com- 
 pany had planned to erect a formidable block- 
 house in the neighborhood, and he had been 
 promised the largest parsonage in New 
 France if he succeeded. While meditating 
 before the cross, his mind wandered to the 
 beauties of nature around him. The river 
 ripuJed at his feet, gilded here and there by 
 the glint of the dying sun as its slanting rays 
 poured through the vistas of tall pines, hem- 
 locks and beeches. All manner of wild flow- 
 ers were in profusion, and even a few frail 
 blossoms like women's eyes lingered 
 among the shining leaves of the laurels. The 
 moss was like a velvet carpet under his feet, 
 the sky was like a fresco at Versailles. 
 
 "Occasionally he heard the rattle-like cries 
 of the kingfishers or halcyons as they darted 
 close to the water, or the somnolent croaks 
 of the ravens flapping lazily back to roost
 
 166 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 high up in the mountains. His eyes finally 
 rested on a pool of dead water, where night 
 herons were congregated in unusual numbers. 
 
 "From the way they flapped their striped 
 wings and opened and shut their large beaks, 
 he felt something was to happen. He forgot 
 all about his task, so intently was he watch- 
 ing the comic antics of the birds. He felt a 
 breath blow in his face and as he looked 
 around his cross tumbled out of its founda- 
 tion, and lay broken on the rocks. Back of 
 him stood the slender figure of a young girl, 
 clad in a flowing gown made from the hide of 
 a fawn, with the golden rays of the dying sun 
 gilding into rich tints her lustrous hair and 
 thoughtful eyes. For an instant he pre- 
 sumed her to be one of the Indian girls, but 
 from her attire and queenly grace his heart 
 told him she was the river divinity 'Golden 
 Glow,' who had brought such blessings to the 
 savage community where the waters joined. 
 
 "Their eyes met, they both smiled, it 
 seemed as if they had surely been acquainted 
 before. He would have spoken, but she 
 walked by him and the great flock of herons
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 167 
 
 hopped up and surrounded her. With her 
 feathered companions she disappeared among 
 the laurels back of the pool. When she was 
 gone he looked at the fallen cross, it was 
 broken into twenty-four pieces, and was be- 
 yond repair. It was growing dark, so he 
 returned to his tent, where his sleep was 
 filled with dreams of the divine 'Golden 
 Glow.' 
 
 "In the morning he cut several ironwood 
 poles and fashioned a new cross much 
 stronger than the delicate piece of rosewood 
 that had been so easily shattered. That after- 
 noon he put it in place where the other had 
 stood. Nature was just as entrancing as 
 the day before, and despite himself he fell to 
 admiring the wonders about him. A troop of 
 deer, many of them with half -grown fawns, 
 were splashing idly on the edges of the pool. 
 He felt a breath, like a zephyr blown across 
 meadows from cool woodlands, he looked 
 around, the ironwood cross fell to the ground, 
 and was hopelessly smashed. 
 
 "The beautiful young girl was standing 
 pensively by the stream ; their eyes met, they
 
 168 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 smiled as if in recognition of old acquaint- 
 ance; she moved on and was surrounded by 
 the deer and passed into the forest with 
 them. He looked at his cross, it was broken 
 into twenty-five pieces; this sturdy iron wood 
 was as shaky as rosewood. That night he 
 dreamed even more of the river goddess, but 
 in the morning he took two gun barrels and 
 welded a cross that he was sure would last. 
 
 "Towards evening he planted it in an extra 
 strong foundation, and fell to meditating be- 
 fore it. His eyes wandered to the edge of 
 the pool where a long, tawney panther, was 
 stretching itself and yawning. He was not 
 afraid of anything, and the sight at close 
 range of this titanic beast fascinated him. 
 Soon a second panther, larger than the first, 
 peered through the laurels, and cat-like be- 
 gan to lap up water in the pool. 
 
 "In a few minutes he heard a slight 
 scratching and cracking of dead branches, 
 and a third panther crawled down from one 
 of the tallest white pines. A fourth, the larg- 
 est of all, rose up from behind a rotten log 
 along the bank, and before long the number
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 169 
 
 of this savage coterie had grown to twelve. 
 Later six cubs joined them, and frisked in the 
 presence of their sedate elders. He felt the 
 same sweet breath blown beside his face, the 
 cross toppled over and lay broken into dozens 
 of pieces on the sharp rocks. His eyes rested 
 on the mysterious divinity. She looked more 
 beautiful this evening than previously, if 
 such a thing were possible. Their glances 
 were followed by smiles and, to his amaze- 
 ment, he saw her lips move, and she spoke to 
 him in the Indian tongue : 'My religion is liv- 
 ing and real; come, leave those crosses and 
 follow me into the forest.' 
 
 "He started to follow her, and was within 
 a few steps of where she stood encircled by 
 the panther families, when the force of old 
 traditions, old customs, old beliefs, overcame 
 him. He stopped short, and the beautiful 
 divinity 'Golden Glow,' with her strange es- 
 cort, was gone in the gloom of the forest. He 
 returned to his tent, and all night the ques- 
 tion agitated him, should he go with her, that 
 is if she ever appeared to him again, should
 
 170 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 he give up the beliefs of his fathers and adopt 
 this apparently potent faith. 
 
 "Then he would weaken and think of his 
 brothers and sisters at home, their respect- 
 able name, the rewards that his nation 
 promised if he Christianized unwilling sav- 
 ages. He saw himself an archbishop, the 
 friend of kings, in a marble palace; his as- 
 cetic training had neutralized the value of 
 merely a beautiful companion in the wilder- 
 ness. As the dawn filtered in through the 
 crevices in the tent, a new idea seized him. 
 He would cut a cross in the rock which the 
 mystic goddess could not blow over, and 
 struck by the impregnable strength of his 
 faith, he would convert her, and maybe she 
 would be the greatest woman in Catholicism 
 since St. Genevieve. 
 
 "With a hammer and spike he repaired to 
 the quiet nook where his crosses had been, 
 and in the huge rock which rose above the 
 bank he chiseled a cross of noticeable size. 
 Then he fell to meditating, as was his wont. 
 On the opposite side of the pool a solitary 
 wolverene was lying on the rotting log; he
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 171 
 
 could not help watching it, with its wide- 
 open, unwinking eyes, so crafty and yet so 
 still. He felt a breath of indescribable sweet- 
 ness blow past his face, the cross on the rock 
 remained inviolate. 
 
 "He thought he heard a sigh like a breeze 
 among birch leaves ; he looked, and the divin- 
 ity, 'Golden Glow' stood beside him. He felt 
 her blow her breath again. He fancied he 
 saw tears in her eyes, which grew larger and 
 larger. They assumed the proportions of a 
 vapor, snd soon she was lost to sight in a 
 white fog which filled the entire vicinity. He 
 called to her, but not even an echo answered. 
 
 "With difficulty he started to find his way 
 back to his camp, but the air became so thick 
 that it seemed as if the forests were on fire. 
 True enough, they were, for great tongues 
 of red and purple flames shot out of the tim- 
 ber on both sides of the river. He heard a 
 snarling at his feet, and dimly made out the 
 form of the solitary wolverene. When he 
 reached his tent the flames had surrounded 
 the whole Indian encampment, and the terri- 
 fied Red Men, with their families, were
 
 172 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 crowding into canoes and starting down the 
 stream. 
 
 "His first thought was self-preservation, 
 but as he started to get in his boat, the wolv- 
 erene sprang at him viciously. Unarmed, he 
 tried to tear the animal off with his powerful 
 hands, but he was losing time, while the 
 flames were drawing closer. As he finally 
 shook loose from his tormentor, a horrible 
 form rushed at him from the blazing under- 
 brush. It was Wheel of Rivers, titular chief 
 of the local Indians. His naturally calm face 
 was contorted with passion and hate. 
 
 " 'You with your new religion, have de- 
 stroyed the river goddess. We know you 
 have, for we never had a forest fire while 
 she was with us ;' with that he struck Father 
 Laborde to earth with his war club, and 
 leaped into the empty canoe. The flames 
 were now darting across the river, and it was 
 too late to escape. Wheel of Rivers drifted 
 stoically into the fiery curtain and was never 
 seen again. Most of his tribe met similar 
 fates, but a few who got away earlier, floated 
 down the river to places of safety.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 173 
 
 "But the young priest's mission had been 
 accomplished in a way; when the French 
 built their fort at Grande Point, some years 
 later, their most dangerous foes were no 
 more, but thousands of acres of burned waste 
 showed the area of their domain. The cross 
 on the rocks, blackened a little by the fierce 
 flames, remained inviolate, a symbol of the 
 faith and people who were soon to make the 
 region a white man's stronghold. The river 
 goddess never reappeared, her fair soul had 
 faded into nothingness with the disappoint- 
 ment of her fiery baptism.
 
 XII. 
 THE FATE OF GEORGIE DUPRE 
 
 HE Bald Eagle Mountain be- 
 low Pine Station, Clinton 
 county, is high and steep, 
 and one would imagine that 
 on reaching the summit a 
 similar declivity would be 
 met with on the other side. 
 But it only slopes down for 
 a comparatively short dis- 
 tance until it broadens out into a stretch of 
 flat upland, which in turn gradually rises into 
 another mountain almost as high as the Bald 
 Eagle. This "bowl" between the two ridges 
 is called the "Little Valley," because it is so 
 much smaller than the valley of the Susque- 
 hanna, or even Nippenose Valley. But it is 
 more of a plateau than a valley, although the 
 early settlers who named it preferred titles 
 to be simple, rather than geographically cor- 
 rect. 
 
 174
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 175 
 
 Despite its isolated position, settlement of 
 the Little Valley was made almost as early 
 as the West Branch, the first houses having 
 been constructed probably in 1769. The 
 pioneers were Balzer Minnich and his wife, 
 formerly Georgie Dupre. She had been previ- 
 ously married to one Bernon Dupre, who dis- 
 appeared eight years before in the forests 
 near Picture Rocks. In the interval she had 
 been in many adventures with the Indians, 
 which she seemed to enjoy, as she urged her 
 husband to leave a fine farm in what is now 
 Franklin county, to try frontier life again in 
 Central Pennsylvania. 
 
 They left their seven-year-old son with 
 Minnich's uncle, the celebrated Frederick 
 Stump. Besides the Minnichs, the other 
 settlers in the Little Valley were Leopold and 
 Gaspard Huyett, two young men from Berks 
 county, and cousins to the adventurous 
 Georgie. Minnich had objected to return- 
 ing to the wilderness, but he was a dull Ger- 
 man, and was so devoted to his attractive 
 wife, that he finally consented.
 
 176 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 When the party reached the Little Valley 
 they were agreeably surprised; the water 
 was good, the soil rich, a particularly fine 
 quality of yellow pine suitable for building 
 abounded; it was used in the construction 
 of gun-boats in the Civil War nearly a hun- 
 dred years later. It was the watering place 
 for herds of elk, deer and buffaloes, which 
 had been driven from their former winter 
 quarters in the other valleys, by the advent 
 of so many white settlers. There was an- 
 other reason why they liked the Little Valley. 
 The Indians had made it an "open ground," 
 that is to say, the tribes in Sugar and Nippe- 
 nose Valleys agreed to only approach its 
 southern, and the West Branch Indians re- 
 solved to come only to its northern limits, 
 as the result of a great peace treaty between 
 the warring tribes 15 years before. 
 
 Both factions agreed on instant death to 
 any Red Man found crossing the "dead lines." 
 White Men might have boundaries of imagin- 
 ary width, but the Indians required them a 
 mile wide, so that no one could be tempted to 
 renew hostilities by shooting at his old-time
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 177 
 
 enemies across an invisible demarkation. All 
 went happily with the four settlers, and by 
 September of the year of their arrival had 
 made a respectable sized clearing. The two 
 houses were set on solid foundations, as Leo- 
 pold Huyett was a stone mason by trade. 
 They killed enough elk and buffaloes to have 
 kept them supplied with dried meat for 
 years, and sold several hundred buffalo hides 
 to a Scotch-Irish trader established near the 
 present site of Jersey Shore. 
 
 Provided with money and all the necessi- 
 ties of life, they looked forward to a winter 
 of ease. The Huyett brothers contemplated 
 a trip to Berks county in search of French 
 wives, for these Huguenots were very clan- 
 nish, and seldom married outside their own 
 race. On one of those sultry, overcast after- 
 noons so characteristic of the early part of 
 September, the Minnichs and Huyetts were 
 sitting on comfortable benches in front of 
 their cabins, all, including Georgie, smoking 
 their pipes. Occasionally a yellow-leaf 
 would flutter down from a birch tree, or a 
 belated scarlet butterfly flit past, but nature
 
 178 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 seemed to be in an introspective mood before 
 taking on herself the gorgeous habilaments 
 of autumn. It was like a religious person's 
 last prayer before the carnival. 
 
 Georgie's eyes happened to glance up- 
 wards in the direction of the North- 
 ern mountain, and on the summit she 
 detected something red moving about among 
 the giant pines. She leaned over to her hus- 
 band and whispered to him, and he looked in 
 the same direction. He pointed out the ob- 
 jects to the Huyetts, and then all spoke out 
 in low voices: "Those are Indians." They 
 did not wish to appear alarmed, so continued 
 lolling on the benches smoking. 
 
 Afternoon softened into dusk, and Georgie 
 laid aside her pipe and began to prepare sup- 
 per; night fell, but no sound of the Indians 
 came to their ears. Leopold Huyett was left 
 on guard at the door as a precaution, but he 
 must have fallen asleep, as the wily Indians 
 crept upon him so easily and cut his throat 
 and scalped him. They pushed in the door, 
 and were upon the three sleepers before they 
 could seize their weapons.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 179 
 
 In the darkness Minnich and Gaspard were 
 stabbed and scalped while Georgie was 
 throttled and carried off a captive. She must 
 have been almost strangled, for she did not 
 "come to" for a number of hours. When she 
 did, she saw she was being carried up a run, 
 which she recognized as the McElhattan, 
 having visited the pioneer Simeon Shaffer 
 and family who lived on its banks but a week 
 before. It was no use to cry out, as that 
 meant death, and ignorant of what really 
 occurred, she was hoping that in the excite- 
 ment her husband had made his escape. 
 
 The captors approached the high water 
 fall near the headwaters of the main run, at 
 the foot of which the Indians had cleared a 
 space of about 50 acres. A strong circular 
 stockade had been built over the top of the 
 falls, which gave the Red Men an excellent 
 view down the stream. Back of it, where 
 the ground was level they had cleared and 
 burnt off probably a hundred acres, so they 
 were well intrenched against sudden attack. 
 
 But building a stockade was a step back- 
 ward in Indian warfare ; whenever they imi-
 
 180 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 tated the white men they were defeated. It 
 was only when they fought from behind trees 
 and ambushed their foes, that they could be 
 counted as equal adversaries. 
 
 The captors, bearing Georgie, climbed up 
 a steep path at the right side of the falls, and 
 at the landing were met by Chief Ho-non- 
 wah himself. He smiled grimly when he saw 
 the pretty white girl, and pointed to a room 
 in the blockhouse where she should be placed 
 for safe keeping. One of his henchmen un- 
 barred the heavy oaken door, and Georgie 
 was borne inside and seated with her back 
 leaning against the wall. Her hands and 
 feet were tied, but she was glad to be out of 
 the clutches of the burly savages. They went 
 out, slammed and barred the door, leaving 
 her in the darkness. 
 
 After her eyes had gotten used to the 
 gloom she noticed a crack in the log wall, 
 which let in a little light. It helped her to 
 see that another bound captive was in prison 
 with her. He was a large heavy-set man, 
 but she could not judge his appearance, as
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 181 
 
 he had a ten-days' growth of beard, and his 
 eyes were closed, being fast asleep. 
 
 After an hour he woke, rubbed his eyes, 
 uttering a suppressed cry in French as he did 
 so. Her fellow-captive was none other than 
 her former husband, Bernon Dupre. Georgie 
 was equally surprised, but not agreeably. 
 She knew that Bernon had several scores to 
 settle with her, and she loved her present 
 spouse, Balzer Minnich, very much. 
 
 She pretended not to notice him, but the 
 Frenchman talked so loud that she had to 
 answer for fear of attracting the attention 
 of the Indians outside. The diminishment of 
 the streak of light in the crack in the wall 
 told the prisoners that day was waning. 
 
 When it became totally dark Bernon rolled 
 himself over close to where she sat, whisper- 
 ing to her that he intended to free himself 
 in a few minutes, and would take her along 
 if she would go with him as his wife. He 
 said he had heard long ago that she was alive 
 and happy and nothing could be better than 
 she bestow some of this happiness on him, 
 her rightful husband. Georgie shook her
 
 182 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 head, bobbing about her masses of naturally 
 curling black hair. Further than that she 
 would take no notice of him. Bernon made 
 a long entreaty, but as women are never 
 given to pitying men they hate, his eloquence 
 was wasted. 
 
 Tiring at length, the Frenchman began to 
 put into effect his plan for freedom. There 
 was a sharp stone imbedded in the ground, 
 and he laid his entire weight on it, using it as 
 a saw to cut off the leathern bands which 
 held him. It was a slow process, but in two 
 hours he was loose. He came over to Georgie 
 again, begging her to go away with him. 
 She turned her pretty head away in con- 
 tempt. The prisoner lost his temper, grabbed 
 her by the hair and slapped her face until 
 she lapsed into insensibility. Then he un- 
 tied her ropes, and stood her on her feet 
 against the wall. He moved cautiously to 
 the door, armed with the heavy rock pried 
 from the floor. 
 
 Desperate to the point of demoniac 
 strength, he threw his weight of two hun- 
 dred pounds against it, which had to give
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 183 
 
 way. As he plunged through the opening, 
 Georgie, in a semi-conscious state, toppled 
 forward and fell on her face. The French- 
 man used the rock to brain the sleepy Indian 
 sentry, and got as far as the stockade wall, 
 which he attempted to scale. With one leg 
 over, another Indian watcher shot him in the 
 back, and he fell, breaking his neck, and dy- 
 ing instantly. 
 
 A horde of furious Indians rushed to the 
 prison, finding Georgie on her knees, mutter- 
 ing to herself incoherently. Seeing that she 
 was unbound, and thinking she had only held 
 back through fear, one of them rashly struck 
 at her with his tomahawk, inflicting a horri- 
 ble gash in her breast. 
 
 In the midst of the uproar, Chief Ho-non- 
 wah, wrapped in a red blanket, pushed his 
 way to where Georgie was lying, with the 
 blood from her gaping breast soaking into 
 her thick black curls. He took her in his 
 arms, and held his hand to close the wound. 
 In her dying breath she told him she had 
 not wanted to escape, that the other prisoner
 
 184 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 had unbound her, and had tried to compel 
 her to go. 
 
 Evidently the great war chief believed 
 her, for he held her tenderly, calling her his 
 "little brave," until her naturally white face 
 grew green with death. He laid her on his 
 blanket with her dainty white hands folded, 
 and loudly called for revenge on her slayer. 
 
 The other Indians, to save their own necks, 
 indicated the rattle-headed murderer, so he 
 was seized by the giant Ho-non-wah, who 
 first cut out his tongue, and then severed his 
 windpipe. But the poor Georgie must have 
 had some regrets at dying in the arms of an 
 Indian chief, after detesting the entire race 
 for so many years.
 
 XIII. 
 BILLY ANDERSON'S GHOST 
 
 FELT considerably relieved 
 on hearing that the forest 
 fires last spring had swept 
 across the late Billy Ander- 
 son's clearing back of Mc- 
 Elhattan Mountain, and 
 completely obliterated his 
 deserted mansion, for I 
 knew that then his unquiet 
 spirit would be at rest. 
 
 "Billy Anderson's Ghost" was a familiar 
 figure at sundown, wandering about his briar 
 grown, brushy gardens, and quickening his 
 step when the sound of horses' hoofs ap- 
 proached, either from the direction of Pine 
 Station or from Sugar Valley. It would 
 stride out to the garden gate, and wait until 
 the carriage came into full view, then sigh, 
 and turn its back and walk away with un- 
 steady step until lost among the briars and 
 
 185
 
 186 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 brambles and twisted cherry trees at the far 
 side of the garden. 
 
 An impressive apparation was Billy And- 
 erson's ghost, dressed as it was in a heavy 
 black broadcloth suit, cut after the fashion 
 of 1850, wearing a wide brimmed black 
 slouch hat, and carrying a massive gold- 
 headed cane. The pale face was almost 
 hidden in the bushy growth of white beard. 
 During his long life (he was over eighty when 
 he died) old Billy was known as a well- 
 dressed man, that is from mountaineer 
 standards, and for the greater part of his 
 days he always quit work in plenty of time 
 before sundown to wash carefully and garb 
 himself in his suit of heavy black broad- 
 cloth. Then he would wander in his garden, 
 pricking up his ears at the sound of a carri- 
 age, and watching for its approach along the 
 narrow mountain road. 
 
 He never paid any attention to a prop- 
 timber wagon or paper-wood truck, his ears 
 were so attuned to the different sounds of 
 the horses' hoofs and the rumble of wheels. 
 But he was always on the lookout for sur-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 187 
 
 ries, buggies and carryalls. These crossed the 
 mountain infrequently, especially at sundown, 
 except during the camp meeting time at Pine 
 or Booneville. After his death his unsatis- 
 fied spirit displayed the same discernment in 
 vehicles, only to a still finer degree, never 
 noticing the approach of the same turnout 
 a second time. The peculiar patter of each 
 individual hoof, the rattle of each set of 
 wheels, and the squeak of each pair of 
 springs seemed indelibly printed in his 
 ghostly mind. 
 
 When he was alive, and the same rule was 
 maintained by his spirit, he never came out 
 on stormy evenings. Of course if a late 
 wind blew back the clouds after a shower 
 and disclosed the pale gold afterglow, or if a 
 single flare of cerise along the mountain top 
 betokened the last effort of the sun to assert 
 itself at the close of a lowery day, he ap- 
 peared, but on nights when there was rain, 
 or snow, or sleet, all was dark about the 
 weather-beaten mansion. 
 
 Despite the fact that it had been empty 
 for over ten years, the old house retained its
 
 188 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 signs of solidity and completeness, that made 
 it noted as the most pretentious structure on 
 the mountain when it was built, over sixty 
 years ago. It was the first house on the 
 mountain to have a central hall, discarding 
 the old custom of two separate front en- 
 trances side by side which led into the living 
 rooms which were joined by doors within. 
 
 Built of the best white pine and white oak 
 lumber, of a quality almost impossible to 
 obtain these days, it would have stood for 
 centuries had not the fire effaced it in its 
 uncheckable course. Most every stranger 
 who passed by the mansion wondered why 
 anyone would invest so much money in such 
 a lonely region. Some few called it "Ander- 
 son's Folly' at the time it was built, but its 
 impressive outlines, standing half hidden in a 
 vast orchard of old apple trees, its panoramic 
 background of evergreen-clad mountains ex- 
 cited awe rather than ridicule in those who 
 saw it. 
 
 Few were aware that it was a love story 
 which caused the construction of the house, 
 and the clearing of so much land, and the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 planting of so many hundreds of fruit trees. 
 When Billy was twenty-one he came into a 
 "fortune" of five thousand dollars left him 
 by an uncle for whom he was named. This 
 uncle had been a merchant in Philadelphia, 
 and Billy was the apple of his eye. 
 
 The young man's two older brothers were 
 not mentioned in the will, and they confided 
 to their father, a very prosperous farmer at 
 Dunnsburg, that it was discouraging to see 
 one of the family possessing more money 
 than the others. The father to appease them 
 promised to leave all his property to the older 
 boys ; to this the "heir" acquiesced, and peace 
 reigned in the family. Billy had become quite 
 a noted horseman through his ownership of 
 a colt called Sea Turtle, which had an un- 
 beaten record in Central Pennsylvania. He 
 raised the animal himself, the sire being an 
 imported English thoroughbred owned in 
 Jersey Shore, which was said to have won 
 the great Derby stakes in Epsom. 
 
 One Fourth of July there was a patriotic 
 celebration at Jersey Shore, probably accel- 
 erated by the recent victories in the war with
 
 190 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Mexico, and a championship horse race was 
 included on the program. Horses represent- 
 ing Williamsport, Sunbury, and Shamokin 
 were entered to race against the up-river 
 champion Sea Turtle. 
 
 The race was twelve miles, from the town 
 building to the "half-way house," six miles 
 distant, and return. It was "go as you 
 please," but most of the jockeys kept their 
 mounts at a trot. Sea Turtle ridden by a 
 small colored boy named Smiles won by half 
 a mile, and his right to the championship 
 was established. 
 
 Billy's family being very religious felt 
 keenly the notoriety brought on them by the 
 young man's interest in horse-racing, and 
 begged him to give it up and settle down to 
 farming like his brothers. 
 
 After many discussions he gave in and 
 bought from his father the three hundred 
 acre tract of land back of the lower mountain 
 at McElhattan. It was a wilderness in those 
 days, but Billy put up a small log cabin and 
 set to work to make it "blossom like the rose." 
 Having capital he was able to make better
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 191 
 
 Drogress than his neighbors on the moun- 
 tain, and after six years of conscientious ef- 
 fort he had a nice farm cleared and fenced, 
 hundreds of fruit trees started, commodious 
 farm buidings and a good line of live stock. 
 He had never thought much about getting 
 married, but when his family saw his pros- 
 perous looking estate, they began to urge 
 him to find himself a wife. 
 
 This was a dangerous proceeding, as it 
 often results in the staid single man marry- 
 ing an uncongenial person just to settle the 
 matter, or else his long-pent-up emotions are 
 apt to suffer to the utmost if the object of 
 his sudden adoration fails to reciprocate. 
 Early one winter, after farm work was fin- 
 ished, he yielded to an invitation from one of 
 his aunts to visit her in the Lykens Valley, 
 where she had a large farm on the banks of 
 the Wicanisco Creek. 
 
 It was a comfortable place, a square stone 
 house with a red roof, an enormous bank 
 barn, and two hundred acres of rolling mea- 
 dows, here and there interspersed with 
 groves of stately oak and walnut trees.
 
 192 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 There was good society in the neighborhood, 
 and Billy, despite the fact he was nearing 
 thirty and had seen nothing but hard work 
 for the past six years, soon began acting as 
 gay as any of the boys of twenty. Most of 
 the entertainments were in some way con- 
 nected with the churches with which the 
 valley teemed, and to the present generation 
 might seem far from exciting. 
 
 Still, to the young man from McElhattan 
 mountain, it was like a true taste of the "big 
 world." The Presbyterians were giving a 
 church supper or sociable one evening in 
 January. It took place in the Sunday school 
 room, a vast high-ceilinged, high-windowed, 
 long-shuttered apartment back of the main 
 edifice. Trestles with boards across were 
 the improvised tables, and pews had been 
 dragged in to seat the guests. Billy escorted 
 his aunt and two of his girl cousins to the 
 affair, and as they entered the lamp-lit room 
 all eyes were turned upon the young 
 stranger. 
 
 The valley was still far enough off the 
 beaten path to make the advent of anyone
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 193 
 
 from a distance a novelty, especially a per- 
 son on pleasure bent, as most visitors came 
 to trade horses, buy cattle, sell jewelry, or 
 preach a new gospel. 
 
 Billy felt embarrassed and did not lift his 
 eyes as he passed along the tables, and took 
 a vacant seat by the side of his relatives. 
 He remained silent, and downcast for several 
 minutes, until his aunt caught him by the 
 coat sleeve to remind him that one of the 
 waitresses was standing by patiently to take 
 his order for supper and whispered to him 
 that his cousins were very hungry. He 
 looked up at the pretty black-eyed waitress, 
 who recited the list of refreshments, and he 
 ordered everything like a true "lavish 
 stranger." He was about to drop his eyes 
 again, but instead glanced across the table, 
 -and his love story had begun. There sat di- 
 rectly opposite him he often thought in the 
 future how queer it was he hadn't noticed her 
 sooner a beautiful blonde girl attired in a 
 red silk dress. 
 
 Accustomed as he was to the sombre dark 
 eyes and pale faces of the girls in the moun-
 
 194 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 tains, with their dull calicos and worsteds, 
 the dazzling loveliness of this young beauty, 
 with her gray-blue eyes, rosy complexion, 
 profusion of golden hair, and that marvel- 
 lous red dress, seemed entirely different and 
 superior. He looked at her so intently his 
 aunt sought to save embarrassment by speak- 
 ing to the lovely girl, whom she seemed to 
 know well. 
 
 She introduced Billy to her, saying 
 "Bonnie, this is my nephew, Mr. William 
 Anderson from Clinton county, about whom 
 we talk so much; he is here on a visit; you 
 must help make his stay pleasant." Bonnie 
 replied that she was only too glad to do all 
 she could, and hoped that his cousins would 
 bring him over to her home soon to spend 
 an evening. The balance of the time at the 
 supper passed off famously, and the young 
 blonde and her mother, and Billy and his 
 relatives were the last to leave the table. The 
 young couple parted on the most cordial 
 terms, and Billy was all smiles the entire dis- 
 tance home.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 195 
 
 "But I forgot to ask her last name, I was 
 so excited," he said to his aunt after they had 
 gotten into the carriage. 
 
 "Why her name's Bonnie Orwig," she 
 answered; "she lives at that fine farm just 
 before you come to Elizabethville ; her father 
 is the most successful farmer in the valley; 
 her mother was a McCamant, one of the old- 
 est families in this county. She's only eigh- 
 teen years old, but she graduated last year 
 at the head of her class from the Locust Hill 
 Seminary at Chambersburg." 
 
 "And she seemed to fancy you a lot," 
 chimed in one of the cousins. 
 
 In this happy frame of mind, he always 
 called it the happiest night of life, Billy re- 
 tired. In the morning he was the first down- 
 stairs, and all day long blushed and smiled 
 whenever the name of Bonnie Orwig was 
 mentioned. 
 
 A couple of days passed before the prom- 
 ised visit to the Orwig home materialized; 
 it seemed like an age to the young man, even 
 though the anticipation kept him keyed up to 
 a high pitch of joyfulness. There was a new
 
 196 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 moon, and the air was crisp and frosty, when 
 'Billy and the girls emerged from the com- 
 fortable mansion and started in the sleigh 
 to make the call. He looked over his left 
 shoulder, and made his wish; everything 
 boded well for the future on such a clear, in- 
 vigorating night. 
 
 Bonnie was in the cheery sitting room when 
 they arrived, looking dainty and charming 
 in a white satin dress and greeted them most 
 cordially. After fifteen minutes of general 
 talk the cousins withdrew and went upstairs 
 to see Bonnie's mother, so the young lover 
 was left alone with the beautiful being. 
 
 When the girls returned, and it was time 
 to leave, things had progressed very favor- 
 ably. That Billy was in earnest was shown 
 when he refused to discuss the question 
 further than that he was "making satisfac- 
 tory progress. 
 
 At the end of three weeks the young couple 
 announced their betrothal, and both seemed 
 very much in love. Billy outlined his plans 
 for the future to his beloved, and she was 
 deeply interested in everything he told her.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 197 
 
 He would return to Clinton county, and build 
 a suitable house, modeled after her own 
 home, and when it was finished she could 
 come there with her father and see it; her 
 father, she had once said, took a trip up 
 country every June to inspect some timber- 
 land he owned in the Seven Mountains, and 
 he would travel down with them and then 
 they would be married. 
 
 All this seemed ideal, and sort of assuaged 
 his grief at the parting. When he got back 
 to the farm he set to work with redoubled 
 energy, and by the time the frost was out of 
 the ground, had in readiness all the masonry 
 for the foundation and lumber for the con- 
 struction of the new mansion. 
 
 The thought of a woman is the force that 
 arouses the best energy in man ; it makes the 
 artist create immortal paintings, the jockey 
 ride to victory, and the raftsman steer safely 
 through perilous currents. With Billy And- 
 erson it caused the construction of a garden 
 spot in a wilderness. By the first of June 
 the outside of the' house was completed, and 
 painted, some of the rooms even had been
 
 198 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 plastered. Flowers were planted in the front 
 yard, and gravelled walks laid to all corners 
 of the garden, the yard and garden being en- 
 closed by neat whitewashed picket fences. 
 
 A continuous correspondence had been go- 
 ing on between the young couple, and Billy 
 delighted telling his sweetheart every detail 
 of the progress of construction and improve- 
 ment. In mid-June a letter came from Bonnie 
 saying she would arrive with her father 
 "about sundown next Wednesday," which 
 was five days from the date of the letter. 
 They would drive all the way from her home 
 behind her father's new pair of road horses. 
 Billy was overjoyed, and on the appointed 
 date, just at the last moments of the Golden 
 Hour, when the afternoon sun was beginning 
 to set behind the western mountains, he 
 emerged from the mansion, clad in a brand 
 new suit of broadcloth, and carrying the 
 goldheaded cane Bonnie had given him as a 
 keepsake when he had fitted the betrothal 
 ring on her finger the day he left the Lykens 
 Valley.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 199 
 
 Sunset came with all its indescribable 
 glories, its tints deepened, shadows fell, dusk 
 crept into the fence corners and patches of 
 timber. The whippoorwill began its plain- 
 tive melody in the hollow. Billy waited all 
 the while by the gate, but not a sound could 
 he hear of an approaching vehicle. 
 
 After the last streaks of light had disap- 
 peared from the sky, and darkness prevailed, 
 he turned disappointedly and spent a couple 
 of hours wandering in the young orchard at 
 the back of the house. He hoped he would 
 get a letter the next day, but his hired man 
 returned from the postoffice empty handed. 
 He dressed himself that afternoon, and 
 waited at the gate until dark. 
 
 This he continued to do for several weeks. 
 Sometimes he would be thrilled to hear the 
 sound of hoofbeats and the creaking of 
 wheels on the stony uneven road. He would 
 quietly open the gate and step outside until 
 it came into sight, then he would turn away 
 wistfully and sadly. 
 
 One evening while he stood by the gate a 
 carryall drew up, containing his nearest
 
 200 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 neighbor, Amos De Vow, who handed him a 
 letter addressed in a trembling hand. He 
 thanked the neighbor and strolled to the back 
 of the yard to read it, as if some instinct told 
 him it contained bad news, and he must be 
 alone to receive it. 
 
 The letter was from Bonnie Orwig's 
 mother, and told how she had eloped with 
 Jacob Braunfels, a young drover whom she 
 had met but twice, the night before she was 
 to start on her visit to her fiance. She had 
 written home from Philadelphia asking to be 
 forgiven, adding that her mother should no- 
 tify Billy of her act. The reasons she gave 
 were "Jacob is younger and gayer ; the more 
 I thought of Billy, the firmer I became con- 
 vinced he was too serious-minded to make me 
 happy." 
 
 It seemed an unsatisfactory reason, but 
 the unhappy lover figured out that his years 
 of toil back of McElhattan Mountain had 
 probably crushed out most of the sunshine 
 in his soul now the rest had gone. Next 
 morning he was hard at work, and none of
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 201 
 
 the hands guessed anything had happened, 
 though he rarely smiled again. 
 
 Every clear afternoon, as if in the vain 
 hope she would yet come to him, he would at- 
 tire himself in his broadcloth suit, soft hat 
 and carrying the gold-headed cane, take a 
 walk around the gardens, admiring nature in 
 all her beauties, and dreaming of past joys. 
 Unconsciously he would pause and listen 
 every time he heard the sound of an approch- 
 ing carriage. He kept at work all through his 
 long life, and but for his solitary stroll at 
 sundown lived the life of the other men of 
 the mountain. His housekeeper found him 
 dead in bed clasping to his heart a faded 
 daguerreotype, the portrait of a fair-haired 
 girl. And then the released spirit took up 
 the vigil until the forest fires "removed the 
 ancient landmarks."
 
 XIV. 
 THE DREAMER 
 
 E could easily see that the 
 new hand on the sawmill 
 was not an ordinary sort of 
 individual. Physically he 
 was a great, broad-should- 
 ered, sandy-haired man, 
 vl J! M it and a match for the biggest 
 
 1 ir I r 
 
 r I of the loggers or mill-men, 
 
 and intellectually he seemed 
 cast in an unusual mould. Gloomy and taci- 
 turn, it was extremely difficult to become ac- 
 quainted with him, and he seemed to be more 
 at home with the lumbermen than with those 
 on a level with him through education. 
 
 A man like this is apt to have something 
 to conceal, which made us all the more desir- 
 ous to be friendly with him. At the back of 
 the main framework of the mill someone had 
 rolled a large hemlock log close to the struc- 
 ture, and there he would sit by himself on 
 the still summer evenings smoking a briar- 
 
 202
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 203 
 
 wood pipe. He was always meditative and 
 still, even when the rest of the crew grew 
 hilarious over their card or quoit games. 
 
 For some reason or other, he was well- 
 liked by all the men, despite the fact that he 
 never took part in their sports, and his con- 
 versation with them seemed infrequent. We 
 inquired of one of the teamsters, who had 
 worked in the woods all his life, if he knew 
 where the new man, who called himself Bern- 
 ard Carroll, had come from, and were sur- 
 prised to have him say that Carroll and he 
 had worked together on another lumber job 
 in Nine Mile Hollow in Potter county, seven 
 years before. He was, therefore, not a new- 
 comer to the lumber woods, although the last 
 man to hit the job at this particular camp. 
 
 "He drinks a lot at times, and gets quarrel- 
 some," said the old teamster, "and don't be 
 surprised if he goes to Lock Haven some Sat- 
 urday night and never comes back ; that's the 
 kind he is. He has a love-scrape on his mind, 
 and no man's worth a curse that has that eat- 
 ing into him."
 
 204 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 This quickened our interest in the big 
 silent man, and several times we passed by 
 where he was sitting on the log, and wished 
 him a cheery "good evening," hoping to draw 
 him into a conversation. He replied in a per- 
 functory manner, and there was nothing to 
 do but to pass on. 
 
 On the evening before the Fourth of July 
 we were driving across the railroad tracks at 
 the Pennsylvania station, in Lock Haven, and 
 noticed the big fellow waiting for the down 
 train which was then over an hour late. We 
 signalled to him, and he came up to the 
 buggy, with such alacrity that we offered him 
 a ride to camp. His mood evidently was dif- 
 ferent, as he gladly accepted the invitation. 
 
 The night was warm, and "Bonnie," the 
 little black horse, pretty well fagged, conse- 
 quently most of the distance was made at a 
 walk. This gave us a splendid opportunity 
 to become acquainted with the "man of mys- 
 tery." We had recently had a love story our- 
 selves, and the afterglow on the Bald Eagle 
 Creek, the broad, well-tilled valley, and the 
 Allegheny mountains beyond, brought back
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 205 
 
 the train of sentimental memories, and in- 
 fused them into the conversation. 
 
 Our talk had already become more or less 
 intimate when the big fellow remarked sadly 
 that this was the nineteenth anniversary of 
 the one great disappointment of his life. "We 
 ought to forget such things, but they grow 
 keener and more alive with each passing 
 year." 
 
 "Really," he went on, "I botched up my life 
 in wonderful style; it may be too late now, 
 but I had not strength to shake off the sense 
 of error at the time it occurred." 
 
 "I was born in Baltimore," he continued to 
 reminisce, "forty-two years ago last May, 
 and for the last twenty years have been 
 knocking about doing most everything, 
 mostly trying to forget. I always was im- 
 pulsive, and from the first my impulses were 
 wrong, and led me through a zig-zag, unsat- 
 isfactory course. My father sent me to the 
 University of Pennsylvania, where I joined 
 the best fraternity, and was soon the centre 
 of a gay crowd who had plenty of money to 
 spend. In those days I used to look down at
 
 206 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the class of people who are my only associates 
 now. I well recall one autumn afternoon 1 
 heard shots fired near my father's country 
 house on the Eastern Shore, and how I hur- 
 ried down the lawn in time to find two lads, 
 they had been in the class below me in college, 
 shooting rabbits in one of our fields. As they 
 did not belong to a 'swell' fraternity, I did 
 not think much of them, and I drove them off 
 the estate, using some pretty harsh language. 
 They were better gentlemen than I, as I look 
 back now, for they never answered me but 
 walked quietly away. Now I recall their pleas- 
 ant faces, what clean looking boys they were, 
 and wish I could meet them and tell them how 
 sorry I am for my conduct. 
 
 "My college days were cut short by an 
 attack of pneumonia following a prolonged 
 debauch, and I almost died. I emerged in a 
 penitent condition, and being the son of good 
 Catholics, conceived the idea of becoming a 
 priest. All my old college friends were sur- 
 prised, but my mother said she had always 
 felt in secret that this was to be my vocation. 
 I was enrolled as a student in a seminary that
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 207 
 
 fall, and for several months made amazing 
 progress. My instructors were delighted, es- 
 pecially since I came from one of the most 
 distinguished families in the state, and one 
 old priest patted me on the shoulder and pre- 
 dicted I would some day receive the Red Hat. 
 I had become very friendly with a fellow 
 student named McCafferty, and went with 
 him to his home in Western Pennsylvania. 
 That was the turning point in my career, 
 though I doubt if I would ever have become 
 a priest. In the town where he lived I met 
 one of my fraternity brothers from the Uni- 
 versity, and spent more time with him than 
 I did with the hospitable McCafferty. De- 
 spite my black suit and high vest, that gave 
 me a semi-priestly look, my University chum 
 was determined I should meet some girls. At 
 first I told him I had 'cut all that out,' but one 
 afternoon, as we were driving through town, 
 I saw a girl I did want to meet. She was 
 standing on the corner, talking to another 
 girl who was leading a child, and the kindly 
 interest the girl I admired displayed toward 
 the child touched my heart almost as much
 
 208 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 as her blonde beauty. On one of my college 
 vacations I had gone to Europe, and was 
 joined in Paris by a friend who was secre- 
 tary of one of our legations. In Berlin I was 
 particularly taken by the fine collection of 
 paintings by Watteau, and there was a figure 
 of a blonde girl in the one called 'L' Amour au 
 Theatre Italien' in the National Gallery, that 
 won my heart completely. I said to my 
 friend, If I ever see anyone who looks like 
 that, I will marry her." 
 
 "Well, the girl standing on the corner was 
 the exact counterpart of Watteau 's blonde 
 beauty. I am sure she was, for I had stood 
 spellbound before the painting for hours, and 
 now I was studying to become a priest. That 
 night I changed my vest and was taken to 
 call on the exquisite being. I was surprised 
 to find her as intelligent as she was beautiful ; 
 she was one of the very few women I have 
 met who expressed original thoughts. Bangs 
 were in style that year, and I will never for- 
 get the cute little blonde bangs she wore. She 
 was 'chic' from head to foot, and more like a 
 Parisienne than a dweller in a provincial
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 209 
 
 western Pennsylvania town. We were to- 
 gether for the remaining time I was in town, 
 and I told her I loved her, and she said she 
 loved me. 
 
 "The night I returned to school I con- 
 fessed to her I was studying for the priest- 
 hood, but would drop my course so that I 
 could marry her. She showed her discern- 
 ment by saying she had guessed that the first 
 time she saw me. After my return to the 
 school we wrote each other every day. All 
 went well for ten days, and then I got a letter 
 from her saying that McCafferty's mother 
 had told her mother that I was studying to be 
 a priest, and that she had commanded her to 
 have nothing further to do with me. She 
 added that henceforth I should write her to 
 the home of a friend, 
 
 "The next day I received no letter nor the 
 day following. Time passed on, several 
 weeks elapsed and all was silence. I be- 
 came alarmed and trumped up a lie that I 
 must go home, and hurried to the Western 
 Pennsylvania town; I met my fraternity 
 mate and he learned for me that the beauti-
 
 210 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 ful girl had gone away for a visit, but he 
 could not learn where. There was nothing 
 for me to do but to return to school, which I 
 did, vowing to forget my disappointment in 
 my clerical studies. But though I came out 
 brilliantly in the mid-year examination, my 
 heart was sad, and I chafed the bonds that 
 were tightening themselves around my young 
 life. 
 
 "The climax came when my friend wrote 
 that the girl had returned from her visit, 
 I went to the principals of the school, and 
 announced that after sober reflection, I had 
 decided not to become a priest, therefore 
 must leave the institution walls at once. They 
 tried to persuade me, but it was no use. I 
 got out and bought a suit of dark grey ma- 
 terial and started again to try and consum- 
 mate my romance. It was a fine morning 
 in May as I climbed up the steep hill leading 
 to her home. The robins and larks were 
 singing, there was an odor of sweetness and 
 life from the dandelions and fresh grass. 
 
 "Boldly I rang the bell. I had a long wait, 
 but it was rewarded by the door being opened
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 211 
 
 by the beautiful girl herself. On one of her 
 fingers glistened a solitaire diamond ring, 
 and I feared the worst had happened. We 
 went in the parlor, and I at once explained 
 that I had given up my studies, and, passing 
 through the town, had decided to stop off and 
 see her. It was not long before she told me 
 that she had met a man while on her visit 
 in January whom she liked very much, and 
 having been urged by him and her parents 
 that I was not sincere in my intentions to 
 give up my studies, had become engaged. 
 I felt like saying, 'You should have been will- 
 ing to go through fire and water for the man 
 you loved,' but I only smiled and didn't. 
 
 "After a pleasant talk lasting several 
 hours I said goodbye ; she followed me to the 
 steps, and I had to struggle with myself not 
 to ask her to break with her new lover and 
 come with me. It was my fate that I should 
 hold my tongue, and I watched the door close 
 on the only woman I ever loved, or ever will, 
 before I started heartbroken, down the hill. 
 
 "At the bottom of the hill was a hotel, 
 and then and there I started on a booze which
 
 212 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 lasted a month. After it was over, I went 
 home, but my parents did not relish my 
 changed prospects, and I soon started on my 
 checkered career once more. They still send 
 me money when I write them, but we are 
 practically strangers ; my only homes are the 
 lumber camps and second-rate hotels. 
 
 "Last night I had a dream which marks the 
 climax of the part of my life I have 
 been telling you. I went to Lock Haven 
 with a view of celebrating the Fourth, but 
 when I got to the first saloon I suddenly lost 
 all my desire for strong drink; I ordered a 
 ginger ale, instead. After supper I wandered 
 around town, and sat until dark on a bench 
 by the dam, watching the river and the sky. 
 I went back to the hotel, but could not drink, 
 and, to escape comments from some of the 
 boys from the camp, went to bed. 
 
 "I seemed to fall right away into gentle 
 slumber, although my room was above the 
 bar, where there was a terrible racket. As 
 sleep deepened I felt myself transformed 
 from the shaky, wooden bed, the summer 
 night, and the narrow room with its one win^
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 213 
 
 dow; I was in a comfortable upholstered 
 easy chair by the side of an open grate, in a 
 large, high-ceilinged room, with cases of 
 books that reached from floor to ceiling. It 
 was winter time, and there was no other light 
 in the room except what came from the ruddy 
 coal fire. 
 
 "Twilight became dusk and the street 
 lamps were lit as I sat and meditated. In- 
 stead of my woodsman's or even clerical 
 garb, I wore a neat dark gray suit ; I seemed 
 a prosperous business man and house-holder. 
 I heard a faint rustle, a sound essentially 
 feminine, and upon looking lip beheld my lost 
 love, attired all in white, coming through the 
 door from an inner room. The fire had just 
 ignited a fresh chunk of : canhel coal, and the 
 glow shone full in her face. Her beauty was 
 maturer and more developed, but I thought 
 I had never seen her looking so lovely. 
 
 " 'What are you doing here, all alone by 
 the fireside?' she said laughingly. Thinking 
 about you, as I always do,' I replied, natur- 
 ally enough. She got down on her knees be- 
 fore me and put her -beautiful arms around
 
 214 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 my neck, and drawing me to her, kissed me on 
 my mouth on the mustache which I wore in 
 the dream. 
 
 " 'We have been very happy together,' she 
 whispered. 'You showed the grandest fore- 
 sight and courage to take me away that morn- 
 ing. I should never, never have been happy 
 with that man to whom I was engaged. I 
 thought I would never see you again, and was 
 piqued because everyone was telling me how 
 reprehensible it was for a man studying for 
 the priesthood to have devoted himself to 
 me.' 
 
 " 'Yes,' I answered, 'fate decreed I should 
 go after you ; I could not have been content 
 to live without you.' 
 
 "There were footsteps on the stairs and in 
 the hall, and merry laughter such as can only 
 come from very young folks. The door 
 which was ajar, was opened, and three young 
 people entered, two boys and a girl ; all were 
 very tall, very slight, and very handsome. 
 The boys were probably twenty and eighteen, 
 the girl sixteen. Exact counterparts they were 
 of their beautiful mother, especially the girl,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 215 
 
 except that her hair was darker than that of 
 their mother's and more the color of mine. 
 
 The girl was the first to speak, saying 
 gayly, 'Oh, papa and mamma, what are you 
 doing there in the dark?' 'Repeating our love 
 story, as we always do,' was my lost love's 
 quick reply. The young folks grouped them- 
 selves about us and started to tell of an en- 
 tertainment out at the Univeristy, (the 
 dream was evidently laid in Philadelphia), 
 to which they intended going after supper. 
 My heart thrilled with pride as I saw on the 
 boys' vests the familiar blue and gold fra- 
 ternity badge I had worn so long. They were 
 expecting some young friends to go with 
 them they said. 
 
 "In the midst of our laughing and chatting, 
 the electric bell at the front door began ring- 
 ing, and the boys and the girl jumped up and 
 ran out to greet their friends. The bell kept 
 ringing and ringing ; it seemed very strange, 
 and as this thought seized my consciousness, 
 my surroundings changed rapidly. 
 
 "Sunlight, the cracked plaster of the walls 
 of a narrow room, a washstand, with the
 
 216 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 varnish much faded by spilled water, a 
 towsled carpet, all these took the place of the 
 cozy fireside, the spacious library, my lost 
 love and the dream children. The bell I heard 
 ringing was in the next room, trying to rouse 
 some sleepy guest to catch the 7.23 eastbound 
 train. I was fully awake when, cursing, he 
 pressed the button as the signal to the office 
 that he was out of bed. 
 
 "I was so intoxicated with the joy of my 
 vision that I lay in bed until Elmer, the col- 
 ored handy man whom I knew well, knocked 
 violently on the door to remind me that I 
 would miss my breakfast if I didn't get down 
 soon. I put in the entire day on the bench 
 by the river-bank overlooking the dam, try- 
 ing to solve the problem of existence and the 
 meaning of my dream. 
 
 "By afternoon I resolved I would make one 
 final effort to readjust my destiny, to put my 
 career on an orbit, like other well regulated 
 lives. I went to the railroad station to take 
 'Number Six' for McElhattan, where I would 
 collect my belongings at the camp, planning 
 to leave tomcxrrow morning for Tyrone to
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 217 
 
 make connections for the town where my lost 
 love lived. Now I will take the 'midnight' for 
 Harrisburg and change there for the West. 
 I will see if I cannot get her to come with me. 
 Perhaps, after twenty years, she is widowed, 
 divorced or unhappily married. I believe 
 that dream meant she would have given <up 
 her other lover and gone with me that fatal 
 May morning. I will write you fully how 
 everything turns out, and I'll send you the 
 address where to ship my belongings; per- 
 haps it will be to a mansion on the Eastern 
 Shore." 
 
 We parted at the X roads, and we 
 watched the stalwart figure striding reso- 
 lutely along in the direction of the Pennsyl- 
 vania station until he disappeared over the 
 grade of the Beech Creek Crossing. Then 
 we turned our horse's head out towards the 
 mountain. For many weeks and months we 
 watched for the letter telling the result of the 
 strange man's journey to the home of his 
 lost love, but, as it never came, had to con- 
 clude regretfully that he overlooked us in his 
 happiness or else his high resolve came to 
 naught in some sordid gin mill in Harrisburg.
 
 XV. 
 THE CALL OF THE TRACK 
 
 OME one told Davie Lem- 
 mons that there were three 
 running horses at Shock's 
 livery stable, and he saunt- 
 ered up the alley to take a 
 look at them. It had been 
 ten years since he had 
 worked among the runners, 
 but he felt the same old en- 
 thusiam returning as he neared the stables. 
 It was a bright Sunday morning, in the early 
 part of March, and although patches of badly 
 discolored snow still lingered along the back- 
 yard fences, there was an unmistakable 
 aroma of springtime in the air. 
 
 Davie was a fashionable negro boy, and had 
 dressed for the occasion; no churchman at- 
 tiring himself for a special service could have 
 taken more care. He wore a green suit, a 
 red tie, a black derby hat with three white 
 buttons on either side, and black patent 
 
 218
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 219 
 
 leather shoes with yellow buttons. Three 
 brindle bull-terriers of his own breeding pre- 
 ceded him up the alley. 
 
 There was a crowd already around the 
 stable door, but he soon singled out Nevin 
 Shook, the proprietor's son, and tipped his 
 hat to him respectfully. He had begun to 
 tell him "how he used to be a jockey," when 
 a tall lean man with a heavy mustache in- 
 terrupted, to ask if he understood exercising. 
 This was rather a slam at his boasted prow- 
 ess as a "pigskin artist," but it was an open- 
 ing wedge, and, answering in the affirmative, 
 he followed Shook, and the tall man to the 
 rear of the stable. 
 
 The man explained that his exercise boy 
 had disappeared while the freight car lay on 
 a siding, and he needed someone right away 
 to help him out to the fair grounds with his 
 string. Of the three animals, two were small 
 bay fillies, three years old, called Elsie W., 
 and Belle of the Pier, of no particular class, 
 while the third was an aged entire horse 
 standing about sixteen hands, also a bay 
 with a white face and named Calvados.
 
 220 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Loudly expressed admiration, even from 
 the colored boy, evidently pleased the tall 
 man, for he opened the door of the box stall, 
 and seizing the big horse by the halter led 
 him out on the stable floor. He was such a 
 beautifully turned horse, with such a blood- 
 like head, and flashing eye, and so gentle 
 despite his abundant spirits, that Davie re- 
 marked he looked different from any race 
 horse he had ever seen. "I thought old Beli- 
 sarius a good looker, and Grand Prix, and In- 
 ferno, and old Fernwood, and Gonzales, but, 
 gee, this is a picture horse." 
 
 The tall man smiled and said "There's no 
 horse ever raced in this country that has his 
 looks or manners, except perhaps it was Go- 
 Between, the great suburban winner. This 
 horse looks different because he is a French 
 horse; over there they demand good looks 
 and manners, as well as speed." Then he let 
 go the halter, and told the horse to go back 
 to his box, which he did obediently.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 221 
 
 "I picked him up last fall at a farmer's ven- 
 due. It is a funny story. When the track down 
 at Bennings was in the height of its glory, 
 they used to have races ridden by army offi- 
 cers, which made a big hit. It was suggested 
 that some time they have a private sweep- 
 stakes for horses owned and ridden by mem- 
 bers of the diplomatic corps. 
 
 "There was a young chap in the French 
 Embassy who had an older brother, Count de 
 Caen, visiting him, when the subject was dis- 
 cussed. The Count became enthusiastic and 
 declared he owned a horse which could win 
 the race if he walked the entire distance. 
 But that is my language, not his. He left 
 for the old country soon afterwards, and 
 promised to send the animal to his brother 
 in the Embassy. Before he had landed on 
 French soil Congress abolished racing in the 
 District of Columbia, and the race was for- 
 gotten. 
 
 "The young diplomat also forgot to cable 
 his brother not to ship the horse, so it was 
 started, according to the agreement. One 
 morning the young fellow received a wire
 
 222 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 from the French Consul General in New 
 York that a thoroughbred horse, consigned 
 to him, had just been landed. 
 
 "There was nothing to do but to reply say- 
 ing to ship the animal to Washington. It 
 might do as a saddle horse, he figured. The 
 animal had barely reached the Capital City 
 when the diplomatist got word of his trans- 
 fer to St. Petersburg, and that dampened his 
 ardor for everything, including horse-back 
 riding, for he had not as yet affixed his 
 American heiress. 
 
 "An obliging friend took the horse to his 
 estate near Chevy Chase, until the French- 
 man's plans were settled. He sailed unex- 
 pectedly, and henceforth paid no attention 
 to his friend's letters as to the future of the 
 horse. Disgusted, the party instructed his 
 coachman to sell the 'stud,' and a neighbor- 
 ing farmer became the purchaser. 
 
 "I saw the animal pulling a cultivator; 
 that was too much for me ; I inquired his his- 
 tory, and a few months later added him to 
 my string at practically my own price."
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 223 
 
 "And," he added, "I'm going to clean up 
 everything on the Fair Circuit with him this 
 summer." He reached into his coat pocket 
 and fished out some soiled and crumpled pa- 
 pers. "Here's his breeding, his certificate 
 from the French government, and the record 
 of the races he ran in France. Young Shook 
 and Davie looked at the documents curi- 
 ously, but they were in a language that was 
 foreign to them. The tall man began to read 
 aloud " 'Calvados, cheval baie,' that means 
 bay horse, 'six ans,' that is, six years old, 
 by Alhambra III, out of Hereuse," this 
 last word he pronounced as if it was 
 "her aus." Then he paused, he had forgotten 
 the translation of what followed. 
 
 A number of strangers had crowded about 
 the boxes, so the trio moved out to the office, 
 where they continued their conversation 
 around the white-washed stove. As the tall 
 man seemed to take kindly to the colored boy r 
 the upshot of it all was that Davie agreed 
 to give up his position as night timekeeper 
 in the iron works, and become exercise boy,
 
 224 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 and possibly jockey with this string of three 
 horses. 
 
 When he reached his modest home he 
 proudly told his wife of his new occupation, 
 but she, with a woman's insight, begged him 
 to leave the horses alone. "You know what 
 you were when I married you," she said, 
 "and how ten years away from the track has 
 made you sober and industrious. Besides 
 we have five little children, and they need a 
 father who has a steady income.'' 
 
 But the colored boy was too elated to be 
 affected by his wife's reasoning, and that 
 night handed in his resignation at the iron 
 works. He helped move the horses and out- 
 fit to the Fair Grounds, and began his 
 duties with a light heart. It was mostly 
 stable work, as the tracks and the adjacent 
 roads were deep with the spring mud. 
 
 The two fillies seemed an indifferent lot, 
 which made the tall man and Davie devote 
 their best efforts to the more receptive Cal- 
 vados. In due course of time the half mile 
 track dried off nicely, and exercising began. 
 There were a dozen small boys hanging
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 225 
 
 around the sheds all day long, bidding for the 
 chance to ride. The tall man finally selected 
 two white boys, Adam Wittgenstein, son of a 
 neighboring farmer, and Leo Quailey, who 
 had dropped off a freight car from some- 
 where. There wasn't any promise given of 
 pay, but the boys were allowed to sleep in 
 an empty box and ate their meals, which 
 were cooked by Davie, with the tall man. 
 
 Adam Wittgenstein could have gone home 
 to sleep and eat, his home was so near, but he 
 didn't want to. He had a pretty sister, 
 Eleanor, who came to the stables to urge him 
 visit the folks occasionally. She took a lik- 
 ing to the surroundings, and her visits in- 
 creased so much that "the folks" began to 
 have trouble in keeping her away. She was 
 a slim, dark girl with prominent brownish 
 eyes, and straight nose, and full lips. When 
 she wore her big hat and tight-fitting black 
 skirt on Sundays she attracted more atten- 
 tion around the stables than the horses. 
 
 On Memorial Day there was a day of rac- 
 ing at the Fair Grounds, but the tall man 
 decided not to start any of his string. He
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 would keep them dark, and wait for the 
 Fourth of July. Davie had become some- 
 what impatient at the long delay before the 
 first start; his wife had been nagging him 
 for money, consequently he was elated when 
 the door of the box-car closed on the horses 
 and himself on the evening of July first. The 
 two white boys had been left behind, it was 
 too expensive to carry them. They were 
 bound for Huntersburg, a Pennsylvania 
 mountain town, to take part in the races at 
 the "Midsummer Fair." 
 
 The weather was grand, and the sun shone 
 as it only can in July. The horses had ar- 
 rived in prime condition, but Davie did his 
 exercising before daybreak, and few were 
 aware of their abilities. The first running 
 race was scheduled for July third, and was 
 a sort of preliminary, or try-out for the "big 
 race" to be held on the "Fourth." It was to 
 be a half-mile affair, best two in three. 
 
 The entries were not printed in the local 
 papers, and until the programs were placed 
 on sale just before the races began, it was 
 hard to guess the numbers or class of the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 227 
 
 contestants. Just an hour before the first 
 heat, Davie was strolling along the line of 
 padlocked boxes, tearing to bits as he walked 
 a letter from his wife asking him to send her 
 money. His ears were primed and eyes 
 alert for information when he heard voices 
 back of the sheds. He turned through a nar- 
 row alley, and saw a group of young men 
 looking over a high inclosure of whitewashed 
 boards, built out from a shed. He edged up 
 to the crowd and peered over. 
 
 Standing in this yard was a stockily built 
 horse, with a cobby head, roached mane, 
 and banged tail, in appearance more like 
 a broncho than a thoroughbred. He was 
 an entire animal, dark brown in color, and 
 stood a scant fifteen hands. "What horse is 
 that?" inquired Davie in the most nonchalant 
 manner he could assume; the query was ad- 
 dressed to the group of young men in gen- 
 eral, but none answered. 
 
 He was about to move away, when one 
 more kindly faced than the rest stepped over 
 to him and said: "That's the horse which 
 wins the race today ; that is Little Christmas,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 by Marty B., dam Little Ida, by Tom Bowl- 
 ing, Jr. He won all his six starts on the Fair 
 Circuit last fall, and he'll do better this year 
 because he's now a five-year-old." Davie 
 thanked the kindly youth, and slipped away 
 as quickly as he could. When saddling time 
 came, Calvados, or the "French horse" as 
 every one called him, was like a wild horse. 
 It was all the tall man and Davie could do to 
 buckle the saddle girth. He champed his bit, 
 reared and kicked, and thrashed about with 
 his magnificent tail, until a crowd collected, 
 mistaking his good spirits for viciousness. 
 
 While all conceded that the "French horse" 
 would take a lot to beat him, the natives 
 shook their heads, and said the race was a 
 "pipe" for Little Christmas; which turned 
 out to be a local horse. His owner, Simon 
 Hemmig, kept a feed store on River street, 
 and he was to be ridden by Sammy Ziegford, 
 son of the foreman in the town's leading liv- 
 ery stable. 
 
 During the saddling of Calvados, Sammy 
 appeared, followed by a dozen admirers. He 
 was rigged out in full jockey regalia, with a
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 229 
 
 red and blue shirt, but several sizes too large 
 of which he seemed inordinately proud. He 
 carried a whip, and kept striking at the 
 wooden uprights of the saddling shed. He 
 was an ill-favored little fellow, his frame was 
 too heavy to ever make a good rider, and his 
 blonde hair sorely needed a trimming. As he 
 moved away in the direction of the "private 
 paddock" occupied by Little Christmas, he 
 remarked loudly, "That old horse will be get- 
 ting started about the time I'm dismount- 
 ing." 
 
 The colored boy looked very angry, but as 
 the crowd was "with" the local rider he 
 wisely held his tongue. Davie on the "French 
 horse" was the first out on the track. The 
 big thoroughbred made an impressive ap- 
 pearance as he paraded past the thronged 
 grandstand. There was an "ah" from all 
 sides; they had never seen a racer of his 
 calibre before. He won even the most rabid 
 partisans by his beauty, and they consoled 
 themselves by saying : "What a pity to have a 
 'bogie' riding him."
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 The other horses came out presently. They 
 were wretched looking animals, known as 
 Bake House and Laura M., and were ridden 
 by large-sized white boys. Little Christmas 
 did not appear at the starting post for over 
 half an hour after the bell rang, but nothing 
 was said as he was the local entry, and 
 starter and jockey were close friends. When 
 he finally swept up the track, Sammy riding 
 on his neck in imitation of the fashionable 
 jockey seat, with his baggy colors flapping 
 in the breeze, the outfit looked like a ship in 
 full sail. There was tumultuous cheering in 
 the grandstand. Evidently it was all settled 
 that the local horse should win, so thought 
 the tall man who owned the "French horse" 
 as he leaned on the rail. There was a delay 
 of three-quarters of an hour getting them 
 "off," as the starter was determined to give 
 the local horse the best of it. But Little 
 Christmas was a slow beginner and would 
 not break in front. Finally a spectator was 
 called on to hold the "French horse's" head, 
 which was evidently a ruse, while the local 
 horse was gotten into position. When the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 231 
 
 man had the bridle tightly gripped the 
 starter dropped his flag, and the field was in 
 motion, with an open gap between Little 
 Christmas and his nearest competitor. 
 
 Davie struck the officious party with his 
 whip, he speedily let go, and the "French 
 horse" bounding like a jack rabbit was in 
 pursuit. In front of the stand he was run- 
 ning neck and neck with Little Christmas; 
 Davie was sitting still, but the local jockey 
 was plying his whip. There was a dead sil- 
 ence in the crowd, for reasons mainly specu- 
 lative, but partly sentimental. Rounding the 
 turn the "French horse" took the lead, and 
 there was a constantly widening space of day- 
 light between him and the local horse as they 
 swept along the back stretch. The silence on 
 the stand became oppressive. It was as if a 
 funeral oration was about to be delivered. 
 
 Coming around the last turn Davie eased 
 up the "Frenchman" and allowed Little 
 Christmas to make up a little ground. When 
 they were opposite the far end of the stand, 
 he whispered something to his mount, and 
 the big bay leaped forward with redoubled
 
 232 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 speed and crossed the finish thirty lengths in 
 front of the local entry. Bake House and 
 Laura M., struggling gamely, brought up the 
 rear. Lots of the country people were so 
 disgusted at the defeat of their favorite that 
 they immediately left the stand noisily de- 
 claring that "running races were no good 
 anyhow," and "it was an outrage to let a 
 damned darky ride a race." 
 
 On the course there was a trail of pro- 
 fanity all the way from the judges' stand to 
 the stables, indulged in by everyone from the 
 officials down to the "swipes." The race had 
 not turned out as arranged. The second heat 
 was scheduled to take place after the final 
 heat in the harness races, and the lateness 
 of the hour combined with the unpopular 
 victory of the French horse, left few per- 
 sons in the stand when the four horses cant- 
 ered to the post. 
 
 At the stables still lingered a large crowd, 
 especially around Little Christmas' box. 
 Sammy was kept busy receiving condolences 
 coupled with assurances that he'd surely win 
 the next heat. One old fellow, a stockholder
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 in the Fair Association, with a yellow beard 
 that reached to below his waist line, declared 
 he would compel the board of directors to 
 make a rule forbidding colored riders on the 
 track next year. When the bell rang all four 
 horses filed through the gate in good season. 
 Once on the track, however, Sammy galloped 
 his mount beside the "French horse" and, 
 leaning over towards Davie, poured out at 
 him the tirade that a certain type of white 
 men often apply to negroes. 
 
 The colored boy only smiled; he was more 
 anxious to win the race than to enter into a 
 fight with his fair skinned rival. The tall 
 man was at the post to see the unfair tactics 
 used at the start of the first heat were not 
 duplicated. He kept his keen Southern eyes 
 on the little pudgy starter, and shouted to him 
 several times when that individual was obvi- 
 ously trying to give the advantage to Little 
 Christmas. After fifteen minutes he saw 
 it was best to let them go, so he sent them off 
 to an even break. It seemed practically the 
 first heat all over again.
 
 234 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 The French horse soon had an immense 
 lead, and they galloped on like a procession 
 past the stand, around the turn, and up the 
 back stretch. Turning into the home stretch 
 David laid back in the saddle, pulled Calva- 
 dos down to a common canter, and with head 
 swinging the big French racer loped along 
 towards the finish. Back of him Sammy 
 Ziegford was plying the whip on Little 
 Christmas like a flail. Davie, who was all 
 smiles, evidently failed to notice the stocky 
 form of his rival creep to his horse's flanks. 
 He heard something panting like an en- 
 gine, and looking around saw Little Christ- 
 mas tiring badly, but sticking to it bravely. 
 
 In a twinkling Sammy drove his mount 
 with full force into the French horse, forced 
 him out of his stride, hit Davie over the face 
 with his whip, and compelled him to pull 
 down to a walk to avoid falling. Then he 
 plied the whip on Little Christmas and went 
 on and won by five lengths. There was a 
 vociferous cheer from the handful of rustics 
 on the stand, who evidently imagined such a 
 palpable foul would be allowed to go, because
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 235 
 
 it was in favor of the local horse. Not a word 
 was said by the officials and the jockeys had 
 begun dismounting, as the tall man, white 
 with anger climbed up the winding stair into 
 the judges' box. 
 
 It did not take long to convince the brown 
 overcoated would-be sportsmen that they 
 were dealing with a real man, and they in- 
 structed the announcer to tell the spectators 
 that a foul had been committed, and the heat 
 and race had been given to the French horse, 
 Calvados. It took a dozen to keep Sammy 
 Ziegford from attacking the judges as they 
 descended from their stand, and he was fin- 
 ally led away vowing vengeance on every- 
 body and everything. 
 
 Davie was hooted as he led the winning 
 horse back to the stables, and small boys 
 called 'bogie' while he was cooling him off. 
 After the work was done he locked the stall, 
 and as an extra precaution left it in charge 
 of a friendly Dutchman. He walked down to 
 the railroad station and sent a telegram to 
 his wife. It read, "Won fine race today, am 
 sending money order tomorrow."
 
 236 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 He returned to the stables, and after sup- 
 per, retired for the night in a stall adjoin- 
 ing the box occupied by Calvados. He was 
 feeling happy, for, apart from his victory, he 
 looked forward to the next day, July Fourth, 
 when the big crowds would be present, to 
 repeat the performance. Then, he thought, 
 he would not ease down his mount at the 
 homestretch, but would let him win by a 
 quarter of a mile if necessary. He was not 
 a heavy sleeper, so he easily awakened by 
 hearing someone fumbling with the padlock 
 on Calvados' box. He was up and out in the 
 alley in half a minute. 
 
 It was a dark night, but he could make out 
 a human form, a short, gorilla like figure 
 running in the direction of the cow-barns. 
 The colored boy took a chance and made after 
 him, soon overtaking him and grabbing him 
 by the shirt collar. The prowler looked about, 
 and Davie could see he was none other than 
 Sammy Ziegford, erstwhile rider of Little 
 Christmas. "What were you doing around 
 my stables?" demanded the negro. Sammy 
 answered by a torrent of oaths and a vicious
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 237 
 
 blow, which shook him loose from his dusky 
 captor. He turned and ran towards the 
 stables, but Davie cornered him in an angle 
 of the alley, before he had gone a hundred 
 yards. 
 
 Taking a stout grip on the lad he led him 
 to his recently vacated sleeping quarters, 
 determined to lock him in there until morn- 
 ing. As he was shoving him through the 
 door the infuriated white boy spied a pitch- 
 fork standing in the corner. Grabbing with 
 the quickness of demoniac fury he drove it 
 through his captor's breast, puncturing his 
 heart and lungs. With a guttural sigh, the 
 colored boy sank down in a heap and was 
 soon dead. 
 
 Sammy took some straw, wiped the blood 
 off the prongs of the fork, and stood it back 
 in its accustomed place. He was trembling 
 like a leaf with the reaction from his fit of 
 passion as he closed and bolted the door of 
 the box stall, leaving his victim open-mouthed 
 and hideous, half buried in the straw. Early 
 the next morning, when the tall man came to
 
 238 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the fair grounds, he was surprised to find no 
 signs of life around his stables. 
 
 "That 'smoke's' been on a bender last 
 night," he muttered, as he opened the box 
 which he occupied. There lay the colored 
 boy, almost hidden from view in the straw. 
 The tall man bent over him and found he was 
 not breathing. On the front of his white 
 muslin shirt were three spots of dried blood. 
 That told the story, and the tall man, grim 
 and silent, took a lock from off the wall and 
 securely shut the box. 
 
 It was hard to interest the local authori- 
 ties. "A negro found dead in a box stall," 
 was hardly worth noticing by the local 
 papers, especially when the Grand Mid-sum- 
 mer Fair was in progress. The colored boy 
 was avenged in different fashion that after- 
 noon. In the presence of the biggest crowd 
 that had ever assembled there, the French 
 horse, Calvados, ridden this time by a white 
 boy, took the "Fourth of July Running Race," 
 in straight heats from the local horse, Little
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Christmas, ridden by Sammy Ziegford, 
 breaking the track record by five seconds. 
 
 But poor Davie Lemmons had given up his 
 life in answer to the "Call of the Track."
 
 XVI. 
 THE GHOST OF THE PINE 
 
 LD Hezekiah Gerhard's home 
 was the most conspicuous 
 along the state road. Yet 
 the little square frame 
 house was sadly in need of 
 painting, the outbuildings 
 were dilapidated, and a 
 score of palings were 
 broken or missing from the 
 yard fence. For six months the lower hinge 
 was missing from the front gate. But in the 
 yard grew a tree of unusual size and appear- 
 ance, which attracted attention for a mile in 
 either direction, as the homestead was situ- 
 ated on a slight rise. 
 
 The tree was an old-fashioned yellow pine. 
 We say "old fashioned," for Pennsylvania 
 mountaineers maintain that the true species 
 of yellow pine disappeared about thirty years 
 ago. They were never over plentiful, and 
 were soon wiped out by the lumbermen, for- 
 
 240
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 241 
 
 est fires, and a small green beetle which made 
 a specialty of boring their bark. None grew 
 in their places, and apart from a few pre- 
 served as ornaments in front yards, they may 
 be regarded as extinct, at least so say the 
 backwoods wiseacres. 
 
 When old-timers driving along the state 
 road came in sight of Hezekiah Gerhard's 
 home, they invariably called out in surprised 
 tones, "there's a genuine old fashioned yellow 
 pine!" Many stopped to notice and admire 
 the tree, and even forestry officials who would 
 not admit that it belonged to a distinct 
 species, referred to it as "a magnificent speci- 
 men of a mature yellow pine." 
 
 If you looked it over carefully, its differ- 
 ence from the commonly met with yellow 
 pines seemed apparent. The bark was soft 
 and smooth, and of a bright yellow color, 
 and the needles were almost as long as those 
 of the Southern long-leafed pine, but much 
 darker. The odor from them was very pun- 
 gent, and could be inhaled at a great dis- 
 tance. This particular tree was devoid of 
 branches for sixty feet, but at that height
 
 242 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 sent out several rounds of graceful, upturned 
 boughs, which terminated in the shaggy and 
 glossy umbrella-like top. 
 
 How it had been allowed to stand when all 
 its fellows had been demolished half a cen- 
 tury before was a mystery. It was even to old 
 Gerhard himself, and he often said he re- 
 gretted not having asked the reason from the 
 parties of whom he had bought the place 
 in 1865, when he settled there, after four 
 years in the Northern army. 
 
 As years went by and so many venerable 
 strangers and young foresters admired the 
 tree, the old man became considerably elated 
 at the possession of this arboreal giant. Be- 
 fore he went to the war he had been a rafts- 
 man and his only interest in trees was in 
 their value as marketable lumber. Often as 
 he sat in his rocking chair, under the big 
 tree, on summer twilights, he would estimate 
 the amount of feet of board measure it con- 
 tained. The figures, which always totalled 
 "seven thousand feet," were probably not a 
 hundred feet out of the way. That gave an 
 idea of the immensity of the tree, especially
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 243 
 
 in these degenerate days when a portable mill 
 considers it "good sawing" to get even seven 
 thousand feet from an acre of woodland. 
 
 He was fond of telling about a German 
 travelling through the country, buying wal- 
 nut trees, who had offered him "one hundred 
 dollars spot cash" for the giant tree. Some- 
 times when his wife had spent all his pension 
 money on his daughters and their children, 
 he wished for the return of the liberal Ger- 
 man. But generally he would say he wouldn't 
 part with it, "whoever buys the tree must 
 take the house with it." Like most human 
 beings the tree had an enemy. He was Oren 
 Hincks, Gerhard's son-in-law. 
 
 Hincks was a loud-voiced, self-important 
 individual, and followed the trade of house- 
 painting in Youngmanstown. Tall and spare, 
 he had chronic indigestion, which caused him 
 to make frequent trips to his father-in-law's 
 country home to brace up his unsteady con- 
 stitution. He was an habitual complainer, 
 and for a while, despite the frequency of his 
 visits, found fault with everything.
 
 244 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 As time went on he centered his spiteful- 
 ness on the giant pine. "What good is that 
 damn yaller pine, anyway, shadin' the yard, 
 and droppin' needles on the roof." He was al- 
 ways cutting at the bark with his huge case- 
 knife, and when there were leaves to be 
 burnt, he piled them around the base of the 
 tree, badly scorching the roots. He com- 
 plained that the dampness from its foliage 
 caused the mildewed appearance of the house, 
 whereas the real reason was it had not been 
 painted since 1885. 
 
 Old Gerhard hated to spend the money to 
 have the house repainted, though his son-in- 
 law told his wife that it was the old veteran's 
 duty to give him a chance to earn some 
 money. He would often remark at the din- 
 ner table, "if you'd cut down that fool tree, 
 I'd paint your house for you. But what's the 
 good doing it now, when all that shade is rot- 
 ting it to its foundations?" This seemed a 
 convincing argument, especially when so 
 often repeated. 
 
 Then, too, when the winds blew at night 
 the topmost boughs had a habit of rendering
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 245 
 
 a weird cantata of their own. Old Mrs. Ger- 
 hard said, it kept her awake, and would join 
 in against the tree with her iconoclastic son- 
 in-law. All these things made their impres- 
 sion on the old man. At first he had valued 
 the tree because strangers fancied it and a 
 German had once offered to buy it for one 
 hundred dollars, spot cash. Now as every- 
 one in his family looked upon it as a nuis- 
 ance, it had better be removed. But he hesi- 
 tated, and waited, maybe that German would 
 return, then he would have it cut. 
 
 The cantankerous son-in-law when he 
 learned the old man's weakness suggested 
 that the tree be sawed down at once, and the 
 logs peeled and put away in the barn to be 
 seasoned. "By the time that German gentle- 
 man returns the logs will be in prime condi- 
 tion; I wouldn't wonder if he'd give you a 
 hundred and fifty." This sounded like logic, 
 and one day the painter entered into a deal 
 with the old man which sealed the fate of the 
 mammoth pine. He would paint the house 
 as soon as work grew slack, for seventy-five 
 dollars, and would wait for his pay until his
 
 246 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 father-in-law sold the logs, provided the tree 
 was cut immediately. He never calculated 
 that the logs would be sold, but if the house 
 was painted, and the tree down, somehow or 
 other the old man would be forced to pay him. 
 
 The very next morning was set for the exe- 
 cution. A mile further up the road, near 
 where the creek crossed under the new con- 
 crete bridge, lived two old woodsmen, brothers 
 named Tom and Ed Jameson. After fifty 
 years of strenuous labor they had retired like 
 ancient mariners to spend the remainder of 
 their days in their snug cottage. Hincks, 
 the painter, induced them to join in the tree 
 felling bee as well as several other younger 
 men who had had more or less experience in 
 the woods. 
 
 The fatal day dawned crisp and bright; 
 it was typical of the month of September. A 
 gentle breeze was stirring the long needles 
 in the umbrella-like dome of the doomed pine. 
 Never, it seemed, had the ozone from that 
 lofty canopy been more fragrant or invigor- 
 ating. As the breeze persisted, the weird 
 cantata, which it so often sang at night, be-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 247 
 
 gan ; it was as if the tree understood its fate 
 and was chanting its requiem. 
 
 First of all the Jameson "boys" as they 
 were called, even though they were both well 
 over seventy, removed the panels of the 
 front yard fence, so as to allow plenty of 
 leeway to the cross-cut saws, and to prevent 
 it being smashed by the limbs of the falling 
 tree. Hincks had the satisfaction of notch- 
 ing it with a brand-new double bitted axe, 
 while the two Jamesons handled the cross- 
 cut. All the neighbors, old and young, were 
 attracted by the excitement, but there were 
 no regrets expressed, as the aesthetic value 
 of trees had never been felt in the com- 
 munity. 
 
 It took quite a time to fell the giant, and 
 as the saw grew nearer and nearer to the 
 notch, the canopy-like top was convulsed with 
 audible shudders. At last with a cry from 
 Hincks, "Look out everybody," which sent 
 the crowd scampering in all directions, and 
 an ear-splitting cracking of wood, the tree 
 dropped with a thud that shook the earth. 
 It sounded like the report of a sunset gun
 
 248 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 at some fort. In an instant children were 
 clambering over the prostrate trunk. 
 
 The Jameson boys lost no time in sawing 
 the part below the branches into four sixteen 
 foot logs. Then, aided by the younger men 
 they set to work cutting the top and limbs 
 into stovewood. "This reminds us," called 
 out one of them, "of 1876, when we was 
 cuttin' cordwood for the Pennsy at Wilcox in 
 Elk county. That's where they have the big 
 tannery that tanned three million buffalo 
 hides." 
 
 After several days' labor the job was fin- 
 ished and all the wood ranked for the sake 
 of convenience along the back of the house. 
 The logs were left unmoved and these, with 
 the mammoth stump and vast quantity of 
 glossy needles which fairly carpeted the yard 
 were constant reminders of the fallen pine. 
 The fence was replaced by Hincks, who was 
 elated with his triumph over his inanimate 
 enemy. 
 
 After the tree was gone, poor old Gerhard 
 and his wife began to regret it. The after- 
 noon sun was more noticeable than formerly,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 249 
 
 they missed the health-giving aroma which 
 emanated from its dark green foliage. In 
 the evenings the old man would sit on one of 
 the logs, leaning on his staff, imagining him- 
 self bargaining with the liberal German tim- 
 ber buyer. His wife said she was always 
 dreaming about the tree, and the song it used 
 to sing at night. Her dreams were so vivid 
 they woke her up, but even then her ears 
 rang with the strains of the weird cantata. 
 
 Shortly after the first snow fell, which was 
 about Thanksgiving time, Hincks, accom- 
 panied by his wife and children, came on a 
 visit to the old people. "I've come to pay you 
 a visit, and paint your house," was his in- 
 troductory. 
 
 That evening he noticed old Gerhard car- 
 rying in some oak wood from a shed. 
 
 "Ain't you burnin' the wood from that 
 yaller pine?" he queried rather sharply. 
 "No," answered the old man timidly, "we 
 tho't it wasn't dried enough." 
 
 "I'll show you that it is," rejoined the 
 painter, and running out brought back an 
 armful of the resonant pine.
 
 250 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 It looked dry enough, but when put in the 
 stove gave out such a sputtering and singing 
 that the old man, seated on the woodbox in 
 the corner exclaimed disgustedly "too green." 
 But Hincks insisted, and aided by kerosene, 
 the supper was cooked with the pine wood. 
 
 During the evening the wind started, and 
 there was a moaning sound outside which 
 was strangely reminiscent of the pine tree's 
 night song. Old Gerhard and his wife both 
 remarked this, but the son-in-law laughed 
 at them, saying that it was the telephone 
 wires across the road. Every few minutes 
 the old man would become silent and put his 
 hand to his ear, listen awhile attentively and 
 say, "that surely is the old pine back again." 
 
 By 10 o'clock he could stand it no longer. 
 He nodded to his wife and said "I'm going 
 out to see where all that moaning comes 
 from ; it's no telephone wires." Hincks, with 
 one of his little girls on his lap, was dozing 
 in an arm chair when his father-in-law 
 started for the door. He looked at him 
 angrily, and called to him "what's the use
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 251 
 
 fussing over telephone wires, ain't you used 
 to them by this time?" 
 
 But old Gerhard paid no heed, and, al- 
 though he was in his shirt sleeves and wore 
 carpet slippers, he opened the door. As he 
 did so a gust of chilly wind blew his white 
 beard about his face. He shut the door after 
 him and moved slowly along the board-walk. 
 The air was cold, but never had it been so 
 surcharged with the odor of the pine. 
 
 When he turned the corner of the house 
 he saw a great murky vapor rising from the 
 giant pine stump. He looked at it closely, 
 it was like a spiral column ; he followed it 
 with his eyes; it stretched upwards more 
 than sixty feet where it spread out into a vast 
 filmy canopy. From the dizzy heights came 
 melodious cadences, similar, yet truer and 
 sweeter than the humming of the telephone 
 wires across the way. He stood and listened. 
 
 It seemed to him like the violin playing of 
 Ole Bull, whom he had heard at his ill-fated 
 castle on Kettle Creek away back in the '50's. 
 He had been hunting elk at the time, and sat 
 on a log on the opposite mountain drinking
 
 252 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 in the exquisite tones as they were wafted in- 
 distinctly across the ravine. 
 
 But suddenly the old man heard an un- 
 earthly noise, and felt a shock, as if struck 
 across the face by a blackjack. As he fell, 
 he saw himself engulfed by the hazy vapor 
 which streamed from the stump of the an- 
 cient yellow pine; it was as if he had been 
 struck down by a spectral windfall. He be- 
 came senseless, and death soon relieved him. 
 
 Inside the house Hincks enjoyed his nap 
 before he became aware that old Gerhard had 
 been absent a long while. The old wife had 
 felt apprehensive ever since he went out, but 
 feared to speak lest she disturb her son-in- 
 law. "Where's Gran'pap?" said the painter, 
 suddenly, as if returning from some distant 
 land. When told he had gone to look into 
 the strange noises outside, he jumped up and 
 huried out, muttering "that old fool ought to 
 be in bed." 
 
 In the front yard an awful sight met his 
 gaze ; there lay the dead body of the poor old 
 man, with his face mashed in as if by a black- 
 jack. "Murdered by tramps/' was the only
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 253 
 
 thought that crossed the excited painter's 
 mind. And that was the verdict, also, of the 
 coroner's jury. 
 
 But wasn't it peculiar that after that night 
 the strange melodious murmurs were heard 
 no more about the little home? The telephone 
 wires still hummed when the winds were 
 high, but they were so unmusical and com- 
 monplace in comparison. And the pine wood 
 burned in the stove as if it had been sea- 
 soned for years; it ceased its wingeing and 
 sighing as if retribution had satisfied it.
 
 XVII. 
 A PENNSYLVANIA BISON HUNT 
 
 UFFALOES were plentiful 
 in Central Pennsylvania 
 until the beginning of the 
 nineteenth century, when 
 all, excepting a half dozen 
 stragglers, were slaught- 
 ered in a single week, two 
 men being responsible for 
 the extermination of what 
 was a distinct species of these noble animals. 
 The Pennsylvania bison were more closely 
 allied to the wood bison of Canada North- 
 west, than to the buffaloes which once roamed 
 our western plains. 
 
 Pennsylvania bison grew to enormous size, 
 were darker, and their hair curlier and 
 crisper than the buffaloes we know. On ac- 
 count of living in a mountainous country they 
 did not carry much superfluous flesh, and 
 their long legs made them agile runners. In 
 the summer time they could be found in 
 
 254
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 bands of about a dozen individuals grazing 
 on the high plateaux and on mountain sides 
 where new grass had come up after the forest 
 fires. 
 
 In winter they congregated into vast herds 
 and descended into the protected valleys 
 where they dug out the grass from under the 
 snow, and during storms huddled together 
 for mutual protection. They had a habit 
 of following a leader, and if this brute moved 
 in a certain direction the rest followed, often 
 to the peril of the entire herd. As the years 
 went by, and the country became more closely 
 settled, their range grew more limited and 
 their numbers decreased. 
 
 By 1770 no bison were seen in the West 
 Branch Valley, as twenty years of relentless 
 trapping had made them too wily to ap- 
 proach that region. They still penetrated the 
 valleys to the south, however, but were never 
 left unmolested. When the new century be- 
 gan there were bands aggregating five hun- 
 dred animals scattered over all the highlands 
 between Middle Creek and the southern edge 
 of the Bald Eagle Mountains.
 
 256 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 These wintered together, as in years past, 
 their assembling place being generally some 
 rocky height in the Seven Mountains. Their 
 method of assembling was curious. The leader 
 on reaching the chosen spot would commence 
 an incessant bellowing, which would be taken 
 up by the first bull within hearing, and sent 
 on by him to the next, and so on, until all had 
 received the signal to get together for the 
 winter. Then they would begin to troop in 
 the direction of their chief, whom they 
 obeyed implicity. 
 
 This was the pioneers' favorite time to 
 hunt them. They would wait along the buf- 
 falo paths which stretched across the valleys, 
 and over the mountains, and lucky were the 
 bison who reached the rendezvous. Despite 
 this, the completed gatherings presented a 
 formidable appearance, and would have 
 caused consternation to a modern hunter. 
 
 The winter of 1800-1801 was unusually 
 severe, and the buffaloes were driven to dire 
 straits to keep from starvation. Hunting had 
 become so persistent that they hesitated to 
 come down permanently from their retreats
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 257 
 
 in the Seven Mountains. They made forays 
 into Penn's Valley, Stone Valley, Poe Valley, 
 and Middle Creek Valley, but every time re- 
 treated with unsatisfied stomachs and sadly 
 decreased numbers. 
 
 During a spell of thawing in January, 
 1801, the carcasses of a dozen aged bulls and 
 cows were found in the Bear Meadows. In 
 the latter part of that month was a blizzard 
 of unprecedented severity. The famine- 
 stricken buffaloes forgot their fears, and one 
 night moved in single file down their old-time 
 path to the valley of Middle Creek. 
 
 A backwoodsman who saw them counted 
 three hundred and forty-five in the proces- 
 sion, and probably a score of stragglers fol- 
 lowed in the course of the next few hours. 
 They were led by "Old Logan," a coal black 
 bull of immense size, which seemed to the 
 settlers to have a charmed life. His spaci- 
 ous sides were scarred with bullet marks and 
 wounds left by attacks from wolves and half 
 of his tail was missing. 
 
 The pioneer who counted the procession 
 of course took a shot at the big fellow, but
 
 258 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 his gun missed fire, and on examination 
 found it was out of order. That ended his 
 hunt for the day, and he had to content him- 
 self with recounting his experience, without 
 having a trophy to show for it. 
 
 At daybreak the buffaloes were at the foot 
 of the mountains, gazing out over the dreary, 
 snow-buried valley. There was a log cabin 
 occupied by a young man named McClellan 
 and his family about a quarter of a mile be- 
 low where they were huddled together. The 
 hardy young pioneer espied the brutes and 
 lay in wait for them until they got into mo- 
 tion again and filed down the hollow of the 
 stream which flowed from the mountains into 
 Middle Creek. 
 
 When they reached a point opposite the 
 cabin they were surprised by a fusilade which 
 laid low first one, then a second, then a third 
 and a fourth of their number. More would 
 have fallen had not the hunter directed so 
 many volleys at "Old Logan." His impene- 
 trable hide rolled off the bullets and he 
 ambled away grunting amicably.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 259 
 
 Four buffaloes before breakfast was a good 
 bag, and the delighted nimrod set to work 
 skinning them, and cutting out the choicest 
 portions of the flesh, giving his most careful 
 attention to the tongues. The four carcasses 
 proved to be those of young cows, the meat 
 of which was most highly prized, and there 
 was less to leave to the wolves and ravens 
 than had the victims been old bulls. 
 
 Half a mile below where they had been am- 
 bushed the bison fell into better luck. Martin 
 Bergstresser, a recent arrival from Berks 
 county, had cleared a nice-sized farm by the 
 creek, and his first season's hay crop, a 
 goodly pile, stood in the lea of his big log 
 barn. It was needed to give feed for the 
 winter to a number of cows and sheep, and a 
 team of horses of which the former Berks 
 countain was the proud possessor. The ani- 
 mals were sidling close to the stack, when 
 they scented the approaching buffaloes, and 
 commenced lowing and bleating with terror. 
 
 Led by "Old Logan" the famished herd 
 broke through the rail fence, and crushing 
 the farm animals beneath their mighty rush,
 
 260 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 were soon making short work of the hay-pile. 
 Bergstresser was cutting trees nearly a mile 
 away when the stampede occurred, and if he 
 had not heard the bellowing of his live stock, 
 the screams of his wife and daughters would 
 have brought him back. He dropped his axe, 
 and picked up his gun, hurrying over stumps 
 and rocks to the scene of the onslaught. 
 
 Like his neighbor, McClellan, he singled 
 out "Old Logan" as his first object of attack, 
 but it was wasting ammunition. His eldest 
 daughter, Katie, a girl of -eighteen, brought 
 out a fresh musket, and shot two large buffa- 
 loes, which excited the herd so much that they 
 turned away from the stack. 
 
 At this juncture McClellan appeared and 
 shot two more. Evidently the animals pos- 
 sessed a strong communal feeling, for when 
 they saw their companions kicking convul- 
 sively and covered with blood, they set up the 
 most pitiful groaning imaginable. 
 
 "Old Logan," who had been more worried 
 by the pioneers' dogs than by their bullets, 
 saw the time had come to move, and striking 
 a trot, led his party out of the barnyard and
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 261 
 
 up the creek. When they had gone it looked 
 as if a cyclone had swept across the premises. 
 
 The barn was standing all right, but the 
 fences, spring-house and hay stack had gone, 
 and six cows, four calves and 35 sheep lay 
 crushed and dead among the ruins. Luckily 
 the horses were safe and sound in the stable, 
 athough one had become so excited he got 
 cast in his stall, and was rescued barely in 
 time to save his life. 
 
 McClellan lingered around a couple of 
 hours, helping what he could to repair dam- 
 ages, and offering his sympathy to all the 
 Bergstressers. Then he started homeward, 
 but when he got within sight of his clearing 
 he uttered a cry of surprise and horror. 
 
 Three hundred buffaloes were snorting and 
 trotting around the lot in which his cabin 
 stood, being so numerous that the house was 
 obscured by them. Boldly the pioneer rushed 
 through the roaring mass, only to find "Old 
 Logan" standing guard in front of the cabin 
 door. Too terrified to reason correctly, he 
 aimed his musket and fired, tearing an ugly 
 hole in the big bull's throat.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Enraged by gore and pain, the monster 
 wheeled about, and plunged headlong through 
 the door of the cabin. Being their leader, 
 the herd were accustomed to follow him 
 blindly, so when he disappeared into the 
 cabin the rest strove to do likewise. 
 
 Vainly McClellan fired his musket, and 
 when the ammunition was exhausted, he 
 drove his knife into the beasts' flanks to try 
 to stop them in their mad course. Inside the 
 cabin were his wife and three little children, 
 aged five, three and one year; at least they 
 were there when he started on the hunt a few 
 hours earlier, and he dreaded to think of 
 their awful fate. He could not stem the tide, 
 and the brutes continued filing through the 
 doorway until they were jammed in the 
 building as tightly as wooden animals in a 
 toy Noah's Ark. 
 
 No sound came from the victims inside ; all 
 he could hear was the snorting and bumping 
 of the giant beasts in their cramped quarters. 
 The other bison outside stamped their hoofs, 
 moaning with disappointment. Seeing he 
 could do nothing more, he was about to go
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 263 
 
 back to Bergstresser's for help, when he saw 
 his neighbor and three other men, all carry- 
 ing guns, coming out of the woods. 
 
 They had heard the noisy animals a mile 
 away, and formed themselves into a posse. 
 McClellan signalled them to remain where 
 they were, and ran towards them. They held 
 a hasty council of war, deciding that the only 
 thing to do was to tear down the log cabin, 
 in the hope that perhaps some of the family 
 had hidden in a corner, and were still living. 
 
 Two of the men ran back to the Berg- 
 stresser home for axes, and while they were 
 gone the rest climbed into trees, amusing 
 themselves shooting buffaloes. When they 
 returned, accompanied by Bergstresser's wife 
 and daughters, twenty-five dead bison were 
 lying in the lot. The live ones would not 
 leave as long as "Old Logan" remained 
 wedged in the cabin, but remained stupidly 
 clustered around the door. 
 
 The five men, armed with axes and with 
 heavy poles for battering rams, repaired to 
 the rear of the shack and began the work of 
 demolition. It had been built to last, but the
 
 264 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 determined men soon made a generous open- 
 ing, out of which the bison, headed by "Old 
 Logan" swarmed like giant bees from a hive. 
 
 The sight of the king of the buffaloes with 
 his bearded throat a mass of clotted blood, 
 was too much for McClellan. He seized a gun 
 and shot the brute through the head. The old 
 fellow was slow to die, running bellowing 
 hideously for three hundred yards before he 
 fell and became rigid. The entire herd fol- 
 lowed him and surrounded his prostrate 
 form, the air resounding with their moans as 
 they battled with one another to lick his 
 wounds. 
 
 The men entered the cabin, and were horri- 
 fied to have their worst fears realized. On the 
 earthern floor, crushed deep into the mud by 
 the impress of the cruel hoofs, were the re- 
 mains of the unfortunate McClellan's wife 
 and three children. Strong man of the woods 
 that he was he dropped down in a faint, and 
 it was over an hour before he could be resus- 
 citated. 
 
 When he came to himself he was led 
 trembling like a leaf to the Bergstresser
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 265 
 
 home, and put to bed. It was useless to follow 
 the buffaloes any more that day, as all the 
 men were out of ammunition. They buried 
 the mangled bodies of the family under the 
 earthen floor in the log cabin, walled up the 
 door and the opening that had been made to 
 let out the buffaloes, leaving them to sleep 
 their last sleep in what was so recently their 
 home, but now their mausoleum. 
 
 When the bereaved husband and father re- 
 covered sufficiently he suggested to Berg- 
 stresser that they exterminate the surviving 
 bison. Bergstresser was enthusiastic over 
 the idea, and the two men started on horse- 
 back, one riding towards the river and the 
 other towards the headwaters of Middle 
 Creek, to invite the settlers to join a hunt of 
 extermination. 
 
 Meanwhile there was another heavy snow- 
 fall, but every man invited accepted with 
 alacrity. About fifty hunters assembled at 
 the Bergstresser home, and marched like an 
 invading army in the direction of the moun- 
 tains. They were out two days before dis- 
 covering their quarry, as the fresh snow had
 
 266 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 covered all the buffalo paths. The brutes 
 were all huddled together up to their necks 
 in snow in the great "Sink" in the White 
 Mountains and the hunters, looking down on 
 them, estimated their numbers at three hun- 
 dred. 
 
 When they got among the animals they 
 found them numb from cold and hunger, but 
 had they been physically able they could not 
 have moved, so deeply were they "crusted" 
 in the drift. The work of slaughter quickly 
 began. Some used guns, but the most killed 
 them by cutting their throats with long 
 knives. 
 
 The snow was too deep to attempt skinning 
 them, but the tongues were saved, and these 
 the backwoodsmen shoved into the pockets 
 of their leather coats until they could carry 
 no more. 
 
 After the last buffalo had been dispatched 
 the triumphant huntsmen marched down to 
 the valley, singing German hymns. It was a 
 horrible sight they left behind them. Three 
 hundred dead buffaloes stood upright in the 
 frozen "crust," most with jaws broken, and
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 267 
 
 all with tongues gone, and the ice about them 
 resembled a sheet of crimson glass. 
 
 Later in the season some of the hunters 
 returned to see if they could procure a few 
 of the hides, but the alternate freezes and 
 thaws had rendered them worthless. In the 
 spring and summer travellers crossing dis- 
 tant ridges could notice one portion of the 
 sky black with the pinions of huge birds. 
 They were the carrion-seekers, bald eagles, 
 golden eagles, a half dozen kinds of hawks, 
 buzzards, ravens, crows, which picked clean 
 the bones of Pennsylvania's last herd of 
 bison. 
 
 Whether they deserved their awful fate 
 because the dumbness of "Old Logan," their 
 leader, caused the trampling to death of a 
 pioneer family is difficult to judge, but they 
 paid the penalty, and their executioners were 
 content to rob posterity of these valuable 
 game animals. To this day the barren flat 
 where the McClellan cabin stood is known as 
 "The Buffalo Field," and on winter nights it 
 is averred that the tramp of hoofs is heard 
 incessantly pounding the hard earth in a 
 ghostly stampede.
 
 XVIII. 
 McELHATTAN AND HIS SPRINGS 
 
 ILLIAM McELHATTAN ar- 
 rived at the banks of the 
 stream which has since 
 borne his name, in the 
 spring of 1771, and at once 
 commenced clearing a 
 farm. 
 
 Before he had gone very 
 far his shrewd Scotch-Irish 
 mind, for he WES a native of Derry, perceived 
 the need of a mill in the locality. The water 
 power was inexhaustible, and the growing 
 number of settlers would guarantee a pros- 
 perous business. The mill was a well-built 
 affair, and cost more than any structure of 
 its kind in the West Branch Valley. 
 
 But he had not reckoned on troubles with 
 the Indians, which would prove such a hind- 
 rance to agriculture that at times it seemed 
 as if a mill was superfluous. Being of a 
 friendly disposition and given to joking with 
 
 268
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 269 
 
 the redskins, he could not see why others 
 were continually embroiled with them. 
 
 For a long time after the mill was erected, 
 it was an object of great curiosity to the ab- 
 origines. They crowded about the machin- 
 ery in stolid admiration until it seemed as if 
 an accident would result. Many a white man 
 would have gotten angry and used bad lan- 
 guage, or driven them away, but not so with 
 William McElhattan. He encouraged the 
 copper-colored visitors, made them presents 
 of flour, and treated their chiefs to whiskey. 
 
 He had such a following of savages that 
 the other settlers said his name should have 
 been "William Penn" and not William Mc- 
 Elhattan. He always maintained that his 
 sociability paid and that if the rest had fol- 
 lowed the same policy, there would have been 
 no "Great Runaway" with all its attendant 
 losses of life and property. When it came, 
 and all the other settlers fled for their lives 
 from Indian massacre, he held his ground, 
 and was said to have been drinking whiskey 
 with several of the chiefs in the pine grove 
 below his mill while the frightened pioneers
 
 270 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 were going down the river in their canoes as 
 fast as the current would carry them. 
 
 This earned him the title of renegade, 
 which was undeserved. He merely knew the 
 best way to protect his interests. His near- 
 est white neighbor had resided two miles 
 from him, while his nearest Indian neighbor 
 was located a little more than a mile dis- 
 tant. The flat now known as Wayne town- 
 ship, was pretty well cleared of Red Men 
 even in William McElhattan's time. The old 
 chieftain Hyloshotkee, which translated 
 means Ginseng, had his lodge-house at the 
 entrance to the Gap in the Bald Eagle Moun- 
 tains, on the campground where the five 
 springs are located. 
 
 In an earlier day when Indians were more 
 numerous they camped by the hundreds 
 around the Springs, but with the advance of 
 the white men they had withdrawn to Sugar 
 Valley, where they disputed with one another 
 for the possession of its limited boundaries. 
 But Hyloshotkee hung on partly because he 
 loved the scenes of his youth, and partly be- 
 cause his former fellows had deserted him
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 271 
 
 for younger leaders. He had five sons, but 
 the four oldest had gone away, leaving only 
 the youngest, Choleesaw, or Pine Leaf, to 
 look after the old warrior and his aged 
 squaw. 
 
 Hyloshotkee was from the start one of the 
 most interested and persistent visitors to the 
 water-mill. After the acquaintance had 
 reached the point where he took to drinking 
 McElhattan's whiskey, he came every clear 
 day, and darkness alone drove him off. White 
 men from a distance who visited the mill per- 
 haps twice a year, always noticed the old In- 
 dian, and laughed about him, calling him 
 "McElhattan's watchman." He never made 
 any attempt to help, which sometimes ang- 
 ered the farmers when they had extra large 
 loads to be handled in a limited space of time. 
 
 After he had gotten to know McElhattan 
 well enough to have confidence in him, he 
 began urging him to come out to the Springs 
 for a game supper. The miller was too busy 
 to be much of a hunter, but he had killed 
 three elks one afternoon which threatened to 
 make havoc in his wheatfield. He had not
 
 272 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 attempted to skin them, but strung them up 
 by the hind legs from some trees along the 
 fence-row as a warning to other elks of 
 marauding tendencies. No more elks ap- 
 peared, but instead the number of ravens and 
 crows grew so tremendous that their croak- 
 ing and cawing drowned the roar of the 
 water-wheel. 
 
 "My son, Choleesaw, is a great hunter," 
 the old Indian would expostulate. "Every 
 afternoon he comes to us with some fresh 
 trophy of the 'Hase : one day it is chetowaik 
 or plovers, the next day it is mushkodasa or 
 grouse, another it is wawa or wild geese, and 
 sheshebwuz or wild ducks," This seemed very 
 tempting, especially when he added: "My 
 wife knows how to cook game better than 
 any squaw in all these valleys." 
 
 One Sunday afternoon in the early autumn, 
 the old Indian appeared, and explained that 
 his son had shot two buffaloes which were 
 crossing the Spring Run Ridge, and had 
 brought home their tongues as the "piece de 
 resistence," but in addition there were a num- 
 ber of grouse, woodcocks, and plovers hang-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 273 
 
 ing at the camp ready to be cooked. "We 
 will serve the game with plenty of roasted 
 ears of Indian corn, and potatoes cooked only 
 as the Indians can prepare them." 
 
 McElhattan accepted the invitation, and 
 was about to start off with his Indian friend, 
 when his wife called him into the house. She 
 informed him that he must take her and their 
 three children, or remain at home himself. 
 It was not that she relished the idea of being 
 entertained by Indians, but because she was 
 afraid to remain and guard the premises. 
 "If we die, we die together," was her way of 
 putting it. 
 
 McElhattan was for cancelling the visit 
 but he could see by the Indian's expression 
 it meant an insult and strained relations, so, 
 trusting to his previous good luck, he started, 
 followed by his wife, daughter, two little 
 boys, and their faithful watchdog, Felix. 
 
 The eldest child was a singularly pretty 
 girl of seventeen named Vashti, who appar- 
 ently had something of the stubbornness of 
 her Biblical name-sake. For a year past her 
 parents had been trying their utmost to
 
 274 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 marry her to young Abner Sweeny, son of a 
 prosperous landowner at Fort Augusta. The 
 young man was a great horseman, and, ac- 
 companied by his colored servant, made trips 
 every two months to visit the beautiful 
 Vashti and persuade her to become his wife. 
 He was a fine looking fellow, with a heavy 
 mane of red hair, and stood over six feet in 
 height. He had on one occasion brought her 
 a ring with a red sparkling stone in it that 
 was bought in Philadelphia, and he had to do 
 a lot of coaxing before she would accept it. 
 When she finally took it she carried it in 
 her hand until he had gone, and then hid it 
 away somewhere in the house. When her 
 mother accused her of having lost it she only 
 smiled and said that "a ring from a man 
 you're not in love with is not worth hunting 
 for." All this was a grief to her parents, 
 who were not worldly people in any sense of 
 the word, but sincere and simple Cavinists; 
 their anxiety for the "brilliant match" being 
 founded on the desire to get their promising 
 offspring out of the wilderness into a com- 
 munity where she would have more pleasure
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 275 
 
 and comforts. They accused her of being 
 fond of first one young man, and then an- 
 other, as the cause of her indifference to 
 Sweeny, but she pursued the even tenor of 
 her heart. 
 
 Wilful as she generally was, McElhattan 
 was surprised when she consented to go to 
 the Indian supper without an argument. She 
 even went to the bit of broken mirror that 
 the miller had fastened on the side of the 
 house for use when he shaved, and smoothed 
 and adjusted her wonderful golden hair. 
 Backwoods girl that she was, she would have 
 attracted attention in any ballroom in Phila- 
 delphia, her blonde coloring was so excep- 
 tional, and her slender figure so lithe and 
 graceful. Her violet eyes were too small; 
 that perhaps was the only flaw a beauty ex- 
 pert could detect. 
 
 When the party neared the Springs they 
 could see thin columns of blue smoke rising 
 from the fires which were built in depres- 
 sions in the ground blocked in with stones, 
 Over one fire an aged squaw in a green 
 blanket was bending. Over another appeared
 
 276 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the broad shoulders and sinewy back of a 
 young Indian boy, free of clothing to his 
 waist, and wearing a pair of buckskin trous- 
 ers. His manly bearing gave an air of dig- 
 nity to a "get up" that would have appeared 
 shocking in most white men. 
 
 As they drew near, the squaw, with Indian- 
 like indifference, kept on with her cooking, 
 but the young fellow turned around, his eyes 
 falling full on the beautiful Vashti. His 
 pleased surprise was so great that he dropped 
 the wooden fork on which he was broiling a 
 grouse, and it fell into the coals, sending up 
 an appetizing odor. The young girl seemed 
 to be equally surprised, for she stood still for 
 half a minute gazing at her handsome Indian 
 admirer. Then the formal introductions 
 were made, and the party fraternized as if of 
 one race. 
 
 The supper was a great success, especially 
 as McElhattan had brought a bottle of Lan- 
 caster county whiskey, which contributed to 
 the exuberant spirits of the older people. To 
 have come upon them suddenly would have 
 made one believe the millenium had arrived.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 277 
 
 Choleesaw and Vashti continued exchanging 
 glances, but both being a trifle shy, it was not 
 until the spirit of the Lancaster county whis- 
 key had taken possession of their elders that 
 their acquaintance made full headway. 
 
 The handsome young Indian could only 
 speak a few words of English, and Vashti 
 knew about a like number of words in the 
 Seneca dialect, but conversation was for- 
 gotten in the ardor of youth. Choleesaw sug- 
 gested that Vashti go with him to look at his 
 fish pond, and she gladly accepted. A short 
 distance below the Springs he had dammed 
 the little stream which ran from them, and 
 in it he had put many kinds of beautiful fish. 
 Among them were some small silver-colored 
 ones, of a kind Vashti had never seen before. 
 She seemed greatly pleased, especially when 
 the young Indian caught some in his hands, 
 and gave her a close view of them. 
 
 Choleesaw saw raccoon tracks leading to 
 the banks of the pond, and became excited, 
 his black eyes flashing with the animation of 
 the true hunter. They followed the tiny 
 tracks some distance back into the forest,
 
 278 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 where they lost them. Vashti told her com- 
 panion she would secure for him the loan of 
 her father's animal trap, and he could catch 
 the furry thief, and lots like him. The shades 
 of evening had deepened in the always dark 
 vale of hemlocks, and Vashti began to feel 
 cold. She rubbed her hands together, which 
 aroused the sympathy of the Indian, who 
 took them in his, and warmed them in his 
 strong grasp. Then he embraced her and 
 kissed her a dozen times before their stroll 
 had ended and they rejoined the merrymak- 
 ers at the camp-fire. 
 
 A full silvery moon was just coming up 
 over the fringe of pine trees on the edge of 
 the mountain, contributing largely to the 
 pretty picture. McElhattan, who was feel- 
 ing good, was talking loudly about wanting 
 to buy the Springs from Hyloshotkee and the 
 old Indian was shaking his head. When he 
 saw the young couple returning his expres- 
 sion lit up, and he pointed to the fair Vashti, 
 saying in his broken English: "Mister Mc- 
 Elhattan, if you give me that young girl for 
 my son, you shall have the Springs." The
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 279 
 
 pioneer laughed heartily, but made no reply, 
 and the conversation drifted into other 
 channels. 
 
 When it was time to return home, the 
 white people expressed their sincere grati- 
 tude for the delightful evening, McElhattan 
 declaring it was the happiest night since he 
 had left Derry. He even stood in the middle 
 of the path after the final handshake and re- 
 cited a poem which he imagined was ap- 
 propriate. Without waiting to be invited 
 Choleesaw joined the party, leaving McEl- 
 hattan, his wife and the two little boys lead 
 the way, while he sauntered along back of 
 them with Vashti. By the time the mill was 
 reached, the beautiful girl knew why she had 
 been cold to Abner Sweeny and her other 
 suitors ; she had been waiting for her Fate. 
 
 The next morning when Hyloshotkee came 
 to the mill, his son was with him. Unlike 
 his father, he appeared anxious to work and 
 helped unload several farm-wagons which ar- 
 rived during the day. Choleesaw played his 
 part well, strengthening his tie with Vashti 
 daily, but never giving her parents cause for
 
 280 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 suspicion. He was apparently aways busy 
 and kept his place so well that he cooked and 
 ate his own meals in the pine grove below 
 the race. 
 
 The mail carrier visited the locality infre- 
 quently, but one day he brought a letter for 
 Vashti. It was from Sweeny, saying he was 
 coming on a visit the following week. Her 
 parents were present when she received it, 
 and there was no use hiding the contents 
 from them. They urged her to accept this 
 grand opportunity to get out of the wilder- 
 ness and mingle in a world of comparative 
 refinement. But Vashti was stubborn and a 
 poor actress; she told them that she would 
 never marry the prosperous youth, and 
 furthermore this time would hide in the 
 woods when he arrived. 
 
 On the morning before his proposed ar- 
 rival, McElhattan took Vashti by the should- 
 ers and led her to the log smoke-house, which 
 stood at the edge of the pine grove, shoved 
 her in, locking and bolting the door. She sub- 
 mitted without a scene, and her parents felt 
 that, despite her threats, she would relent
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 281 
 
 when the time came. When they brought in 
 her dinner they found her in good spirits, 
 and she was singing when they appeared with 
 her supper. 
 
 She had told her Indian lover that her par- 
 ents would probably lock her up to prevent 
 her hiding from Sweeny, therefore he was 
 not surprised when he saw from a point of 
 vantage in the mill, her father gently, but 
 firmly, thrusting her into captivity in the 
 smoke-house. He continued his work, and 
 when it was dark said "good night" to his 
 employer, starting ostensibly for his father's 
 camp at the Springs. He whistled to Felix 
 and the dog followed him, wagging its tail. 
 
 He did not go very far, but lurked in the 
 woods until the last candle was snuffed in the 
 comfortable McElhattan home; then he stole 
 out stealthily, followed by the faithful dog, 
 emerging from the woods at the rear of the 
 smoke-house. He watched the miller's home 
 until he was sure all were in dreamland, and 
 ran quickly to the smoke-house door. Deftly 
 prying off the hasp he had the lock in his
 
 282 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 hand and the door wide open in less than a 
 minute. 
 
 Vashti leaped into his arms, and he started 
 for the Gap on a trot, carrying his precious 
 burden, with the faithful Felix bounding 
 along beside. They stopped for a minute at 
 old Hyloshotkee's wigwam to tell him of their 
 safe escape and then continued their journey 
 into the mountains. 
 
 Bright and early the next morning Hylo- 
 shotkee was at the mill, smilingly wishing a 
 "good morning" to the dejected miller. 
 "Don't look so cross," he said, as well as his 
 poor English would permit, "my son has got 
 your girl, now you are the owner of the five 
 Springs." 
 
 The humor of the situation appealed to 
 the Irishman, and he replied: "If it's done, 
 it's done; I'd rather have a smiling bit of 
 land and water than an unsmiling daughter." 
 
 In three days Choleesaw and Vashti re- 
 turned to their former haunts, and were 
 speedily forgiven by McElhattan and his 
 wife. "We were married by a German mis-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 283 
 
 sionary we met on the mountain," explained 
 the bride. 
 
 William McElhattan let it go at that, pro- 
 vided Choleesaw would adopt an English 
 rendering of his name. William Pine was 
 his selection, partly out of compliment to his 
 magnanimous father-in-law, partly in trans- 
 lation of his own name. And the Pine family 
 lived happily ever afterwards.
 
 XIX. 
 THE COURAGE OF PETER PENTZ 
 
 HE best view of the big "bare 
 place" on the Bald Eagle 
 Mountain between McEl- 
 hattan and Castanea is ob- 
 tained from the new State 
 Road on the opposite side 
 of the river. The long, un- 
 broken ridge stretches like 
 a moss-green colored wall, 
 and is so narrow in some places on the comb 
 or summit that one can sit astride of the 
 rocks with one leg in the West Branch Valley 
 and the other in the Valley of the Kammer- 
 diner. 
 
 There are two bare places on the long 
 ridge; one, comparatively small directly 
 above the village of McElhattan, and the 
 other, a great lengthy space like the scalded 
 flank of a backyard cat, and covering over 
 fifty acres, stretching from the summit two- 
 thirds of the way down the mountain, about 
 
 284
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 285 
 
 midway between the small glen known as the 
 "Little Gap" and the gap at Castanea. 
 
 Both bare places are noticeable for miles 
 with their masses of gray- white rock; the 
 smaller one has a large charred stump near 
 the centre which looks at first glance like a 
 crouching bear. The larger one is of more 
 uneven contour and abounds with fissures, 
 crevices and caverns. 
 
 Bears, foxes and raccoons have been taken 
 out of the caves within the past twenty 
 years, and to judge from the bones found in 
 some of these hiding places, they must have 
 abounded with animals a hundred years ago. 
 The early settlers in the valley paid little at- 
 tention to the animals which nowadays are 
 regarded as "dangerous." They would 
 hardly go to the trouble of loading their mus- 
 kets to shoot a bear. "They are our hogs," 
 the Indians would say, and the whites de- 
 clared if such were the case "they were wel- 
 come to them." 
 
 Foxes gave them some annoyance, but 
 their real enemies were the wolves and pan- 
 thers. That the panther was the most feared
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 is evidenced by the fact that "panther 
 stories" are the most numerous of all the 
 hunting reminiscences of Central Pennsyl- 
 vania. They figured in the witchcraft stories 
 as well ; it was much more impressive for the 
 witch to assume the form of a panther than 
 a wolf, a wildcat, or a domestic animal. 
 
 Lions in British East Africa are hardly 
 more numerous than were panthers in the 
 West Branch Valley up to the end of the first 
 quarter of the Nineteenth Century. Even in 
 Eastern Pennsylvania they abounded, 50 be- 
 ing killed in Luzerne county in 1818. Though 
 hundreds are slain, their diminishing num- 
 bers were due principally to the killing off of 
 their chief food supply, the buffaloes, elk and 
 deer. 
 
 The first settlers at the foot of the Bald 
 Eagle Mountain which contains the "bare 
 places" attempted to raise cattle, sheep and 
 hogs. This suited the panthers exactly, as 
 calves, lambs and pigs were easier to cap- 
 ture, and gave up without the tussle common 
 to the wild creatures. There was one pan- 
 ther which gave no end of trouble for six
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 287 
 
 years. Those who saw him at close range, 
 for he was very bold, and would carry off a 
 sheep out of a barnyard, stated that he had a 
 tawney matted mane like a lion. If he were 
 seen today he would be classed as an "escaped 
 lion from a circus," but as there were no cir- 
 cuses in this country in those days, he 
 couldn't have been that. 
 
 Experimental zoologists would have tick- 
 eted him as a hybrid between a panther and 
 a shepherd dog. But he was in most proba- 
 bility a particularly masculine panther, a ver- 
 itable Felis Couguar Rex. A list of the 
 settlers who had had a shot at or hunted the 
 elusive monster would sound like a taxpay- 
 ers' list from the Great Island to the Long 
 Reach. The subject of destroying it had been 
 discussed with the redoubtable Peter Pentz, 
 but he had been too busy fighting Indians to 
 give much attention to the outlaws of the 
 animal kingdom. 
 
 On one occasion when there was a lull in 
 the hostilities with the Red Men he was pay- 
 ing a visit to Isaac Dougherty, whose cabin 
 was located where McElhattan Run empties
 
 288 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 into the Susquehanna. The evening of his 
 arrival he was sitting with Dougherty on a 
 bench under one of the giant linnwood trees 
 on the river bank, discussing some of their 
 expeditions against the Indians of ten years 
 before, when they heard their dogs barking 
 and a loud commotion in the barnyard. Seiz- 
 ing their guns with which they had been test- 
 ing their old-time skill on a very alert loon 
 in the river, they ran in the direction of the 
 racket. 
 
 Five young steers were huddled in a mass 
 in one corner, lowing pitifully. A full panel 
 of the slab fence was down, and around it 
 were several pools of blood. There was a 
 bloody path three feet wide leading from the 
 barn yard into the woods, looking as if every 
 inch of the way had been contested in some 
 fierce combat. The men were good runners 
 and soon overtook the warring elements. 
 
 There was a level piece of ground covered 
 with walnut trees, that had been cleared of 
 underbrush long ago by the herds of buffa- 
 loes. In the semi-darkness they made out 
 the prostrate form of a red and white
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 289 
 
 spotted steer; on it was crouched a huge 
 yellowish animal with a long hood of matted 
 hair like a lion. 
 
 Nearby lay the two hounds, panting and 
 occasionally giving vent to howls of pain. 
 "Fells Couguar Rex" was clearly master of 
 the situation. When he saw the two hunt- 
 ers he gritted his teeth so audibly that they 
 heard it plainly twenty yards away. Then 
 he buried his head in a hole he had ripped 
 in the carcass of the steer, taking a last long 
 drink of its blood, and turned and bounded 
 off in the direction of the steep face of the 
 mountain. Both men fired their muskets, 
 but their shots went wide. 
 
 There was no time to put the suffering 
 hounds out of their misery, so the men ran 
 after the retreating monster, tracking him 
 easily in the soft ground and by occasional 
 drops of blood which dripped from his gorged 
 mouth. 
 
 The climb up the mountain was steep and 
 perilous after dark, but Peter Pentz and 
 Isaac Dougherty had never turned back for 
 man or beast, and this time they were thor-
 
 290 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 oughly aroused. The panther was light of 
 foot, but at times he would break a twig in 
 his leaps, which kept his pursuers from los- 
 ing him, as there was no tracking on the 
 rocky, mountain slope, and it was too late 
 at night to detect any drops of blood. "He's 
 making for the bare place," whispered Pentz, 
 who was a faster climber than Dougherty. 
 He ran almost as fast as the animal, but 
 stopped every few minutes to allow his com- 
 panion to catch up with him. 
 
 At length they reached the lower end of the 
 bare place just in time to see the tail of the 
 panther disappearing into the great cavern 
 near the middle of the stony desert. "We've 
 got him!" shouted Peter Pentz in triumph. 
 The two men climbed up to the mouth of the 
 cave, which was so low, that a human being 
 could only enter by crawling on his belly. 
 They lit a fire from a quantity of pine cones 
 that had blown from the forest above, and 
 soon had a brilliant blaze started. On it they 
 threw a couple of logs which they found in 
 a cranny in the rocks.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 291 
 
 When the wind blew from the west the fire- 
 light illuminated the cavern, but disclosed 
 no signs of the panther. "There must be a 
 - bend in the passage," remarked Dougherty. 
 Peter Pentz took the two muzzle-loading 
 rifles and primed them carefully. Then he 
 got down on "all fours," dragging a gun 
 under each arm and with a lighted pine torch 
 in his mouth he crawled into the cave. "If 1 
 don't get him the first shot, I'll get him the 
 second," was his cheerful au revoir. 
 
 Dougherty had seen his friend in a good 
 many tight palces in the past, but he could 
 not help wonder what the panther would be 
 doing if he dodged the first charge. The ani- 
 mal must have had his stronghold deep in 
 the bowels of the earth, for it seemed a good 
 ten minutes before the muffled report of the 
 rifle was heard. "He's got him the first 
 shot," murmured Dougherty in thankfulness. 
 
 But when, two minutes later, another re- 
 port emanated from the cavern his worst 
 fears were awakened. Drawing his hunting 
 knife he crawled into the opening in search 
 of his absent friend. When he came to the
 
 292 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 bend in the passage he called "Peter, Peter, 
 are you alive?" Immediately came the cheery 
 answer, "Yes, yes, Isaac, but I had to kill 
 two of them." 
 
 Dougherty hurried his "snail's pace" as 
 best he could, until by the wavering glare of 
 his torch he could see the outlines of Peter 
 Pentz and his victims. They lay one behind 
 the other in the narrow gallery, but the fore- 
 most one was Felis Couguar Rex with a bullet 
 hole through his mustard colored skull. The 
 second was a female ; she, too, had been shot 
 through the head. 
 
 Death had been instantaneous in both 
 cases and they lay with heads resting on their 
 paws, like huge cats fallen asleep. 
 
 "When I got within three feet of the hairy 
 one, he rushed at me, but my bullet was 
 speedier and he dropped. The she one tried 
 to do the same thing, but she was easy, as the 
 roof was low, and I finished her before she 
 could climb over the body of her mate." This 
 was the modest way in which Peter Pentz 
 described his wonderful "kill."
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "Over yonder in that bowl in the rocks are 
 three cubs, the cutest little things you ever 
 saw," he continued. "We'll take them home 
 as pets." With the enthusiasm of a child 
 he crawled over the two carcasses and 
 reached into the nest and drew out the young 
 animals, which had slept through their par- 
 ents' execution. 
 
 "We'll leave the dead ones here," said 
 Dougherty, but before they left Pentz scalped 
 the male carcass, and hung the trophy, with 
 its matted mane, to his belt. 
 
 The morning star was sole possessor of the 
 heavens when they emerged from the gloomy 
 labyrinth, but it appeared a trifle droopy as 
 it dodged among the tops of the tall pines on 
 the comb of the Bald Eagle Mountain. Carry- 
 ing the three cubs they returned to the 
 Dougherty cabin, and after a comfortable 
 breakfast spent the morning building an en- 
 closure for them. Peter Pentz rounded out 
 the balance of his visit in peace, but when 
 he left for "down country," he found the 
 fame of his latest exploit had preceded him. 
 
 "We hear you killed the hairy panther in
 
 294 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 his cave," everyone would say. In reply the 
 big red-haired frontiersman would smile 
 modestly and point to the scalp with its long, 
 matted brownish-yellow hair, which hung at 
 his belt. "That's how a good many Indians 
 would like to wear my scalp," he would add, 
 and then turn the subject of the conversation 
 into other channels.
 
 XX. 
 TIM MURPHY'S GHOST 
 
 N his latter days, Tim Mur- 
 phy, the celebrated sharp- 
 shooter of the Revolution, 
 who killed the British 
 General Frazer at the Bat- 
 tle of Stillwater, used to 
 confide to his intimate 
 friends that he had once 
 seen a ghost. 
 Tim was a bachelor and lived alone for 
 many years in a log-cabin at the foot of the 
 Bad Eagle Mountain, on the site of what is 
 now the summer resort known as Sylvan 
 Dell. It was a melancholy looking shack, 
 both within and without, but Tim was a 
 genial soul and his visitors forgot the sur- 
 roundings. The interior was like a modern 
 hunter's shanty, consisting as it did of a sin- 
 gle room, with a curtained bunk on one side, 
 and a large open fireplace on the other. 
 Above the fireplace hung the trusty rifle 
 
 295
 
 296 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 that had mortally wounded the British com- 
 mander, and threw the whole army of red- 
 coats into confusion, causing the retreat to 
 Saratoga, where they surrendered. Below the 
 rifle hung an oval minature case of gold, but 
 the portrait it contained was kept a mystery 
 by the picturesque old veteran. That it was 
 the original of the apparition many were cer- 
 tain, as he always stoutly denied that Gen- 
 eral Frazer's ghost had ever appeared to him. 
 
 Whenever any one returned from a visit 
 to Old Tim folks would say "Did he tell you 
 about the ghost?" To which the late visitor 
 could only reply that he had said he had once 
 seen one, but gave no particulars. One 
 Christmas eve when Tim was getting pretty 
 aged he was entertaining Benjamin Mc- 
 Alevy, an old comrade of the Revolution, who 
 had stopped off on his way back from a visit 
 to his married daughter who lived in North- 
 ern New Jersey. 
 
 When Tim met him on the opposite bank 
 of the river with his dugout, in response to 
 his familiar war-whoop, he noticed his friend 
 carried a bundle in one hand and a demijohn
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 297 
 
 in the other. "Pray, what does your bottle 
 contain?" inquired Tim, jokingly. "If it's 
 valuable stuff you'd better leave it on this 
 side, for if our boat upsets it would be a sin 
 to lose it." McAlevy said he would risk it, 
 arid they were soon safely landed in front 
 of Tim's cabin. 
 
 "This is for you, with my son-in-law's 
 good wishes," said the visitor, handing the 
 demijohn to the old sharpshooter. "It's the 
 best New Jersey Apple-Jack, fit to celebrate 
 the Christmas of President Jackson or the 
 man who licked the British at Stillwater." 
 Old Tim was profuse in his thanks, and the 
 rest of the afternoon was given over to mer- 
 riment. 
 
 After supper, which had sobered down the 
 two veterans, they drew their armchairs in 
 front of the fire, and began to discuss the 
 past. Outside the wind was blowing in icy 
 gusts up the river, sometimes seemingly 
 veering out of its course to moan dismally 
 around the eaves of the snug cabin. 
 
 "It seems strange, Tim, that you never 
 married," old McAlevy was saying. "My
 
 298 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 children and grandchildren are the greatest 
 pleasure of my old age, and I cherish the 
 memory of my good wife, though she has 
 been dead these twenty years, above anybody 
 that ever lived, except my mother." These 
 words put the old bachelor into a silent, re- 
 flective mood. He looked as if he wanted to 
 tell something that had been on his mind for 
 years, but he was loath to begin. 
 
 McAlevy watched him closely, wondering 
 why he had become so quiet, and looked so 
 often at the gold miniature case hanging 
 above the fireplace. "Wake up, old boy," he 
 called to him, "come back and tell me why 
 you never gave a good woman the pleasure 
 of saying she was your wife?" 
 
 Tim remained quiescent for a couple of 
 minutes longer and then after another look 
 at the miniature case, said, "You often heard 
 me mention to you I'd seen a ghost?" Mc- 
 Alevy admitted he had, but added, "Ghosts 
 don't make wives; I want to kear why you 
 never married." 
 
 "Well," replied the old bachelor, "the ghost 
 and the wife story are one; the story you
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 299 
 
 want to hear is the part of the ghost story 
 I never told anyone before. 
 
 "I was in love once, about the time I went 
 off to fight for the independence of our great 
 country. I ought to have married the girl. 
 I am sure she cared for me." 
 
 "Wouldn't she wait until you were must- 
 ered out?" interrupted McAlevy in his ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "Not quite like that," answered Tim apolo- 
 getically. "But to go ahead with my story; 
 you recall my sister, Ellen, who was married 
 to Evan Edwards and lived near old Steitze- 
 town, now Lebanon ? Well, Evan made a die 
 of it after they had been married only a few 
 years, and I used to go down there to attend 
 the "Cherry Fairs" and help the poor young 
 widow with her harvests. 
 
 "I was only a boy at the time, but was big 
 enough and strong enough to do the work of 
 two men. In those German districts the women 
 work in the fields with the men, and we al- 
 ways had as much fun as we had work. 
 When I first went there I didn't understand 
 a word of Pennsylvania Dutch. I knew more
 
 300 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 about Indian dialects, but by the end of the 
 first season I could talk it freely, as well as 
 make a few polite remarks in Welsh. I had 
 a particularly happy time during the last 
 harvest I worked at before I went to the war, 
 but, like many happy times, it ended in dis- 
 aster. 
 
 "We were particularly anxious to get the 
 wheat into the barn in safety, as it was a 
 fine crop and the old people were predicting 
 a heavy rain. The sun never shone brighter 
 even if there were a few smoke-colored 
 clouds hanging over the mountains. Every- 
 one in the neighborhood volunteered to help 
 us out, and we had a small army working in 
 the field before the day was done. Among 
 the generous workers were the Kieffer fam- 
 ily, consisting of father, mother, grand- 
 mother, eight children and a visitor from 
 Reading, -Mary Dilabar. 
 
 "Mary was as pretty as a picture; I can 
 see her yet with her blue dress and a red 
 handkerchief tied around her head. She 
 wasn't much of a worker, and spent most of 
 the time stroking the horses' noses, while the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 301 
 
 rest of us tossed the sheaves. I was so busy 
 watching her that I accidentally ran my 
 pitchfork into one of old Kieffer's horses, 
 which made the team run away. 
 
 "They had gone a mile before they hit a 
 big chestnut stump and overturned the 
 wagon. One horse broke loose and started 
 for the mountains on a gallop. We forgot 
 the harvest and the approaching storm, and 
 our battalion of men, women and children 
 followed the clumsy Conestoga mare as if she 
 were a Jack o'Lantern. When we were all 
 in the forest the storm broke with all its 
 fury and all hands separated to crouch under 
 rocks, logs, or overhanging boughs to lessen 
 the inevitable drenching. 
 
 "I became separated from the party and 
 while looking for a suitable retreat ran across 
 Mary Dilabar seated under an old white oak. 
 I warned her that oaks were often struck by 
 lightning, so she moved with me across the 
 gully to a beech tree, which the Indians say 
 is never touched by the Storm God. With the 
 evening there was no appreciable let-up of 
 the rain, and it looked as if we would have
 
 302 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 to spend the night under the sheltering 
 beech. 
 
 "I liked nothing better, and our conversa- 
 tion, which began with joking about my care- 
 lessness in causing the runaway, drifted into 
 more serious topics, and by the time the 
 pretty young girl fell asleep in my arms, we 
 had about agreed to get married. The morn- 
 ing dawned clear, and breakfastless we re- 
 joined the harvesters as if nothing had hap- 
 pened. They were gathering the sheaves 
 that had spilled from the wagon as it 
 careened through the pastures during the 
 runaway and some were hunting for pieces 
 of harness which seemed to be irretrievably 
 lost. 
 
 "Mary and I made a most congenial couple, 
 and my sister, and the Kieffer family ap- 
 proved of our promised marriage. I accom- 
 panied her to Reading when her visit was 
 completed, to meet her parents who were old 
 French people. They did not greet us very 
 cordially. They asked my age and I told 
 them I was nineteen, which was a year older 
 than I really was, and they shook their heads
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 303 
 
 and retired into a back room for deliberation. 
 
 "Mary and I, still sitting on the bench on 
 the front steps, could hear them through the 
 open door conversing in their strange jargon. 
 After half an hour they rejoined us, only 
 to say they had decided that a girl of fifteen 
 was too young to be married, but if I would 
 wait a year, everything would be all right. 
 They also gave me permission to correspond 
 with my sweetheart, shaking my hands 
 warmly as if they approved of my future 
 connection with their family. They told 
 Mary it was time to come indoors, and shut 
 the door on me without inviting me in. 
 
 "The war was at its height, and drums 
 were beating all over Reading to excite young 
 men to the pitch of enlistment. I wasn't 
 very enthusiastic for several days, I was too 
 perplexed about the way in which my inter- 
 view with Mary's parents had ended. A com- 
 pany of riflemen had been formed and were 
 giving exhibitions of marksmanship on the 
 common. Great crowds had collected, and 
 aspirants for membership in the body, which 
 seemed very popular, were trying to equal
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the unerring sight of those already accepted. 
 I pushed my way through the throng, and 
 borrowed a rifle. 
 
 "It did not take long for me to demonstrate 
 my superiority to every man present, which 
 resulted in Captain Nagle speaking to me 
 pleasantly and inviting me to enlist. I had 
 been feeling downcast all day, so in a spirit 
 of recklessness I signed my name to the com- 
 pany roll. You know the rest of the military 
 story, as we were pretty close friends when 
 we served together under Morgan. But to 
 get back to the ghost story. It was several 
 days before I was able to obtain permission 
 to leave the camp to make my good-bye call 
 on Mary. 
 
 "When I reached her house I swung the 
 heavy brass knocker with a confident air; I 
 was in uniform, and felt the entire world 
 must bend before me. Mary's mother opened 
 the door, and looked at me in surprise. I 
 asked to see the girl, but she looked more sur- 
 prised than ever. 'Did not you get that note 
 she sent you out to camp Tuesday morning?' 
 When I told her I had not, she said she
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 305 
 
 thought that was very queer. 'Mary,' she 
 stated, 'had married Mr. Jacobs, an old family 
 friend, three days before, and had sent me 
 a note announcing the glad tidings.' I smiled 
 broadly and strode away. 
 
 "My heart was sad, but I was delighted 
 that I had enlisted, for now I wouldn't have 
 to return to Steitzetown a jilted man; the 
 public might think I was the one who did 
 the jilting. After the war I returned to my 
 early home in Northumberland county, as 
 my sister was living there. She gave up her 
 farm after I deserted her to go to the front. 
 
 "Years passed and all my immediate- 
 family died, leaving me to lead a hermit's 
 life by the shores of the Susquehanna. The 
 first Christmas eve that I was alone awoke 
 many unhappy recollections. 'Why couldn't 
 I have had a nice wife and children like all 
 the other friends of my youth?' seemed to be 
 my sole complaint. I tried to reason with 
 myself that even if Mary had married some- 
 one else, there were other girls I might have 
 gotten ; but then I would silence that thought
 
 306 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 with 'I didn't want them because I didn't 
 care for them.' 
 
 "I took down the miniature and by the 
 flickering firelight tried to decipher the fea- 
 tures of my beloved. A traveling portrait 
 painter had stopped with me over night, and 
 I induced him to stay awhile and paint the 
 likeness from my description. Her eyes were 
 blue, and her hair chestnut brown, but I 
 think he failed with her expression, which 
 was beyond any artist. 
 
 "He said he ought to have a bit of ivory, 
 but finally accepted a piece of a buffalo's 
 jaw-bone, which I polished for the purpose. 
 The gold case came from Philadelphia. While 
 I was gazing intently at the little picture I 
 felt a moistness before my eyes. It was like 
 the impress of two soft hands, but they were 
 so damp and clammy! Then I heard some- 
 one speak my name in tones distinct but low. 
 It was repeated several times, and at last 
 I conquered my stupidity and recognized the 
 rather peculiar intonation of Mary's voice. 
 
 "I could restrain myself no longer, and 
 called out, 'Is that you, Mary?' The voice re-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 307 
 
 plied, 'It surely is ; but don't look around for 
 heaven's sake! I felt sorry for you all alone 
 on Christmas eve, and have come to pay you 
 a visit. I was very young when we agreed 
 to marry, but it was weak and mean in me 
 to allow my parents to influence me away 
 from you and to marry another. My hus- 
 band was twenty years older, set in his ways, 
 selfish, and disagreeable. I led a miserable 
 life with him for twenty years until he was 
 drowned in the canal by one of his boatmen. 
 I should have sent for you then, but I didn't 
 know where you were, and I was afraid you 
 had ceased to care for me. Forgive me now, 
 and we will atone for the past; you are the 
 only man I ever loved ; I knew that from the 
 start.' 
 
 "The thrill caused by her voice and the 
 pressure of those fingers on my eyes was 
 too much for me ; I interrupted her and said 
 I must see her. In tones of abject terror 
 she cried, 'Don't, don't, please/ but it was too 
 late. I turned like a flash only to behold the 
 fragile outlines of my sweetheart melting
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 and mingling with the shadows and hang- 
 ings of the room. 
 
 "Outside the wind sobbed piteously for 
 the remainder of the night. For many nights 
 after that I sat by the fire, hoping for 
 Mary's return. She never came, and I be- 
 came convinced that her visit was merely 
 a dream, signifying she wanted me to go to 
 see her in Reading. I started in my canoe, 
 and at Sunbury boarded a stage which took 
 me there by the short route across the moun- 
 tains. At the Farmers' Hotel I asked where 
 Mrs. Mary Jacobs lived. The landlord looked 
 at me curiously, and said, 'She passed away 
 on Christmas eve last, and is buried in the 
 Lutheran cemetery.' 
 
 "I went to the graveyard standing with 
 bowed head before the muddy mound. On 
 the way back the whole thing dawned on me. 
 Mary's spirit had appeared to me just at the 
 instant of her death; it might have visited 
 me often, only I shocked it into emptiness 
 by demanding to see it before it had become 
 in harmony with the new environment. That
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 309 
 
 was my overwhelming sorrow ; I feared I had 
 destroyed her soul. But even if it is gone 
 as a distinct personality, it will live as long 
 as I do, enshrined in mine."
 
 XXI. 
 
 THE LAST DRIVE 
 
 ARKNESS was rapidly fall- 
 ing as Bill and I emerged 
 from the path down Otter 
 Run into the valley of Little 
 Pine Creek. English Town 
 was still five miles distant 
 and we would have to 
 quicken our pace if we 
 wanted to reach there be- 
 fore John Bowman shut up his boarding 
 place for the night. The road was deep with 
 sand, and we could not make progress there, 
 so we walked along the banks on either side, 
 which had been pastured smooth by sheep 
 and cattle. 
 
 In places the valley is quite wide, and there 
 are some very fertile fields, but all of it, clear 
 to the foot of the mountains, has been under 
 water during the great floods, especially 
 those of 1889 and 1894. On one of the level 
 patches, where the top soil had been washed 
 
 310
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 311 
 
 away, but was growing up with staghorn 
 sumacs and wild apple trees, a number of 
 brown and white and black and white steers 
 were pasturing. The stars were coming out 
 and gave the sky above the dark mountains 
 a tone of luminous gray. 
 
 Against the sable mountains the white 
 spots on the bodies of the cattle, and the 
 clusters of wild carrots or "Queen Anne's 
 Lace," which grew in profusion in the pas- 
 ture, made a study in black and gray that 
 charmed with its effective simplicity. Every- 
 thing was distinctly outlined yet beautifully 
 harmonized, and we paused to look at what 
 typified to us a lover's meeting between Dusk 
 and Darkness. There was a telephone pole 
 lying by the path which had been cut to make 
 place for a larger one, and we seated our- 
 selves on it absorbing the marvelous noc- 
 turne into our consciousness. Silvery gray 
 sky, sable mountains, immovable cattle of 
 sable and white, sable clumps of foliage, sable 
 earth bespangled with flowers of silvery lace ! 
 
 No supper nor bed at English Town could 
 tempt us to leave the scene until darkness
 
 312 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 blurred it out. Other phases of light and 
 shadow, other night views might affect us 
 in the future, but never again would there be 
 one like this. Nature is the only artist who 
 never uses the same theme twice alike. 
 
 As we sat there with these and many other 
 thoughts ebbing and flowing, we noticed the 
 figure of a slim girl emerge from the back- 
 ground of gloom further up the road. Though 
 she was walking fast, her head was bent and 
 dejected and she was whispering to herself. 
 As she passed us she did not raise her blue 
 eyes, but the silvery tint of the sky reflected 
 on them and enabled us to see that they were 
 staring and vacant, the eyes of a demented 
 person. Withal she was unusually pretty; 
 her reddish-gold hair had been blown by the 
 night winds about her face, which was deli- 
 cately formed. She had a well-moulded nose 
 and her lips had that exquisite fullness which 
 only comes to women after weeping. 
 
 Bill and I looked after her until she melted 
 into the gloom ahead ; she was a rare butter- 
 fly with tattered wings flitting across a fad- 
 ing picture. We both agreed there was some-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 313 
 
 thing uncanny about the girl, and it stopped 
 our reveries and revived our zeal to reach 
 John Bowman's boarding place. We knew 
 all the gossips of the neighborhood congre- 
 gated there in the evenings ever since the 
 Riverside Hotel had burned down. But we 
 still had over two miles before us, and the 
 night became intensely black. 
 
 The night winds blew in fitful gusts from 
 the high peaks, raced along the bed of the 
 creek, and chased one another back again 
 to the summits via the rocky gullies. At 
 length we approached the outskirts of the 
 settlement, the long rows of deserted black 
 houses, with windows boarded and the front 
 gates falling in, the dismantled tannery with 
 the tin roofs gone, and gaping holes in its 
 brick walls made to remove the vats and 
 machinery. 
 
 Across the suspension bridge glimmered 
 two lights; John Bowman's boarding place 
 was still awake. The wind was sighing in 
 the cables, and rattling the bolts and beams 
 as we crossed the bridge high above the 
 creek, which ran, a narrow gray rivulet in
 
 314 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the center of the wide bed of stones and peb- 
 bles that it once covered when it raced 
 towards the parent stream in the days of its 
 glory. Now, like an old man who occasion- 
 ally feels the fire of youth return, the floods 
 show to very young people and to strangers 
 what it used to be. We could see several 
 persons through the windows of the board- 
 ing house, so opened the door and went in. 
 
 John Bowman and his wife greeted us 
 cordially, and Mrs. Bowman vouchsafed a 
 piece of information she knew would interest 
 us. Byron Endsley was back from Oregon. 
 Byron had had an adventurous career as 
 bugler of the troop which arrived too late 
 to save General Custer at the Battle of the 
 Little Big Horn ; as a spectator of the murder 
 of "Wild Bill" Hickok at Deadwood; and 
 later as a seeker of gold in the Klondike. 
 
 When the tannery closed he bid a "final" 
 farewell to English Town, but as usual the 
 gloomy valley of Little Pine Creek had drawn 
 him back again. But here was Byron now. We 
 shook hands, and he wanted to tell us right 
 off about the "silver tips" he had killed in the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 315 
 
 Coast Range. But we were more anxious 
 for another story, to learn the identity of 
 the demented beauty who had stalked so 
 spectre-like along the sandy road. 
 
 The genial landlord and his wife sat with 
 us while we ate our suppers in the cozy little 
 lamp-lit dining room. I asked old Bowman 
 to tell me all about the wandering girl, and 
 he replied that he was sorry to say she was 
 his favorite niece, Adele Armeson. "She be- 
 came queer after the last drive three years 
 ago, and if it wasn't we were always hoping 
 she'd get all right, she'd be in Danville long 
 ago. Hard luck always seems to follow the 
 good and the deserving, and she was cer- 
 tainly both. I never saw a girl as pretty or 
 as sweet as she, except perhaps my wife." At 
 this Mrs. Bowman smiled broadly. 
 
 "She was very much in love with young 
 Grant Valentine from up in the Blockhouse 
 country, and her affection was fully recipro- 
 cated. The families had been friends for 
 years, and he always visited Adele's people 
 for a few days when he came this way to 
 work on the drives in the spring and fall.
 
 316 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "As a small boy I saw the first drive out of 
 the creek. I think it was in 1861 ; they only 
 drove the biggest and choicest kind of white 
 pine logs, and always left the bark on. The 
 last drive was composed of hemlock culls, and 
 it made us all sad to feel that the logs 
 would never run 'Little Pine' again. A good 
 part of the last drive had to be splashed out 
 of Stony Run, half a mile below here. For 
 that purpose they built a New England 
 splash-dam near the head of the stream, 
 which was five miles from where it empties 
 into 'Little Pine/ 
 
 "Young Valentine, who was only twenty- 
 four, was keenly excited about the drive, as 
 it would take all. the skill and agility of the 
 drivers to get the logs quickly over the high 
 sharp rocks in the bed of the stream, and 
 avoid a jam. Many old watermen had said it 
 couldn't be done. He talked so much about it 
 and the part he was going to play that Adele 
 was anxious to watch the drive come out of 
 the run. She knitted him a red woolen vest 
 specially for the occasion. I happened to 
 be at her home that morning, so asked her
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 317 
 
 to come with me in my buggy and see the 
 frolic. We stopped the rig on the bridge 
 where the Waterville road crosses 'Stony' 
 near its confluence with 'Little Pine/ She 
 said Grant had told her his drive would reach 
 the bridge, barring accidents, about noon, 
 which gave us a couple of hours to wait. 
 
 "But there was lots to see, the drives out 
 of Little Blockhouse, Zimmerman's and Bear, 
 were floating down the big stream with the 
 crews wading waist deep in water or leaping 
 from log to log, to keep every stick headed 
 for its destination in Williamsport. Noon 
 came and went, but the drive out of Stony 
 Run had not appeared. The last log in the 
 other drives had gone out of sight around the 
 bend, the sun was obscured and the weather 
 more like winter than early spring. 
 
 "By two o'clock Adele was getting cold, 
 but she would not leave her post. I felt sorry 
 for her, so got out of the rig telling her I 
 would walk up the run a ways, and try and 
 learn the cause of the delay. After I had 
 gone a mile I heard shouting and swearing 
 in the distance, and I at once sized it up that
 
 318 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the logs had jammed. I hurried along the 
 path until I came in sight of the giant pile 
 of logs which resembled pictures of the 
 wooden horse drawn up before the walls of 
 Troy. 
 
 "The jam was fifty feet high, and on top 
 of it the boys, including Valentine, were 
 working with cant hooks and axes to start 
 it in motion. On a high rock near the bank 
 stood the boss, Milt. Bradley, red in the face 
 and angry, cursing and consigning everyone 
 to perdition. I was not a hundred feet from 
 him when one of the lads gave a flying leap 
 for shore crying, 'The king pin's out; she's 
 moving, boys, she's moving.' The others, all 
 but Valentine, projected themselves through 
 the air, and fell panting and bruised but safe. 
 In some way the boy's foot had got caught 
 between two logs, and when like the turning 
 of a rebellious water-wheel, the vast bunch 
 of saw-logs shot out from their tangle, he 
 was carried down under them. Urged on by 
 their own momentum and the accumulation 
 of water behind they swept down, crushing
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 319 
 
 the unhappy fellow beneath them like a rock 
 in a hopper. 
 
 "In another hundred yards they piled up 
 a second time, making even a worse mess of 
 it. Bradley was livid with rage, and shouted 
 to the drivers who were all on their feet by 
 this time, to climb in and break the jam at 
 once. I grabbed him by the arm and shouted, 
 'My Heavens, man, you can't let that drive 
 go on with that boy's body underneath it; 
 his sweetheart's waiting on the bridge to see 
 the logs come through.' He turned on me 
 with a torrent of blasphemy and struck me in 
 the stomach with his fist, but even if I am 
 over 50, I was a match for the big bruiser. 
 
 "As he aimed one of his blows at me, he 
 slipped on the rock, falling heavily. I seized 
 the opportunity to call to the drivers to let 
 the jam stand, and as among them were 'bud- 
 dies' of poor Valentine's, they threw down 
 their cant-hooks, saying they were done for 
 the day. When Bradley recovered himself, 
 he rushed at me, but I downed him with an 
 uppercut, and after that he was as meek as 
 a lamb. Meanwhile, the water was surging
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 into a flood behind the jam, and nature broke 
 it, carrying everything before like an ava- 
 lanche. I tried to keep up with the seething 
 mass of logs and water, but was soon dis- 
 tanced. Some of the boys, however, kept 
 pretty well abreast of it, as it was not all 
 clear sailing, and the jagged rocks threat- 
 ened to stop its advance again and again. 
 
 "Adele waiting on the bridge, heard the 
 cracking, and the thumping, and the water's 
 roar, betokening the approach of the drive. 
 Into view it came, the logs overleaping one 
 another and turning somersaults in the froth- 
 ing current, or forcing those nearest the 
 shore high and dry on the banks. Bringing 
 up the rear were the drivers, with their 
 green, blue and gray shirts, but seemingly not 
 raising a hand when a whole shoal of logs 
 would slide on land. Grant Valentine, with 
 his red vest, was not among them. Why was 
 he staying behind when the others were 
 shirking so shamefully? 
 
 "In the middle of the tumbling mass was 
 a sixteen foot log, ponderous as a floating 
 obelisk. She had to notice it, the size was so
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 321 
 
 much greater than the rest. She watched it 
 come near, until just as it swept beneath the 
 bridge she saw a piece of red material stick- 
 ing to the butt end. 'My lover has been 
 killed,' she screamed wildly to the drivers 
 who were now standing below her on the 
 banks. Not a man answered but their frank 
 honest faces told the story. She fell in a 
 faint on the bottom of the rig, but strong 
 arms a-plenty were there in a moment to 
 raise and comfort her. Limp and helpless I 
 drove her to her home in the buggy. 
 
 "For ten days we doubted if she would re- 
 cover, as she raved until she became insen- 
 sible from exhaustion. She got well physi- 
 cally, but she had left her spirit go down the 
 creek with the crushed and mangled rem- 
 nants of her sweetheart. Every clear day in 
 spring and summer she walks to the bridge, 
 and sits there knitting until supper time. She 
 never notices strangers, and they treat her 
 respectfully, as any one can see by her ex- 
 pression that there's something wanting. 
 When we who know her try to reason with
 
 322 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 her a little she will say, 'The last drive has 
 gone, and Grant will soon meet me here, and 
 we will go away together.' "
 
 XXII. 
 HISTORY OF TAMARACK SWAMP 
 
 N 1850, James Hennessy, a 
 farmer, while grubbing- out 
 stumps in a garden on the 
 edge of the famous Tama- 
 rack Swamp in Clinton 
 county, was surprised to 
 unearth a number of frag- 
 ments of horns which 
 greaty resembled the ant- 
 lers of the moose and caribou. 
 
 Although foreign travellers and the earli- 
 est settlers had failed to record the presence 
 of these animals in Northern Pennsylvania, 
 it seemed to indicate that, judging from the 
 condition of the horns, they must have lived 
 in the state as late as pre-Columbian times. 
 Fossil horns of moose and caribou have been 
 found in many caves, notably those at Rieg- 
 elsville and Stroudsburg, but they gave no 
 encouragement to the theory that any existed 
 here since the days of remote antiquity. 
 
 323
 
 324 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 When the finding of the horns was men- 
 tioned to one of the old Indians from 
 Nichols' Run, who was in McElhattan sell- 
 ing medicinal herbs, he smiled, and said it 
 recalled a story of how moose and caribou, 
 as well as the northern trees were imported 
 into the Tamarack Swamp by a powerful In- 
 dian Chieftain, named Ko-wat-go-chee or 
 Wild Cat. He was the ruler of the Red Men 
 in the upper valley of the Otzinachson, be- 
 ing known far and wide for his 'historical 
 knowledge, fine character and powers as an 
 orator. 
 
 He was often asked to be the guest of 
 honor at Indian ceremonials and anniver- 
 saries in distant parts of the country, and not 
 infrequently accepted, delivering interesting 
 addresses on the history and destiny of his 
 race. Of kingly rank, he was not compelled 
 to secure a wife upon reaching his majority, 
 but postponed this happy event, from year to 
 year, saying he was too busy preserving the 
 glorious traditions of his forefathers to think 
 of such a thing.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 325 
 
 There was a tradition among many of the 
 tribes in New York state that the "big 
 water" or Atlantic Ocean once overflowed its 
 banks, causing a tremendous flood. The In- 
 dian people had received advance tidings on 
 the subject from Gitchie Manito, the Great 
 Spirit, which enabled them to save them- 
 selves and their chosen animals and birds by 
 ascending to the summit of Tahawus, now 
 Mt. Marcy, the highest peak in the Adiron- 
 dack Mountains, the only point not sub- 
 merged. All their human enemies, races of 
 gigantic white and yellow men who were 
 constantly at war with them and the huge, 
 serpentine sea and land animals, bat-winged 
 and griffin-clawed, which preyed on them, 
 were drowned. 
 
 On what would be, to modern reckoners, 
 the four thousandth anniversary of their de- 
 liverance from the great overflow, the Indi- 
 ans from far and wide gathered on the slopes 
 of the big mountain to hold appropriate ex- 
 ercises of thanksgiving and observance. Ka- 
 wat-go-chee was selected to deliver the his- 
 torical oration.
 
 326 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Apocryphal as may be the flowery speeches 
 attributed to Logan, Cornplant and Teedyus- 
 cung, the Indian race was fond of oratory, 
 and produced a number of speakers who 
 might easily have impressed an assemblage 
 of white men. Throughout the long journey 
 from the Otzinachson to the shadow of Taha- 
 wus, in canoes, or during dreary tramps 
 through the forest, Ko-wat-go-chee, the ora- 
 tor, was rehearsing his address. Nature 
 seemed to stimulate his naturally reflective 
 and beautifully poised intellect, for he drew 
 from it as he went along new similes, new 
 symbols, a wider viewpoint, a better mastery 
 of his language. He was in prime condition 
 mentally and physically when he arrived at 
 his destination, where he was welcomed by a 
 committee of wise men, and escorted to a 
 lodge house built of white or canoe-birch logs, 
 to be his private residence during the three 
 weeks the ceremonies were to last. 
 
 Not far distant from the lodge were the 
 permanent quarters of Chief Pox-son-gay, or 
 Yesterday, his name serving as a reminder 
 of the sacred past, which was now to be re-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 327 
 
 viewed at the grand ceremonial. With his 
 family, and the bravest of his warriors, he 
 called to pay his respects to Ko-wat-go-chee, 
 the evening of his arrival. 
 
 In his party was his youngest daughter, 
 Me-shon-nita, or To-Day, a maiden of such 
 singular beauty that many believed her to be 
 a spirit, and not a human being. To the sur- 
 prise of Pox-son-gay and his followers, the 
 sedate orator devoted a great deal of atten- 
 tion to the young girl; so much so that the 
 old chief inquired if he had ever married. 
 Ko-wat-go-chee replied in the negative, evi- 
 dently pleasing his visitors immensely, as 
 there was a rivalry as to which of the many 
 tribes gathered in the neighborhood could 
 give the most entertainment to the distin- 
 guished speaker. 
 
 After the Green Corn Dance, which 
 marked the inauguration of the ceremonies, 
 came the night of the grand oration. It 
 took place from a bench, or level, on the side 
 of Tahawus, and was crowded thick with In- 
 dians of every size and description. It was 
 held on the hour that the Great Spirit was
 
 328 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 supposed to have warned his favored people 
 of the coming deluge. Bonfires and torches 
 innumerable lit up the meeting-ground, from 
 which all the timber and underbrush had 
 been previously burned. 
 
 Ko-wat-go-chee, on a rostrum, decked with 
 laurel leaves, and surrounded by a hundred 
 wise men, outdid himself with his speech. It 
 was the most sublime effort of his life, and 
 the most eminently successful. The vast 
 audience was held spellbound until midnight. 
 When he ceased there were insistent cries 
 that he go on. While naturally adapted to 
 an affair of this kind, his real inspiration 
 and triumph came from the presence of Me- 
 shon-nita, in the throng below him. He had 
 looked at her before he began to speak, and 
 an intelligence other than his own seemed 
 to take possession of him. Cheers, shouts 
 of "Joh-hoh," the Indian war-cry, and 
 felicitations of all kinds were heaped upon 
 him, and for the remainder of the cere- 
 monies he was the central and most sought 
 after figure. Despite all the attentions, he 
 managed to see a great deal of Me-shon-nita,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 329 
 
 and when it was time to return to his do- 
 main in the Otzinachson, he respectfully 
 asked her father to give him the girl's hand 
 in marriage. 
 
 The old chief was highly flattered, and 
 answered "yes" with alacrity. Me-shon-nita 
 seemed equally pleased, so the two were mar- 
 ried with a fresh display of pomp and cere- 
 mony. For the purpose of the long journey 
 Ko-wat-go-chee had a litter made of oak 
 wood, curiously carved and colored. In this 
 the beautiful bride rested, being carried by 
 four stalwart bearers. Ko-wat-go-chee led 
 the way, and the rear of the procession was 
 brought up by his half a hundred henchmen. 
 
 At first Me-shon-nita was amused by the 
 change of scenery and foliage. She ex- 
 pressed no regrets at the disappearance of 
 the cone of Tahawus from the horizon, or 
 the gradual lessening of the spruces and firs 
 from the make-up of the forest. She spoke 
 enthusiastically of the broad plateau with 
 its populous village of compactly built houses, 
 each with its purling spring, which was to be 
 her new home. Ko-wat-go-chee was very
 
 330 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 happy for a time, until his lover's blindness 
 had subsided enough to show him that his 
 bride was not as light-hearted as might be. 
 At first she denied that everything was not 
 well with her, but at length she confessed to 
 homesickness. She missed the spruces and 
 balsams of the North, the looming vastness 
 of Tahawus against the sky line. 
 
 Ko-kat-go-chee was as rich as he was re- 
 sourceful and soothed her by saying he 
 would turn her new home into a northern 
 park, all but the shadow of Tahawus. While 
 one-half of his retainers set to work grubbing 
 out the trees on a large area at the northern 
 edge of the village, the other half were dig- 
 ging trenches to carry the water from the 
 myriad springs into the newly cleared 
 ground. As soon as the work was completed, 
 every man and boy in the village, except a 
 dozen armed guards, started in single file 
 for the North. It was months before they 
 returned, but when they hove in sight, Me- 
 shon-nita clapped her hands for joy. 
 
 Each Indian carried two northern trees of 
 respectable size. There were Tamaracks,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 331 
 
 White Spruces, Black Spruces, Balsam Firs, 
 a few Cedars, arbor vitaes and junipers, and 
 these were planted in the soft, moist soil of 
 the clearing. When all were in position, save 
 for the absence of Tahawus on the sky line, 
 it was like a forest in the North, the native 
 pines and hemlocks which formed the na- 
 tural background, adding rather than de- 
 tracting from the scene. 
 
 For a time Me-shon-nita was appeased, 
 and spent much of her time walking among 
 the young conifers, and stroking their 
 smooth, dark needles. In the lodge-house at 
 night she was loving and companionable with 
 her husband, who imagined the ghost which 
 had threatened his happiness had been laid. 
 But it was not to last. One evening Me-shon- 
 nita was glum and uncommunicative. The 
 trees were thriving, so the solicitous husband 
 could not fathom the cause. He coaxed and 
 pleaded until midnight, when she relaxed and 
 told him she missed the animals of the North. 
 
 "You had the pines and hemlocks here, but 
 I longed for the spruces and firs; you have
 
 332 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 elk and deer here, but I miss the moose and 
 caribou." 
 
 "Worry no longer, my beloved," replied 
 Ko-wat-go-chee, "the northern animals shall 
 be here." The next morning an army of men 
 started work on a stockade to completely en- 
 close the park. 
 
 This done, every man and boy, save for the 
 dozen personal retainers, started single file 
 for the North. They were gone even longer 
 than when they went for the trees, but they 
 returned, each leading or carrying a young 
 moose or caribou. It was a pretty sight to 
 see the little creatures scampering among the 
 spruces and firs ; it was like a northern forest 
 scene in miniature. The happiness of Me- 
 shon-nita was unbounded, and her husband 
 felt that there would be no further com- 
 plaints. 
 
 Again he was mistaken, for though the 
 young animals grew and became livelier each 
 day, a cloud had obscured the smile of Me- 
 shon-nita. This time it took weeks to learn 
 the longing which obsessed her. Finally she 
 admitted she wanted to see her family, the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 333 
 
 whole tribe, in fact, with whom she had been 
 reared. 
 
 "They shall all come here on a visit," said 
 the complaisant Ko-wat-go-chee. Immedi- 
 ately every man and boy in the village was 
 headed for the North again. The unhappy 
 Me-shon-nita watched for their return with 
 more eagerness than in the past. Perhaps 
 that was why they seemed to be longer ab- 
 sent than on the two previous trips. 
 
 When they did return Me-shon-nita ran 
 out to greet them, singing and clapping her 
 hands. Heading the procession came litters 
 like the one in which she had travelled from 
 the North, supported by sturdy bearers con- 
 taining all the members of her family. Be- 
 hind them came the remainder of the tribe, 
 and their dogs, escorted by her husband's 
 warriors, who obliged the Indian mothers by 
 carrying their papooses, blankets and uten- 
 sils. Every Indian came as a privileged 
 guest, and the trip had been made as easy as 
 possible. 
 
 Now that she had a northern forest, north- 
 ern animals, her entire family and tribe, she
 
 334 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 acted as if she was the happiest young 
 woman in existence. She impressed on her 
 father that his entire party were to remain 
 an indefinite time, which suited the Indian 
 temperament exactly. As guests they were 
 not expected to furnish food, garments, fuel 
 or houses; all were provided by their genial 
 hosts. 
 
 Besides, they were told the winters were 
 not so long nor severe as in the North. There 
 was no reason to return home for a while ; it 
 was a relief to escape the biting winds that 
 swept off Tahawus. But after the newcom- 
 ers had established themselves, and became 
 part and parcel of Ko-wat-go-chee's tribe, or 
 to be more exact, had assimilated it, even to 
 the extent of Pox-son-gay's often assuming 
 authority over all, a shadow drove the smile 
 away from Me-shon-nita's lips. 
 
 Months elapsed before her distracted hus- 
 band learned the truth. She was pining for 
 a sight of Mt. Tahawus. It was the dead of 
 winter, and much as he would have loved to 
 please her, Ko-wat-go-chee deemed it expedi- 
 ent to wait until spring before taking her on
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 a visit to the North. Old Pox-son-gay 
 grumbled when he heard of the proposed 
 trip, fearing perhaps that he might be "in- 
 vited" to accompany the party. "Never had 
 a winter seemed so long;" that was the bur- 
 den of Me-shon-nita's complaint. 
 
 Nothing that could be done appeased her; 
 she must see Tahawus, and see it soon. She 
 neither ate nor slept, and was quarrelsome 
 and irritable. The medicine men advised 
 Ko-wat-go-chee that she must have her wish, 
 else she would surely die. There was noth- 
 ing further to do but to turn over the reins 
 of government to Pox-son-gay, and Ko-wat- 
 go-chee started for the North with his in- 
 satiable wife, attended by a few faithful re- 
 tainers. They had gotten almost as far as 
 the southern shore of Keuka Lake, in what 
 is now New York state, when a blizzard of 
 unparalleled severity overtook them. By dint 
 of hard work a "lean-to" of boughs was con- 
 structed under some hemlocks, where the 
 travellers sought protection. 
 
 Me-shon-nita chafed at the delay, declar- 
 ing that her bearers were big enough to
 
 336 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 march through the drifts unmindful of the 
 tempest. But the snow was so swift and so 
 blinding that Ko-wat-go-chee declared they 
 must wait. The first night Me-shon-nita lay 
 awake listening and watching for the storm 
 to stop. It didn't stop, but apparently grew 
 worse. 
 
 All the next day she was in a belligerent 
 frame of mind, and abused the retainers so 
 roundly that they crouched, cowed in one 
 corner of the shelter. Her husband's efforts 
 at soothing her were unavailing, and he was 
 tired out when night set in. Everyone, in- 
 cluding apparently Me-shon-nita, fell asleep 
 early, but the crafty woman was only feign- 
 ing. When all was still she got up and peered 
 out. It was very dark, and she felt the sting 
 of the snowflakes on her face. 
 
 Unmindful of the gloom and drifts she 
 stepped boldly into the storm, and headed, as 
 instinct guided her, to the North. She had 
 travelled several miles, sometimes up to her 
 neck in snow, when an open place like a mam- 
 moth clearing spread out before her. Far in 
 the distance through the falling snow, in the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 337 
 
 half-light that comes before dawn, she could 
 discern a great promontory against the sky- 
 line. 
 
 "It's Tahawus, old Tahawus, that I love," 
 she shouted with hysterical gratification. 
 "Those fools hiding under the trees little 
 thought it was so near." 
 
 She redoubled her efforts, taking a tumble 
 several times into the drifts which engulfed 
 her like feather-quilts. Out on the open place 
 she made better progress, as the wind had 
 blown the surface bare, it seemed like ice. 
 Through the gray light she could note the 
 outline of the promontory; it was a shade 
 darker than the snow-swept sky. 
 
 With head erect she was pushing on when 
 suddenly one foot sank beneath her; she felt 
 cold water, and before she could stop her 
 other foot had slipped; she was sinking fast 
 into the chilly depths of the lake. Just as 
 she disappeared she shrieked, "I die in sight 
 of old Tahawus; I die happy!" 
 
 In the morning Ko-wat-go-chee and his 
 followers discovered her absence, and tracked 
 her with considerable effort through the for-
 
 338 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 est to the edge of Keuka. The path, now 
 half filled with fresh-fallen snow, led out on 
 the ice, and they followed it for a mile until 
 they came upon a gaping air hole. 
 
 There was no path beyond; Me-shon-nita, 
 the eternally unhappy, had fallen in and been 
 drowned. The stricken husband gazed 
 dumbly into the lead-colored water and raised 
 his eyes. Against the horizon loomed a great 
 cone-shaped promontory. 
 
 "It looks like Tahawus," he murmured, 
 "but even in death, she was disappointed." 
 
 The ferocity of the storm made it impos- 
 sible to linger any further, so sadly he made 
 his way back to the "lean-to" and ultimately 
 to his transplanted Northern Wilderness on 
 the highlands of the Otzinachson. And when 
 he died years later they buried him in a 
 corner of dry ground under the Tamaracks.
 
 XXIII. 
 CORA PEMBERTON'S BIOGRAPHY 
 
 HEN the train emerges from 
 the tunnel through Paddy's 
 Mountain on the way to Co- 
 burn, far up in the first ra- 
 vine to the left can be seen 
 a tiny whitewashed cabin. 
 In summer when the leaves 
 are on the oaks and aspens 
 it is entirely hidden by the 
 foliage, but in winter when the fallen leaves 
 and the few lingering leaves on the oaks color 
 the glen a rich nut-brown, the little structure 
 stands out boldly. 
 
 It was at the latter time of the year that 
 Cora Pemberton first became interested in 
 the outside world as symbolized by trains and 
 trainmen, and would wave to them every time 
 they passed. The little school house she at- 
 tended was on the other side of the tunnel, 
 it was easier to walk through it, and stand 
 close against the sooty walls when freights 
 
 339
 
 340 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 passed, than to follow the winding path 
 across the mountain. The train crews got 
 to know her, a small figure with a white 
 apron over her head, to shield her eyes from 
 sparks and cinders. 
 
 It took some pluck to go through the 
 gloomy tunnel alone; a city girl might think 
 of tramps, but their existence had not 
 dawned on Cora. She was a trifle afraid of 
 snakes, especially after she killed a copper- 
 head that was lying lengthwise under the 
 flange of one of the rails. From the begin- 
 ning she was firmly convinced that schooling 
 was an unnecessary ordeal, bringing her 
 something that would never be of any use to 
 her. She began early to shirk her tasks, 
 and the first school year was spent princi- 
 pally in looking at Alvin Dietrich, a stout, 
 thickset boy, the biggest in the class, who 
 sat directly in front of the teacher. There 
 was a sort of sculptural finish to his features, 
 that was probably why she admired him. 
 
 Her mother was a daughter of old Jonas 
 Cleon, whose parents were Greek refugees, 
 settling with others of their race near Salona,
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 341 
 
 a village named in honor of the Salonica in 
 Macedonia. This probably gave her the love 
 of beauty which found its only outward ex- 
 pression in an admiration for handsome men. 
 Had she been educated she would have found 
 many things the peers of handsome men in 
 this "world beautiful." 
 
 The stout boy did not pay any attention 
 to Cora, she was too young, but his indiffer- 
 ence wrapped the roots of her affection for 
 him around her soul. In school she wrote 
 again and again on her slate, only to rub it 
 out, "I will marry Alvin Dietrich." As she 
 grew with so few new impressions to influ- 
 ence her, the motto, "I will marry Alvin Die- 
 trich," became her ruling passion. But may- 
 be it was not her narrow viewpoint, but some 
 subtle attractiveness in Alvin, that made the 
 spell so lasting. By the time he was seven- 
 teen, to use the local vernacular, he had 
 "fixed out" two girls causing untold misery 
 to their parents and selves. The year after 
 Cora had ended her school career, he took a 
 summer job with a man named Ilgen, who 
 had a small farm and was clearing a lot of
 
 342 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 new ground not far from the school-house. 
 Saturdey nights Alvin walked to his home, 
 which was situated three miles beyond the 
 tunnel. Naturally, as he walked along the 
 ties Cora could notice him from where she 
 sat on the front steps of her tiny home up the 
 hollow. The first Saturday he passed she 
 heard her father saying, "Young Dietrich is 
 helping old Ilgen clear his new ground," and 
 that raised her spirits to think that this rare 
 being would in all probabilities pass by fre- 
 quently during the summer. 
 
 She never could get along with her father 
 and mother, and her opinion of her brother 
 and sister was that they were "too slow." 
 These sentiments, together with her rapidly 
 flowering beauty, made her parents anxious 
 to repress her spirits. The next Saturday 
 night she discovered that the cow was on the 
 track. The poor, brow-beaten animal had 
 often committed that indiscretion before, but 
 this was the first time that Cora had taken 
 notice of it. She ran down the ravine, and 
 along the track in the direction of Coburn, as
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 343 
 
 if trying to hear the "tunkle-tunkle-tum" of 
 the cow-bell. 
 
 For a girl of fifteen she was unusually well 
 developed, not at all in height or stoutness, 
 but in the general contour of her figure and 
 features. Age, not size, was the principle 
 of her mother, consequently the skirts of her 
 simple white frock were many inches too 
 short. Her face had unmistakable Greek 
 lines, her dark brown hair was parted in 
 the middle and tied with a large bow of pale 
 blue ribbon on the top of her pretty head. 
 Her eyes were round, of a shade strangely in 
 keeping with the ribbon in her hair, while 
 her lips had that pouting mobility that van- 
 ishes with the first responsibilities. 
 
 Wearing black stockings and dainty ox- 
 fords, she tripped along the cinder path, 
 slender and graceful, for all the world like 
 the reincarnated spirit of one of her Greek 
 ancestors. But if the cow was on the track 
 she must have been a fast traveller. After 
 a mile of walking Cora decided the search 
 was fruitless. On the way back she ex- 
 pected her reward and got it.
 
 344 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 The track was full of curves, so she almost 
 ran into Alvin before seeing him. He was 
 walking the ties, cap in hand, and the sun's 
 rays which seemed to be gathering them- 
 selves into the usual crimson ball before sink- 
 ing behind the western mountains, gave a 
 glint of gold to his dark curls. All was silent 
 save for a mourning dove cooing dolefully 
 in a distant thicket. They greeted one an- 
 other like old friends and such they became 
 before another week had elapsed. Alvin 
 found it convenient to come down the follow- 
 ing evening to have Cora's father mend his 
 grubbing hoe, another night he wanted his 
 pole axe sharpened, and so on. 
 
 The stern parents liked to talk with the 
 young man ; he was a relief in an existence 
 where they sometimes did not speak to an 
 outsider in two weeks. In the winter Alvin 
 decided he would be doing old man Ilgen an 
 injustice if he left him; Ilgen likewise was 
 lonely, although he knew in his heart that 
 the young fellow was an exceptionally "dull- 
 ess" workman.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 345 
 
 With the spring came two new elements 
 into Cora's development. One was she was 
 forbidden to see her admirer, whose reputa- 
 tion had become tarnished ; the other was the 
 building of a spur from the prop-timber rail- 
 way to the head of the hollow above her 
 home. There were four bubbling springs in 
 the glen, one very near the summit, which 
 decided the prop-timber men to locate the 
 camps at the terminus of their tracks. The 
 flat where the pitch pines were standing 
 stretched for miles, consequently the job 
 would last for five years at least, and the 
 camps would be extensive. 
 
 This caused great rejoicing in the Pember- 
 ton home ; sociable neighbors and steady em- 
 ployment had descended upon them with one 
 swoop. Cora was the exception to the rule; 
 she did not enthuse much over the new order 
 of things ; she was still mopey over her segre- 
 gation from Alvin. Among the first to ar- 
 rive on the scene were the superintendent, 
 Edson Maugher, and his son, Earle. It was 
 policy to curry favor with the natives, so
 
 346 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 they promptly visited the Pembertons, offer- 
 ing work to father and son. 
 
 The superintendent explained that most of 
 his time was spent in Youngmanstown ; his 
 son was practically his assistant and would 
 live at the camp, acting as timekeeper, book- 
 keeper and general representative. This 
 stamped the son as no common youth, and 
 Pemberton and his boy gazed at him in 
 admiration. 
 
 Earle Maugher was a pleansant-looking 
 youth of twenty, standing a couple of inches 
 under six feet, with brown hair, blue eyes 
 and regular features. He was of slight build, 
 which indicated his labors had been more 
 academic than manual. He was introduced 
 to Mrs. Pemberton and her daughters, but 
 his fancy seemed to light on Cora. What a 
 wonderful thing it was to be out in the woods 
 following a congenial occupation, with such 
 a pretty girl as a neighbor. He was a modest 
 lad, but the interest he felt for the young 
 beauty spurred him to more courage than 
 was his wont. Every evening he came down 
 to Pemberton's; he could look at Cora, even
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 347 
 
 if he felt a little reserved about becoming 
 better acquainted. 
 
 But in course of time this wore away, and 
 he even imagined that she liked him a little. 
 His world was not hers, and though he tried 
 his utmost, the stories of his athletic feats 
 at high school did not interest her as he 
 would have liked. One Sunday evening, by 
 accident he happened into the keynote of the 
 situation. He heard loud voices as he neared 
 the house; it was Pemberton and his wife 
 scolding Cora. He heard the voice of her 
 sister, Esther, saying, "I saw them together ; 
 she can't lie out of it." Evidently they were 
 berating her for meeting some one clandes- 
 tinely, presumably a man. 
 
 A hot shudder ran through the young fel- 
 low, for his intentions were serious, and now 
 he found himself only a supernumerary. 
 After he knocked on the door, the voices 
 stopped instantly, but Cora looked flushed, 
 and there were tears in her eyes, telling 
 the story better than words. Being too 
 much in love to turn back, Earle continued 
 his nightly visits, and tried to spend his Sun-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 days around the premises so that Cora's 
 chances of seeing his unknown rival would 
 be lessened. 
 
 In the late fall one of the men in camp told 
 him the whole story. Cora was a beautiful 
 girl, everyone recognized that, but she was 
 inclined to be wild, and was infatuated with 
 a worthless fellow named Alvin Dietrich. It 
 was a great pity ; her parents had tried every- 
 thing, but she would always outwit them and 
 meet the rascal on the sly. 
 
 The young man lay awake all night; first 
 it was chagrin that prevented sleep, then it 
 was constructing plans to stop the foolish in- 
 trigue and get the girl. When morning 
 dawned through the one window of his pri- 
 vate shack, he had decided on a plan of ac- 
 tion. He would ask Cora to marry him at 
 once, she would learn to love him surely, and 
 if she hesitated, he would enlist the aid of 
 her parents to consummate the match. These 
 were ridiculous ideas, but Earle was only 
 twenty and very much in love. 
 
 That evening when he hurried down to the 
 Pemberton shanty to put his plan into exe-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 349 
 
 cution, Cora was nowhere to be seen. He in- 
 quired of the mother, but she looked blankly 
 out of the window and pretended not to hear. 
 He asked Esther, but she went on with her 
 sewing. As he stood in the doorway, em- 
 barrassed by the silence, Pemberton himself 
 came in, and touched him on the shoulder, 
 motioning him to come outside. The young 
 man followed the lanky mountaineer to the 
 woodshed, who took a seat on the frayed 
 chopping-block. 
 
 Earle, pale and nervous, leaned against the 
 wall eyeing him intently. "My friend," be- 
 gan the mountaineer, "a great sorrow has 
 come to us, Cora is in trouble and says you 
 
 are ." Earle, instead of being shaken, 
 
 was exultant, and broke in quickly, "Yes, 
 sir, it is true, I am only too glad to marry 
 her; tomorrow if you say the word." Pem- 
 berton looked at him intently ; "I would never 
 have believed it, I thought it was the scoun- 
 drel Dietrich, and she was blaming you to 
 shield him, but with your word it must be 
 true."
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Nothing more was said until they had re- 
 entered the cabin. Pemberton made an af- 
 firmative nod to his wife, who hesitated a 
 minute, and then went to the door of the 
 stairway leading to the room under the roof, 
 calling Cora to come down. She didn't show 
 any signs of acquiescing, so her mother had 
 to open the door a second time and speak 
 to her sharply. 
 
 With faltering steps the girl came down, 
 and when she appeared her eyes and lips 
 were swollen from crying. Earle rushed to 
 her and caught her in his arms, kissing her a 
 half dozen times. When he released her, it 
 was easy to see she had not been soothed by 
 this lover-like demonstration. She seemed 
 pettish and rebellious, and her parents sat 
 on the stiff wooden chairs as rigid as the 
 chairs, dumbfounded at her conduct. The 
 young man repeated in her presence that he 
 was ready to marry her the next day, but she 
 answered very bluntly, "The day after to- 
 morrow would suit me better." 
 
 The relations of all parties were strained, 
 so Earle hurried away as quickly as possible.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 351 
 
 As he climbed the path up the ravine, his 
 brain whirled with conflicting emotions. He 
 loved Cora, he knew that; he would marry 
 her, though he was entirely innocent of the 
 charge made against him ; but would she love 
 him, could he interest her, could he hold her, 
 after they were married? Something told 
 him it was futility to marry a girl whose 
 body and soul were another's, but then came 
 the overmastering knowledge of his love ; he 
 was arguing in a circle. 
 
 Outside the main boarding house a big 
 woodsman was leaning against the wall, soli- 
 tary and massive, in the darkness. "Hello, 
 Earle," he called out; "heard the news? Al- 
 vin Dietrich's jumped a freight and gone to 
 parts unknown. Another girl scrape, I cal- 
 culate." 
 
 "Why is it," thought Earle, "we always 
 hear the very thing we don't want to hear 
 and hope isn't true, at the time when we are 
 thinking of it ourselves?" He merely said 
 goodnight to the woodsman, and passed on 
 to his own shack. The next day he offered 
 himself as an object of congratulations to
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 several of the younger men in the camp. "I'm 
 going to be married to Cora Pemberton to- 
 morrow," was all he said. 
 
 They shook his hand warmly, but once he 
 thought he detected two of the husky lads ex- 
 changing glances. At noon hour he wended 
 his way to his sweetheart's home, arriving 
 there just as the family were finishing din- 
 ner. Mrs. Pemberton urged him to take a 
 seat at the table, but he was too nervous to 
 eat, and said he didn't care for anything. 
 Cora looked very white, and hardly spoke to 
 him as he entered. One would have thought 
 he had injured her in some way instead of 
 being her unselfish benefactor. He said they 
 would start at daybreak for the county seat 
 to get the license, and after the wedding he'd 
 take her to Atlantic City. 
 
 Before leaving he asked her to walk with 
 him to the gate, and she assented sullenly. 
 When they got where no one could hear, 
 Earle summoned up courage and said, "If I 
 didn't love you so much, I would never have 
 submitted to the charge you brought against 
 me. You know in the entire length of our
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 353 
 
 acquaintance I never kissed you a dozen 
 times." 
 
 Cora looked down at the path, and replied, 
 "If I wasn't sure of your love, I'd have never 
 brought you into this; I knew you would 
 stand by me." 
 
 The young man smiled with exultation, but 
 his happiness was short-lived. After a pause 
 the girl went on, "I don't love you a bit; 
 Alvin is the one I care for, but he is gone, 
 and I will never see him again. He always 
 told me if I ever got this way he'd jump a 
 freight and never come back. It is all my 
 fault, and I must suffer the consequences." 
 
 Earle took his medicine bravely, saying, 
 "But you are going to love me soon ; I will be 
 so happy with you, that I am sure you will 
 be." Then he clasped her hand, and started 
 up the path. 
 
 Cora's mother was standing in the door, 
 and, as she passed, she urged her in angry 
 tones to get her things together for her wed- 
 ding journey. "Mind, it is a long drive to 
 Derrstown. You'll have no time for packing 
 in the morning, and you want to have all
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 your best things with you if you're going to 
 'Atlantic.' " 
 
 Cora wondered what her mother meant by 
 "best things;" as far as she was aware her 
 wardrobe was as plain as it was limited. 
 
 During the afternoon she pretended to 
 pack a little and sew a little, but her thoughts 
 were far away. Several times when her 
 mother spoke to her she failed to answer. 
 Occasionally she would gaze through the win- 
 dow down the hollow, to the railroad where 
 the rails were gleaming in the sun. While 
 her mother was preparing supper she slipped 
 out the back door and ran down the hill. 
 
 It was already dark enough to make the 
 opening of the tunnel resemble the yawning 
 mouth of a cavern. She quickly walked 
 along the cinder path below the track in the 
 direction of the swart labyrinth. She had 
 not been gone five minutes when Earle ap- 
 peared at the house, and, not finding her, 
 a search was started. Esther, always wisest 
 on her sister's habits, suggested that she had 
 probably gone for a stroll on the railroad. 
 This excited the young man, as he feared that
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 355 
 
 after all she might have a rendezvous with 
 Dietrich ; at any rate she had headed for her 
 her old-time trysting place. 
 
 He rushed head-long down the ravine, and 
 looked up and down the tracks, but no figure- 
 in white relieved the blank darkness. Far 
 within the recesses of the tunnel he heard 
 the hissing and rumble of an approaching 
 freight. He started in the direction from 
 whence it was coming; he knew not why. 
 Just when the yellow glare of the headlight 
 streamed out upon the ties, like fire from a 
 dragon's mouth crawling from his pit, he 
 saw a slender form all in white run out from 
 a clump of gray birches beside the track. He 
 ran forward; it was Cora bent on self-de- 
 struction. 
 
 He was a swift runner, and was within a 
 yard of her when the ponderous cow-catcher 
 hit her. As she was ground under, like a 
 daisy beneath a reaper, her eyes met his and 
 she cried out, "I don't like you. I love Alvin. 
 I don't want to live without him." 
 
 The engineman brought the big compound 
 to a stop with a jerk, sending a shudder
 
 356 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 through the long line of "battleships," that 
 sounded like the train's groan of despair over 
 the beautiful thing it had destroyed. 
 
 The entire crew grouped themselves about 
 Earle, whose ill-concealed tears betrayed the 
 grief he felt. There was little to say, the 
 trainmen knew the story as well as had the 
 prop-timber men. The old engineman mopped 
 his brow with his red cotton handkerchief as 
 if perplexed at what was to be done ; then he 
 faltered, "Love is a terrible thing when folks 
 are very young."
 
 THE "BLACK FOREST" TODAY
 
 XXIV. 
 THE VISTA 
 
 
 WAS sitting on a log looking 
 along the Vista, which was 
 a natural runway for deer, 
 one bright November 
 morning during the hunt- 
 ing season. Bill had gone 
 on ahead to see if he could 
 obtain a closer view of a 
 
 1 
 
 
 i 
 
 ^J2J^ 
 dflT 
 
 
 w 
 
 we had shot at, but missed an hour or two 
 earlier, but I concluded to test my luck by 
 remaining where I was. 
 
 My rifle lay across my knees, and when I 
 was not day-dreaming, or watching a Coop- 
 er's hawk circling high above in the tur- 
 quoise dome, I would squeeze with my fingers 
 the ends of a small light mustache. It 
 couldn't have been much of a mustache, for 
 I was just nineteen, and it has been shaved 
 off now ten years. 
 
 357
 
 358 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "The Vista" was one of the oddest of the 
 many odd sights of the famous Black Forest, 
 and it is hard to realize that the woodsman's 
 axe has levelled the entire forest into a 
 desert vista within the short space of the 
 same ten years. This sylvan canyon had 
 been devised by old Shadrach Glover, thirty- 
 five years before, in order to get a "line" on 
 bees. To do so, evidently regarding nature's 
 prodigality as limitless, he demolished the 
 timber on a strip ten feet wide, a mile in 
 length, stretching to where the mountain 
 dipped towards the waters of Lovett's Run. 
 
 The giant virgin white pines stood so thick 
 that the trees which had been cut could not 
 fall, but leaned against the standing timber, 
 embracing them with their sharp-tipped, 
 barkless branches like the time-worn story 
 of hideous skeletons embracing wedding 
 guests. A tangle of tall rhododendrons grew 
 about their base, seeking to hide the ugly 
 stumps. Whenever a slight breeze blew, they 
 rattled' like skeletons, and wheezed and 
 sawed and gibbered as they rubbed their 
 weather-toughened trunks against the bark
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 359 
 
 of the live trees which very unwillingly acted 
 as their supporters. 
 
 Bill seemed absent a long while, and I felt 
 he must have lost his quarry, else I would 
 have heard the heavy report of his "machine 
 gun." I did not like to leave this unique 
 spot, knowing I would never see its like 
 again, as the jobbers had almost finished the 
 corduroy road from Lovett's to Pine Bottom 
 Run, which meant that the work of the lum- 
 bermen on what was one of the last remain- 
 ing large bodies of original pine in the state, 
 would soon commence. 
 
 Just as I was most restless, four heavy 
 volleys rang out on the bracing air; they 
 were far away, yet their echoes seemed to 
 rack and shake the severed trunks of the 
 dead pines, dying down in the forest depths 
 like the last notes of a violin. 1 jumped up, 
 and was about to hurry north along the Vista 
 when out of the rhododendrons emerged the 
 figure of a wonderfully beautiful young girl. 
 It was practically winter and her head was 
 covered with a dark blue "fascinator" placed 
 far enough back to reveal the intense black-
 
 360 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 ness of her hair, the blackest I have ever seen 
 on a human being. 
 
 Her eyes were equally black, with a pecu- 
 liarly pleasing, sprightly expression, and her 
 white skin had just a touch of color to it, re- 
 calling a description I had read of "a rose re- 
 flected through a vase of alabaster." She 
 wore a brown worsted jacket, coming half 
 way down on her dark blue calico dress, and 
 showing her trim little figure to advantage. 
 She carried a tin pail with a top on it, which 
 she swung as she walked. We both seemed 
 surprised to meet in this sequestered spot, 
 but I started the acquaintance by inquiring if 
 she knew who had fired the shots. 
 
 "Why, that's my friend, Solon Tussey," 
 she replied jubilantly, "we were coming along 
 together when the biggest buck I ever saw in 
 my life crossed the creek ahead of us ; it was 
 too far for a shot, so he left me to trail it 
 down." 
 
 "Where are you going with the bucket?" 
 I asked. 
 
 "Why, we were going to Grindstone Hill to 
 see old Mammy Kephart, who is very sick.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Solon cut a bee tree yesterday, and I thought 
 she'd fancy some of the honey." 
 
 "But," she added, in her quick, enthusias- 
 tic manner, "Grindstone Hill can't mean any- 
 thing to you ; you don't belong in these parts. 
 I've never seen you even in Williamsport." 
 
 "No," I replied, "I don't come from this 
 section, not even from Williamsport ; my 
 home's in New York City." 
 
 "New York City," said she, seating herself 
 beside me on the log; "that's a long ways 
 off. I've always wanted to go there; it 
 must be a grand place; but there's one 
 city I'd rather go to than anywhere else, and 
 that's Paris." 
 
 "Paris," I said, "how did you ever get to 
 thinking about Paris when Philadelphia and 
 New York can be reached in a day's 
 journey?" 
 
 "Well, my father's ancestors, so the story 
 goes, came from Paris, that's why I want to 
 go there. My father wanted to go there, my 
 grandfather also, and they say my great- 
 grandfather started for the old country, but
 
 362 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 died after only getting as far as Harris- 
 burg." 
 
 "Have you formed any idea of what Paris 
 looks like, or how to get there?" I inquired. 
 
 "Yes," she said smilingly. "I reckon I 
 know a lot about it; I can see it all in my 
 mind's eye, the Place Vendome, the Seine, 
 the Louvre, the Place de la Concorde, Napo- 
 leon's Tomb, the Champs Elysee, the Arch 
 of Triumph, the Bois de Boulogne, Auteuil, 
 Longchamps, Notre Dame; yes, the Musee 
 Carnavalet, and even the Place des Vosges, 
 the Jardin des Plantes, Mont Valerien and 
 Versailles." 
 
 "Where on earth did you learn the names 
 of so many places, and how can you pro- 
 nounce them with the proper accent?" 
 
 "I got the names out of an old book called 
 'Atlas of Paris,' by Maxine Ducamp; I have 
 gotten the pronunciation from an English 
 and French dictionary; my school teacher 
 found them for me in a second-hand book 
 store in Philadelphia. 
 
 "Why, I could flatten out that giant ant- 
 hill yonder and on it draw you a diagram of
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the city and its boulevards, only I haven't the 
 time and I don't want to disturb the ants. It 
 has been my dream to visit Paris. I'm sure I'd 
 feel at home there, and if I wait, my time will 
 come. I'd love to go now, when I'm young, 
 and can enjoy the parks and rivers, and feel 
 like climbing the Eiffel Tower !" 
 
 "Why don't you try and arrange a trip? 
 It isn't difficult or expensive." 
 
 "I wouldn't know how ; I had hopes a few 
 months ago, but now since I've promised 
 Solon I'd marry him, the prospects don't look 
 good. 
 
 "Were you ever in Paris ?" 
 I replied that I had been there on several 
 occasions, which seemed to impress the young 
 girl mightily, for it sent a rush of color into 
 her pretty cheeks. 
 
 "Were you really there? You are the first 
 person I ever met who even said he had been. 
 Now to prove it, tell me on which side of the 
 Seine is the Rue de la Cote d'Or?" 
 
 "I was unable to answer, but I laughed so 
 spontaneously, that she was convinced of my 
 sincerity.
 
 364 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "Do you expect to go again soon?" 
 
 I hesitated a minute before replying and 
 said, looking her full in those marvelous 
 black eyes, "I'll tell you if you first let me 
 know your name and your age." 
 
 "Well, I don't see what that has to do with 
 your next trip to Paris, but I'm certainly not 
 ashamed of my name; it's Elgie Barton; 
 you've heard of old Larius Barton on the 
 Pike ; he's my uncle ; and I'm not ashamed of 
 my age, either, even if I'm only seventeen." 
 
 "If you weren't about to get married we 
 could both start for Paris next week." 
 
 "Start for Paris next week!" she ex- 
 claimed, dropping her bucket among the 
 mosses. "I suppose Solon would wait until 
 I got back; I could see all I wanted in six 
 weeks." 
 
 "But," I interposed, "if you went on a long 
 trip like that with me, we'd have to get mar- 
 ried ; we don't look enough alike to travel as 
 brother and sister." 
 
 "We surely don't," she answered, after 
 scrutinizing me from head to foot. "You're a 
 stranger, but you've been to Paris and are
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 365 
 
 willing to take me there; that's bigger in- 
 ducement than most men offer when they are 
 courting girls. I think I can easily care for 
 you. I'll go with you; I'll start now. But 
 promise me if we can't agree, you'll leave me 
 stay in Paris." This from a mountain girl 
 ten years before the subject of "trial marri- 
 ages" had been heard of by the average 
 person. 
 
 "Hadn't you better tell your folks?" I ven- 
 tured. 
 
 "Certainly not," said Elgie, "my mother 
 and step-father aren't the least interested in 
 Paris, but it's also possible if I told them they 
 might say they'd come along, and I wouldn't 
 want to impose so many on you until we are 
 better acquainted." 
 
 "If we two were together, we'd have more 
 time for sightseeing; my mother's rheu- 
 matic; one of us would have to be with her 
 always. I'm afraid, too, they'd both get sea- 
 sick, and that would never do. 
 
 "Oh, how I'd love to see an 'Ocean Liner.' 
 I've dreamed about walking the decks hun- 
 dreds of times. I've read all about the
 
 366 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Oceanic, the Teutonic, the Campania, the 
 Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse, the Gascoyne, 
 the Touraine. Which shall we take?" 
 
 "This is the happiest moment of my life," 
 she added, as we clasped hands to seal the 
 bargain. I put the rifle on my shoulder, and 
 we got up, heading for the Quinn's Run 
 road to begin the first stage of our unpre- 
 meditated journey. We had to laugh when 
 we noticed the quantity and quality of our 
 baggage, one 38-55 Savage rifle, one quart 
 tin bucket full of honey. 
 
 "This is the happiest moment of my life," I 
 thought as I gazed at my beautiful and inter- 
 esting companion. We had not gone a hun- 
 dred yards when we heard voices in the dark 
 thicket of rhododendrons; then I saw Bill's 
 smiling face appear, and soon after the face 
 of a tall dark youth. "We both fired at the 
 same time," called Bill, "and from each side 
 of the hollow, but my bullets did the work; 
 say, he's an old 'socker,' has eleven points, 
 and will weigh at least two hundred and fifty 
 hog-dressed."
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 367 
 
 Then the young man broke in, "Too bad, 
 Elgie, to make you wait so long, but that 
 buck was worth a week of waiting, even if 
 our friend gets the honor of the kill." And 
 without another word the boy and girl filed 
 off into the path that wound its way among 
 the rhododendrons under the tall white pines. 
 
 We waved good-bye, and I dropped down 
 on another log. "Why don't you congratu- 
 late me on my fine marksmanship ?" said Bill, 
 "he's got eleven points on each horn; you'll 
 say he's the biggest ever when you help carry 
 him over to the new corduroy." 
 
 But I did not have much to say. My eyes 
 were glued on the tangle of dark leaves which 
 had closed, undoubtedly forever, between me 
 and that clever and attractive mountain 
 maid. It was not until we saw the Cooper's 
 hawk make a downward dart from the tur- 
 quoise dome that I followed my hunting com- 
 rade reluctantly in the direction of the fallen 
 antlered monarch. 
 
 Many, many things have happened to me 
 since, but whenever I visit Bill at McElhattan 
 and see that set of eleven-pronged antlers on
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 the wall of his workshop, my thoughts go 
 back through a vista of ten years to little 
 Elgie Barton, and the trip to Paris we might 
 have had, if we had only started a minute or 
 two sooner.
 
 THE PITCHER PLANT 
 XXV. 
 
 ES, the Bear Meadows has a 
 ghost, but such a frail, in- 
 determinate one that when 
 it appears on the first 
 nights of the New Moon, it 
 is hard to tell if it is really 
 an apparition or merely a 
 trail of transparent, sil- 
 very light from the heaven- 
 ly crescent. But, whether wraith or moon- 
 beam, it has shown through the elbow of a 
 gnarled, half-dead white oak every new moon 
 for the past twenty years, like a spangled 
 scarf across a balustrade. 
 
 If a ghost, it is a modern one, for none of 
 the old settlers remembered it when the red- 
 spruce forest existed, and the Bear Meadows 
 was famed as the botanical wonder of the 
 State. The only way to "lay it" would be to 
 cut down the mis-shapen white oak, but as it 
 has been scorched so often by forest fires to
 
 370 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 be of no commercial value, no one would take 
 that trouble. One of the old settlers who 
 has lived on the outskirts of the Meadows for 
 forty years has very decided notions concern- 
 ing the ghost. He is sure it did not antedate 
 the lumbermen; he is equally sure that he 
 knows whose ghost it is. 
 
 "I saw the ghost almost the first night it 
 appeared. I made up my mind all about it, 
 but it wasn't my business to talk," he told me 
 when I met him on the train en-route to the 
 Belief on te Fair. "It came the year after they 
 slashed out the big spruces, but that wasn't 
 the reason ; would you like to hear about it?" 
 I was very much interested, especially as I 
 had not been fortunate to see the Meadows 
 in the days of the giant pines and spruces, 
 when botanists found it a paradise for their 
 researches. To me it was a wretched-looking 
 region, but if it possessed a ghost, a compen- 
 sation had been found for its desolated areas. 
 
 "Before they cut the timber and the fires 
 went through," resumed the old settler, "quite 
 a few families drew their entire support 
 from the Meadows. Game was plentiful,
 
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 371 
 
 and hunters were never disappointed when 
 they went after deer. Often they brought 
 back bears, catamounts, foxes and even 
 wolves, while the wild turkeys and 'pheasants' 
 would have fed every one in the neighbor- 
 hood if all other sources of supply failed. 
 Trappers made a nice living, as did berry- 
 pickers, and the folks who cut a few choice 
 trees here and there. Trout abounded in the 
 streams, and some of the biggest in the State 
 were caught there. 
 
 "Among the families dependent on the 
 Meadows for their support were the Nolls. 
 They were a young couple, the husband, 
 Zacharias, was less than thirty, the wife pos- 
 sibly twenty-five, and they had three of the 
 prettiest children I ever laid eyes on. I al- 
 ways thought Zacharias a dull sort of a fel- 
 low before he took to the woods. He tried 
 operating for a time along the L. & T., but 
 when he got fresh with the son of one of the 
 railway officials who stopped at the station 
 where he was working, while on a fishing 
 trip, the superintendent was glad of the 
 chance to hand him a 'permanent vacation.'
 
 372 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "Then he tried clerking at Coburn, driving 
 team, and bossing on a road job, but he made 
 good at nothing, until he saw the opportuni- 
 ties in the Meadows. It was an easy life; 
 all he had to do was to set his traps and get 
 them full of bears, foxes, raccoons, martens, 
 minks and weasels, and once he actually got 
 a black wolf. A fur dealer down to Lewis- 
 burg gave him $15 for the hide, which was a 
 beauty. He would go into the woods, sit on a 
 log for an hour or so, and come home with a 
 fine deer. I have seen him prop his fishing 
 rod on the bank and try to doze, but the trout 
 bit so fast, he didn't have time for a good 
 snooze. Sometimes he would sneak a couple 
 of choice spruce logs to the mill. 
 
 "Some of the land was in dispute over the 
 ownership; while it went on the young man 
 felt he must not allow the trees to grow too 
 thick. The wife was a very different sort of 
 person. She was, first of all, as pretty as a 
 picture, but that isn't saying the husband 
 was not good looking, for he surely was. 
 She was a fair-haired girl, but not one of 
 those washed-out blondes that we mountain-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 373 
 
 eers dislike. Her hair was the color of real 
 gold, like you see in wedding rings, and 
 smooth, and soft, and very abundant. 
 Though she had three living children, and 
 had buried a fourth, her figure was as slight 
 and straight as the day she married. 
 
 "Folks wondered why she married the man 
 she did, but not I, for who else better could 
 she have married? All the boys that lived 
 around the Meadows were the same; some 
 went away and stuck to their jobs, but all 
 at heart had a hankering to be back and fool 
 with the bear traps. The young woman in 
 question was as energetic as her husband was 
 lazy. She was always reading books, and 
 when she couldn't afford to send off for them 
 borrowed them in every direction. I have 
 known her to walk five miles to get the loan 
 of a book. She was interested in all the trees 
 and plants in the Meadows, and was the only 
 person hereabouts who expressed regret 
 when the lumbermen got busy among the 
 red spruces. 'It'll help rid out the wildcats 
 and foxes,' was the only way most of us com- 
 mented on the new order of things.
 
 374 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "If we had looked ahead, we would have 
 put her down as a smart woman, as after the 
 timber was cut the streams dried out, the 
 springs disappeared, and with the wildcats 
 and foxes went all the other fur-bearing and 
 game animals that gave us our livelihood. 
 We often wished the forest back, with all its 
 cats and foxes, but ultimately most every one 
 got tired of wishing and moved away. I felt 
 too old to move, but I wished I had, as I can't 
 find much financial return from the ghost, 
 and animals are too scarce to hunt if the 
 state won't pay a bounty. 
 
 "Well, to return to the young couple, it did 
 seem as if they were drifting apart. There 
 is a 'seed time' with human beings just as 
 there is with plants. After the aeed is 
 planted and comes forth in a harvest of little 
 folks, or else nature's attempt to produce the 
 same, couples unless they are exactly mated 
 temperamentally invariably begin growing 
 away from one another. Flowers are fertil- 
 ized by the pollen from different plants. 
 Elizabeth Noll seemed bent on educating her-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 375 
 
 self, Zacharias Noll to while away his time 
 in the woods. 
 
 "There was big excitement in these parts 
 when the lumbermen were cleaning out the 
 Meadows. Thirty-five teams were employed 
 and over a hundred men made up the various 
 camps. Board was high, and everything we 
 could raise had a ready market. Zacharias 
 worked as an extra teamster occasionally, 
 but was principally occupied supplying the 
 camp bosses' tables with trout and game. 
 Elizabeth took little interest in the commer- 
 cial side of the operation, but, as I said be- 
 fore, denounced the destruction of the timber 
 and rare plants whenever anyone would 
 listen to her. Once she wrote letters to the 
 papers at Bellefonte and Millheim, but the 
 editors were on the side of the 'lumber indus- 
 try,' and the waste paper baskets alone re- 
 ceived her arguments. 
 
 "With such a force it did not take long 
 to turn the Meadows from a jungle to a 
 staked plain, where only dead or deformed 
 trees reared their heads out of the ruin. The 
 sunlight pouring into spaces where it had
 
 376 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 not shone for centuries, diminished the 
 water-courses, dried up many of the morasses 
 or quicksands, and changed the soil so that 
 the rare plants would not grow. On top of 
 it all, a hot spring fire swept over the 'slash- 
 ings,' and had it not been for the 'skunk cab- 
 bages' which came out afterwards, the region 
 would have looked as barren as the Sahara. 
 The recently abandoned lumbermen's shan- 
 ties were burnt, and the settlers had to fight 
 night and day to save their buildings. 
 
 "Right on the trail of the holocaust came 
 young Irvin Bamford, collecting fossils, rep- 
 tiles and plants for the University of Penn- 
 sylvania. As quicksilver is attracted to its 
 like, he found a boarding place with Merrill 
 Speary, who lived the next house beyond the 
 Nolls. Merrill was trying to farm and raise 
 pigs, and while his wife afforded good ac- 
 commodations he could not spare the time to 
 show the youthful scientist around the moun- 
 tains. He gravitated to Zacharias Noll, who 
 had the time, and liked an excuse to be in the 
 woods, and naturally enough this led to his 
 meeting the fair Elizabeth.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 377 
 
 "Although Zacharias did the actual 'path- 
 finding' it was always Elizabeth who planned 
 the excursions. After a few days Bamford 
 discovered things weren't as expected the 
 lumbermen and fires had changed the topog- 
 raphy of the Meadows, the rare trees, plants 
 and flowers were no more, even the reptiles 
 had retired to more congenial surroundings. 
 Furthermore, he found in Elizabeth an in- 
 telligent acquaintance ; she could describe the 
 Meadows as they were before the despoilers 
 laid them waste, and knew lots of interesting 
 things besides. Each day he shortened his 
 explorations in order to spend more time 
 with the attractive woman. 
 
 "But he must accomplish his mission ; if he 
 could not find his specimens here, he must 
 look elsewhere. 'I did want to find a good 
 example of the pitcher-plant ; I was led to be- 
 lieve it grew plentifully here, but the fires 
 have driven it out, and I really don't know 
 where else I can get a first-class one.' That 
 seemed to be his chief lament as the time 
 drew near for him to go. When he said good- 
 bye at the gate he told Elizabeth how she had
 
 378 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 made his stay the happiest incident of his 
 life. She looked down at her two eldest 
 youngsters tugging on her skirts, and 
 blushed the color of a pitcher-plant. Then 
 she faltered, 7 do like you, but don't tell a 
 soul,' and turned away. 'If I don't find what 
 I want, I'll be back again in a week,' he called 
 to her as with canvas knapsack and butter- 
 fly net he was lost to sight in the bend of the 
 road behind the pepperidge trees. 
 
 "Elizabeth felt his absence instantly he 
 was so different from any man she had ever 
 met before; he knew so much, yet was so 
 simple and kindly. She tried to remember 
 every feature of his face, his lithe, slender 
 figure, his quiet, earnest voice. It kept her 
 awake the first night, and she recited to her- 
 self again and again 'he has gray eyes, an 
 arched nose, a clean-cut mouth, a clear com- 
 plexion, hair that is more red than chestnut, 
 a straight figure, a graceful walk, hands that 
 take in any situation.' 
 
 "This was the first time she had ever tried 
 to retain the details of a man's appearance ; 
 previously they had either seemed handsome
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 379 
 
 or ugly, and there her penetration ended. She 
 didn't feel well the next morning, and that 
 night was equally disquieting, for with some 
 paradox of fate, the features of the man who 
 had impressed her most seemed most difficult 
 to recall. 
 
 "Her mother, the widow Phoenix, lived on 
 the other side of the Meadows, so she decided 
 to have a little change and spend a day with 
 her. Mrs. Speary said she would mind the 
 children. The day was fine, and nothing can 
 be finer than a clear June day in the moun- 
 tains. She left the house after breakfast 
 was over. Zacharias accompanied her as 
 far as the stream; maybe that was why she 
 noticed so little on the way. After she parted 
 from him, she hurried along the soft path, 
 looking neither to the right nor the left, 
 probably because his influence was still upon 
 her. Her mother was not in a very sympa- 
 thetic mood; Elizabeth seemed abstracted 
 and queer, and by three o'clock relations were 
 so strained that the young woman started 
 for home abruptly.
 
 380 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "Everything seemed so beautiful on the 
 way back. It took quite an imagination for 
 this, with nothing but dead trees, charred 
 logs and stumps, mayweed and wild ginger 
 to fill the dreary waste. When she reached 
 the stream Zacharias lay asleep under a 
 spreading white pine that had somehow es- 
 caped the fire; she hated to disturb him. A 
 short distance away in the brook floated his 
 rod and line it would have drifted off with 
 the current had it not been stopped by a rot- 
 ting log which lay in midstream. As she 
 crossed the brook she caught herself repeat- 
 ing 'his eyes are gray, his lashes are not quite 
 black, but have a touch of color to them, his 
 eyebrows are chestnut color, his hair has 
 more red than chestnut in it." 
 
 "She felt the color mounting to her cheeks. 
 What if Bamford knew she could be so silly 
 besides she could never be anything to him ; 
 she was a married woman. He liked her be- 
 cause she was well posted, and knew the 
 woods ; that was all. She braced herself and 
 began whistling something, an improvision 
 between a Methodist hymn and 'Listen to the
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 381 
 
 Mocking Bird.' 'Isn't it fine,' she thought, 
 'to live in this beautiful world, and meet peo- 
 ple who take an interest in you, and help you 
 to make it more beautiful.' 
 
 "As she glanced about her, something 
 ruby-red shone out conspicuously from an- 
 other oasis, so dark and soggy that it had 
 escaped the fire. She looked more carefully 
 it was as Thoreau described it, like 'a great 
 dull red rose.' She pushed aside ferns and 
 some low bushes and peered into the gloomy 
 morass. There were the leaves, 'pitcher- 
 shaped, broadly winged, hooded,' like green 
 bronze urns. All these supported, and were 
 crowned by the large, distinctive flowers, 
 which nodded and drooped their heads as 
 she had done when Irvin Bamford had told 
 her she had made his stay the happiest inci- 
 dent of his life. 'Oh, if only Irvin were here 
 to see this,' she called out with enthusiasm. 
 
 "An audible murmur swept through the 
 trees ; it became louder as it grew near ; every 
 tree, living and dead, took up the refrain, the 
 chorus of her happiness in the June breeze. 
 As she started ahead, a treefrog took up his
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 thrilling song in the topmost branches of an 
 old white-oak. She could hear him a long 
 ways the reverberating tones of 'generro, 
 generro, generro, err-err-err-generro, gen- 
 erro, generr-oh!' As the strains died away 
 she came upon three wood-robins singing 
 their song, which sounded like the ringing 
 of tiny, tuneful silver bells, with never a 
 faltering note struck by the feathered bell- 
 ringers. 
 
 "As she neared the gate, her oldest child, 
 little Dorothy, who had been sitting on the 
 steps, ran towards her. 'Oh, mama,' she 
 shouted, 'there's a letter inside for you. Mr. 
 Speary was to the post-office and brought it 
 with him.' 
 
 "Elizabeth's heart stood still ; she dared not 
 hope it was from Bamford, but who else 
 could be writing her? She pretended to be un- 
 concerned, and walked leisurely into the 
 house. On the dresser lay the letter. She 
 had seen the young scientist writing reports ; 
 it was his handwriting. 'Mrs. Elizabeth 
 Noll. My dear friend,' it began. 'If all goes 
 well I will arrive at Mr. Speary's place early
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 Thursday morning. I will be very glad to 
 see you once more. I have thought of you 
 very often. I have much to tell you, but will 
 wait until I see you. Faithfully yours, I. 
 Bamford.' 'He must like me a lot/ she 
 thought, 'else why should he write me? It 
 wasn't necessary. Most probably he wanted 
 to say more but was afraid. Thursday is 
 tomorrow !' 
 
 "Just as she was reading it for the sixth 
 time Zacharias came in the back door and 
 confronted her. Consciously she stuffed the 
 letter into her belt, but as he made no re- 
 mark, she offered no explanation. When 
 supper was over, Zacharias went off to see a 
 neighbor about some trout flies, and left his 
 wife sitting on the front steps. The sky 
 was a rich electric blue, and over the un- 
 couth silhouette of the Meadows the first, 
 fragile phase of the new moon was rising. 
 'Irvin will be here in the morning. I am so 
 glad; what can I do to show my happiness?' 
 So meditated the beautiful Elizabeth. And 
 then a voice within her spoke aloud, 'Get 
 him that wonderful pitcher-plant/
 
 384 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 "She got up, and going indoors, made sure 
 the children were asleep. Then she lit a 
 lantern and walked to the gate, and out along 
 the road to the meadows. Every minute or 
 so she would look up at the new moon, so like 
 the fragile figure of an aerial dancing girl. 
 Little crickets were chirping in the grass be- 
 side the path. From the woodlands came 
 that clean, cool odor of the summer night, 
 which even the recent fires had not entirely 
 destroyed. She knew just where to find the 
 pitcher-plant; it was in an 'oasis,' and the 
 giant white-oak with an elbow like a pugilist 
 showing off his muscle was an additional 
 landmark. 
 
 "When she neared the spot a moonbeam 
 was resting on the elbow of the oak, like a 
 spangled scarf thrown across a balustrade. 
 She held her lantern aloft, but she scarcely 
 needed it. the night was so bright. The plant 
 grew too far in the morass to reach it from 
 where she stood on the path, so she stepped 
 bravely into the gloom. All went well for 
 a few steps, then she began to sink. But her 
 purpose being a high one, she did not notice
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 385 
 
 her difficulties. She was sunk in mud up to 
 the calves of her pretty legs when she began 
 prying up the coveted pitcher-plant by the 
 roots. It seemed hard to dislodge, and she 
 was sinking deeper. She was in to her waist 
 when she got it loose. She held it aloft, and 
 smiled, and the moonbeam zig-zagged to her, 
 and seemed to applaud her for her en- 
 deavor. 
 
 " 'What a surprise it will be for Irvin. I'll 
 have it for him in water, roots and all, when 
 he comes in after breakfast tomorrow.' She 
 was admiring the plant, and stroking the 
 rich, red, moon-bathed flowers, in an ecstacy 
 of happiness, when she felt a pressure under 
 her arms. She looked about in alarm; she 
 was up to her armpits in the horrid mud. 
 It had closed on her quickly, imperceptibly. 
 
 "She tried to struggle, but it only made a 
 suction below, and she had but time to call 
 out 'Irvin, Irvin, you must see the pitcher- 
 plant!' as she disappeared from sight. 
 Zacharias was out all night, and in the 
 morning came to the house about the same 
 time as Irvin. Both missed Elizabeth. Zacha-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 rias said, 'I saw her reading a letter; she 
 looked sheepish; she's run away.' 
 
 "Irvin looked at him angrily and said, 'She 
 has not run away ; she was too noble a woman 
 for that; she's met with some accident, or 
 foul play.' Pretty soon Merrill Speary joined 
 them. 'That letter was post-marked Ox-Bow ; 
 I wonder who she knew there?' Both men 
 shook their heads. Irvin Bamford knew, but 
 he was not going to complicate matters. 'She 
 may have gotten lost in the Meadows,' he 
 suggested. 
 
 "About that time I came along, and the 
 four of us turned into the path leading to 
 the one-time jungle. We found footprints, 
 and followed them; they were Elizabeth's 
 sure enough ; they led to the great white-oak 
 with the elbow. There they became confused 
 and we could trace them no longer. Back in 
 the morass the surface had an unsteady look. 
 Bamford became suspicious and stamped his 
 foot and the whole quagmire shook for fifty 
 paces in every direction. 'That girl is buried 
 in the quicksand,' he declared.
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 387 
 
 "I agreed with him, but Zacharias and 
 Speary shook their heads. 'She's gone and 
 met someone here and eloped,' they chorused. 
 Bamford and I went back for shovels, and 
 tried as best we could without being engulfed 
 ourselves, to fathom the mystery of the dark, 
 deep deposit. We returned at sunset with- 
 out a clew, except that on the surface we 
 found an uprooted and badly wilted pitcher- 
 plant. We could only say that the earth had 
 swallowed her. Most of the natives differed 
 with us, and still insist laconically that 'Eliza- 
 beth Noll ran off.' 
 
 "Bamford returned to Philadelphia, where 
 they say he is now a full-fledged professor, 
 but whether he forgot Elizabeth in his work, 
 or his work was successful because of her, 
 he will have to tell you himself. 
 
 "Very often when I cross the Meadows on 
 the first night of a new moon, I see a moon- 
 beam playing through the elbow of the old 
 white-oak. It does seem strange it should 
 always be in the one place, and if you look at 
 it long enough you will see it has not the con- 
 tour of a moonray, but resembles a slender.
 
 388 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 girlish form. I have seen its eyes looking 
 at me, but I am not afraid, as I know it is 
 Elizabeth, hoping doubtless to send a mes- 
 sage to her lover. I have waited and I have 
 watched, but never a word has she spoken 
 thus far. And what few folks that are left 
 about the Meadows, tell the same story 
 but." 
 
 At this moment the heavy-set brakeman 
 threw open the car door and shouted, "Fair 
 Grounds, Fair Grounds, all out for the Fair 
 Grounds!" There was a scramble and a 
 shuffle, and I lost sight of my interesting 
 companion in the rush. Late in the after- 
 noon, when I was saddling my horse, Lew 
 Hutt, for the final heat of the running race, 
 I saw him for a minute near the stables. 
 "Come to see me, friend ; you know where to 
 find me," he called, cheerily, and this I must 
 do soon, for three years have elapsed, and 
 learn if the shadow of Elizabeth has broken 
 its silence.
 
 XXVI. 
 MEETING HERMIONIE 
 
 URING my long illness, I 
 dreamed oftener than usual 
 but always about Hermi- 
 onie. Sometimes my eyes 
 would be filled with tears 
 when I awoke, so vivid 
 were the impressions of re- 
 newed association with one 
 who had meant so much to 
 me ten years ago. 
 
 When in good health, I dreamed very sel- 
 dom, but these occasional dreams seemed so 
 realistic that had Hermionie lived in the same 
 house with me I could not have seen her more 
 distinctly. Why she was the sole object of 
 my dreams, when my life was filled with 
 changing and strange incidents, remained a 
 mystery with me. Her image had literally 
 "camped out" in my soul, I thought, and, 
 while there, no other impressions could 
 crystallize.
 
 390 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 To amuse myself in the tedious hours while 
 I lay on my bed of sickness, I imagined she 
 would come in the door and visit me ; I would 
 select an hour when a train arrived from the 
 direction of her home, and then wait ex- 
 pectantly for her appearance. But the "ex- 
 pected unexpected" never comes true, and 
 after weeks of waiting I was doomed to dis- 
 appointment. It was silly to have felt that 
 way, as I did not know she was aware of my 
 illness, and even so, she was happily married 
 and would have other things to do than to 
 travel a hundred and fifty miles to see a 
 former lover. 
 
 As I began to improve my dreams grew 
 less frequent, which was a great relief to me, 
 as they filled me with sadness, and awoke 
 memories that best belonged in the dead and 
 buried past. I was even ceasing to watch 
 the door for her coming I was so nearly 
 well, that I laughed to myself at the way I 
 had spent so many hours imagining her com- 
 ing, how she would look, and what she would 
 say. Then one night I dreamed of her in
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 such a way that I was loath to believe it had 
 been a dream. 
 
 I had fallen asleep early that night, look- 
 ing, as was my wont, at the reflection of the 
 lamp-light on the ceiling, which seemed to 
 have in its shadowy outlines the features of 
 Hermionie's face. Therefore, my last con- 
 scious thoughts being of her, I should have 
 been satisfied it was only a dream, but still 
 I hated to allow myself to be convinced. If 
 it was a dream, then I must have been sleep- 
 ing when the door opened, and, instinctively, 
 as if awake, I rose up on my pillow. 
 
 By the yellow lamp-glow I saw standing 
 at the foot of the bed the familiar outlines 
 of Hermionie. She looked just as she did 
 when I saw her last, four years before, and 
 when our eyes met, she nodded and smiled. 
 In my other dreams of her, while we had 
 carried on conversations, yet I could not be 
 sure that I actually heard the tones of 
 her voice. But this time I surely did she 
 had an intonation different from any per- 
 son I ever met and this night she spoke
 
 392 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 clearly and with every little mannerism I 
 used to know so well. 
 
 "Herndon," she said, "I am sorry you've 
 been so sick, but you will soon be ever so 
 much better. I have come a great many 
 times to see you ; it has been an awful effort 
 to do so and always leaves me ill the next day. 
 I cannot come to see you this way again for 
 a long time, but in the course of a month yon 
 are going to take a journey into the western 
 part of the state. I will meet you at the 
 station at Hydesburg; we both change cars 
 there; we will be together for four hours, 
 and it will do us both more good than to meet 
 as unfettered spirits in the world of sleep." 
 
 I told her I should be delighted to take the 
 journey and asked for further particulars. 
 "Your train will reach Hydesburg at 8.00 
 o'clock on the morning of February 4th, and 
 I will arrive there ten minutes earlier. At 
 noon your train leaves, and I take one for 
 the east at 12.09. It will be impossible for 
 you to disappoint me. Destiny, which never 
 explains its reasons, has so ordered it, and, 
 although there will be apparently no outcome
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 393 
 
 to our meeting, it will be to the great spir- 
 itual benefit of us both." 
 
 I remember that whether it was all a 
 dream or not I wanted more evidence, and 
 asked her to come nearer, which she did. 1 
 reached up and caught her in my arms and 
 kissed her long and lovingly on those thin, 
 curved lips, which had seemed so inscrut- 
 able, so mocking, so adorable, in the days 
 gone by. I held her hand it felt like flesh 
 and blood ; it was not the hand of the ghosts 
 or disembodied shades we read about. 
 
 If I was asleep when she came in, and in 
 the course of our conversation, I surely was 
 wide awake now. I was sitting up in bed, 
 noticing every detail of the room, so as to 
 make sure I was not dreaming. Still, when 
 daylight appeared, I knew there had been no 
 actual visitor, my senses were too normal for 
 that, but still I had the haunting knowledge 
 that the spiritual essence of Hermionie had 
 been with me. I had not forgotten the feel- 
 ing of contentment and happiness that pos- 
 sessed me for hours after having visited her, 
 no matter for how short a time, in the past.
 
 394 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 I felt exactly the same now. It was the spir- 
 itual being that had exhilarated me before; 
 it was that essence in purer form that created 
 the sensation now. 
 
 I determined to take the trip if able, on 
 February 4th. It worked in very nicely with 
 a necessary business trip, but I kept inces- 
 santly wondering whether Hermionie had 
 the power to compel her spirit to visit me, 
 or whether she was in ignorance of these 
 seances. I was sure she was a devoted wife, 
 hence concluded she knew nothing of it. 
 
 The dream, or whatever it was, soon came 
 true in one particular. From the night she 
 told me of our proposed meeting, until I 
 started on the trip, my sleep was absolutely 
 dreamless. As time rolled on I became more 
 matter of fact ; I figured out there was about 
 one chance in a million in the big state of 
 Pennsylvania that I could meet her on a cer- 
 tain date, at a certain hour, in such an out 
 of the way place as Hydesburg. It seemed 
 preposterous for me to contemplate such an 
 excursion, but I was urged on by an impulse
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 within me that was stronger than I could 
 resist. 
 
 Rather than put myself down as supersti- 
 tious or credulous, I ascribed my love of the 
 picturesque and the unusual as the motive 
 for this odd pilgrimage. From the begin- 
 ning I had always associated Hermionie with 
 railway trains. I met her on one bound for 
 Pittsburg on a visit, and the last time I had 
 seen her, a couple of years after our love 
 story had ended, was also on a train headed 
 for the Smoky City, and exactly six years to 
 the day from the date when we first met. 
 "Life is a circle," I remarked at the time 
 but were I saying it now would be quoting 
 the words of Richard Le Galienne, who said, 
 "If we push far enough into the future we 
 are sure to encounter the past." 
 
 But that was the last time I had actually 
 seen her, granting that my night-time ex- 
 periences were purely dreamland phantasms. 
 In daytime I was busy, and seldom thought 
 of her; at night I had other friends, and were 
 it not for my dreams could have classed her 
 as a person who had completely dropped out
 
 396 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 of my life. And why not? She was married, 
 had doubtless forgotten me, and I was liv- 
 ing by that rule of George Moore's, "The 
 past must be treated as dead flesh ; we must 
 cut ourselves off from it that we may live." 
 
 I seemed to improve rapidly after my noc- 
 turnal visitation, and when the weeks rolled 
 around, and it was time to depart on my very 
 prosaic business and very bizarre pleasure 
 trip I was feeling almost as well as had 
 been before I was stricken. Before start- 
 ing I was determined to test my luck, that is, 
 do some audacious thing, and if it turned out 
 in my favor, it would show that fortune fav- 
 ored me. Everything I tried for several days 
 turned out satisfactorily, and I could not but 
 feel that I was going to meet Hermionie, 
 even though I had a percentage of a million 
 chances to one against. 
 
 I was living in the outskirts of Reading at 
 the time, and on the appointed day ordered 
 a cab to take me to the station. The time ar- 
 rived for the cab to put in an appearance, but 
 it was not to be seen. I telephoned to the 
 barn, but was told it had started. By that
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 397 
 
 time it looked as if I would miss the train, 
 so lugging my heavy suit-case I started on 
 foot for the nearest trolley car, nearly half 
 a mile away. Just as I reached the tracks 
 I met the cab ; the driver said he had gone to 
 a wrong address, and as I saw no car in sight, 
 started for the station in the slow-going con- 
 veyance. 
 
 The driver, who was a good fellow, did his 
 best, but the roads were rough and piled with 
 snow, and the result was that we saw the 
 train pulling out for Harrisburg as we drove 
 up the steep hill to the depot. This looked 
 as if my trip, at least the personal side of it, 
 was to be a failure, but as, on account of 
 business matters, I had to go in that direc- 
 tion anyway, I boarded the next train, which 
 started several hours later. Just as I ex- 
 pected, I missed connections at Harrisburg, 
 and had to lie over until the next morning. 
 
 At eight o'clock, the hour when I expected 
 to be meeting Hermionie at Hydesburg, I 
 was travelling through the narrows near 
 Lewistown on a local. It was unfortunate 
 to devote so much time to chasing a phan-
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 torn, and I laughed to myself for imagining 
 that such a thing as meeting her could ever 
 have happened. The "luck" that I had tried 
 out a few days before was evidently a "sweet- 
 ener" from the hand of Destiny, to compen- 
 sate me for disappointments ahead. I had 
 been treated that way before, and why should 
 I have thought it could be different this time ? 
 
 I had two changes of cars, and the conse- 
 quent delays, before I reached Hydesburg. 
 I was feeling pretty impatient, and, try as I 
 might, could not interest myself in the bleak 
 landscape, with the snow-covered fields, and 
 the farm houses seemingly buried in the 
 drifts. On the ponds the skaters looked like 
 black flies on the icing of cakes. Even the 
 mountains had a forbidding look, and never, 
 it appeared to me, did the trees seem so black, 
 and dead and listless. The car smelt strongly 
 of mint candy and sugar cookies, as it was 
 filled with mothers and children, but even 
 these did not appeal to me today. 
 
 I scarcely took notice as the train crept 
 around the horseshoe curve, where twenty 
 carloads of animals and circus performers
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 had gone to their death some seventeen years 
 back. Even when the train stopped at Sandy 
 Ridge, where I had seen a pretty blonde girl 
 get out, the first time I had travelled on the 
 T. & C., I evinced no interest; all I could 
 think of was my little romance of Destiny. 
 
 The afternoon train was late on account of 
 the storms, and it was 5 o'clock in the after- 
 noon instead of 8 o'clock in the morning 
 when I found myself alone on the station 
 platform at Hydesburg. I looked at the som- 
 bre drab-colored building, with the telegra- 
 pher working inside the screened window, 
 the snow drifts on the opposite side of the 
 track, the lifeless trees, the mountainous 
 landscape almost the color of the approach- 
 ing dusk. I was at Hydesburg, with over 
 four hours to wait, and no signs of Hermi- 
 onie. 
 
 Then, out of curiosity, I opened the door of 
 the ladies' waiting room. In a dark corner, 
 back of the huge whitewashed stove, sat a 
 woman it was Hermionie. She got up 
 quickly and came towards me; we shook 
 hands as if everything had been prearranged,
 
 400 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 and I took pains to notice that there was no 
 trace of surprise in her voice. She looked 
 just as she had when I saw her last, only the 
 new style of tight-fitting skirts seemed to 
 harmonize more completely with the long, 
 slim lines of her erect figure than anything 
 she wore in the old days. She had on a three- 
 cornered dark blue velvet hat, over which a 
 net veil was thrown, and her long coat and 
 gown were of dark material. Her eyes were 
 as preternaturally black as of yore, as was 
 her hair, which was drawn tightly back and 
 tied in a small knot at her neck. The arched 
 nose which turned up just a trifle at the end, 
 and the thin, never motionless lips, and the 
 clear pale complexion, all brought back a re- 
 vulsion of feeling that was hard for me to 
 disguise. 
 
 While the first greeting was devoid of any 
 surprise, I gradually began to realize the 
 strangeness of the situation. "How did you 
 happen here?" I made bold to ask. "I'm on 
 my way to visit my sister-in-law in Milroy, 
 but my train is late. I don't know what the 
 trouble is, and I got stranded here. I was
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 401 
 
 going on the early train this morning, but I 
 found I would have to lie over here for sev- 
 eral hours, and I didn't like the thought of 
 that, so I came by the later train with no 
 better results." 
 
 I looked at her in amazement. "Why, I 
 was coming here on the early morning train 
 from Tyrone it was due here about 8 o'clock, 
 but I missed my train in Reading last even- 
 ing, which held me back half a day." 
 
 "Where are you going, Herndon?" she 
 asked; "I know you are great at travelling, 
 but isn't this a trifle out of your line?" 
 
 I saw that the time had come to reveal the 
 whole story. We went out on the platform 
 and began walking up and down. "I had 
 some business in Clearfield," I began, "but, 
 of course, I could have gotten there direct 
 from Reading by the P. & R. and the Beech 
 Creek, but I came this way to meet you." 
 
 "Well," said Hermionie, with one of her 
 old-time perplexing smiles, "that wasn't why 
 I stayed over until the later train. I had a 
 dream that I would meet you here at 8 o'clock 
 this morning, and, as I am happy with Jim, I
 
 402 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 saw no reason of doing so. I was j ust super- 
 stitious enough to fear you would be here, so 
 I waited over a train, but you found me any- 
 how." 
 
 "Well, Hermionie," I said, "it is foolish for 
 us to meet, but I had a dream telling me I 
 would meet you here at 8 o'clock this morn- 
 ing, and even though I came this way, I sort 
 of felt relieved that I would not see you be- 
 cause I got here so many hours late." 
 
 "Do you often dream about me?" she in- 
 quired. 
 
 "Generally speaking, no, but I have been 
 sick lately, and I dreamed a good deal." Then 
 I went on to tell her about the vision I had 
 had which led to this singular adventure. 
 
 "It's been the same with me," said Hermi- 
 onie; "ever since I have been married, I've 
 dreamed about you ; that I took long journeys 
 to see you. I hated to do it, as I did not want 
 even my soul to be untrue to Jim. I always 
 felt wretchedly tired the next morning, but 
 how can we make ourselves stop dreaming, 
 and I disliked consulting medical advice or 
 even telling my husband. Of late I dreamed
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 403 
 
 often you were ill. Over a month ago I had 
 a most peculiar dream; I should say it was 
 more of a vision. In it I seemed to be fully 
 awake, which was a new sensation, and to 
 get out of bed and dress and climb out 
 through the window. There a gust of wind 
 caught me, and I was wafted, as easily as if 
 in an airship, over the treetops, mountains 
 and clouds, close by the full moon " 
 
 Here I interrupted her. "It must have 
 been the same night I dreamed you came to 
 me, which caused this trip; it was the first 
 night of the full moon in December." 
 
 "Well," she continued; "I alighted on a 
 little portico in front of an open window, 
 and had not the will power to resist going in. 
 There I found you lying in bed, but not 
 asleep, and by the light of a lamp on the cen- 
 tre table I saw that you were looking badly, 
 but better than I expected. In the course of 
 our conversation I told you that I expected to 
 be at Hydesburg on the morning of February 
 4, and would meet you there. That is all I 
 remember. Then I left you, and at daybreak 
 Jim found me sitting on the side of the bed
 
 404 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 
 
 fully dressed. We concluded that I had been 
 having a nightmare and especially as I had a 
 terrible headache. Jim worried for days 
 about it. But secretly I was more concerned 
 than he ; I knew that my experience had been 
 a most peculiar one, and I wondered if, in 
 reality, you were ill. You meant nothing to 
 me, yet for old time's sake, I felt sorry if any- 
 thing was wrong. I inquired around, but no 
 one had heard anything of you, not even the 
 druggist's clerk, who said he used to go hunt- 
 ing with you. I did not write, as I might find 
 that you were 'never in better health,' as the 
 story goes, and you would think I was trying 
 to reopen our old romance. Of course, I 
 ought not to have come to Hydesburg today ; 
 that would have been the simplest way to end 
 the incident; but everyone, men as well as 
 women, are a trifle curious, and I wanted to 
 see what would happen. You can put your 
 own construction on it." 
 
 Just as she finished her story I peered in 
 at the telegrapher plugging away behind the 
 grated window. He was looking in wonder- 
 ment at us walking up and down the platform
 
 Pennsylvania Mountain Stories 405 
 
 in the cold night air. After verifying the 
 time of the departure of our trains we went 
 to the Eagle hotel, back to the station, and 
 had supper. Then we sat the rest of the 
 evening by the stove in the hotel parlor, talk- 
 ing over old times, and the stubborn Destiny 
 that decreed we should meet this day. At 
 nine-thirty, when I saw her on the south- 
 bound train, it was all as much of a mystery 
 to us as ever. Perhaps I am happier at delv- 
 ing back into the past and seeing her again ; 
 perhaps she is ; yet neither of us would con- 
 fess that in the intervening years we had re- 
 pined much for each other's presence. But 
 since then I have ceased dreaming of Hermi- 
 onie.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Explanatory Preface 5 
 
 Chapter I When the Pigeons Fly 17 
 
 Chapter II The Last Elk 31 
 
 Chapter HI The Passing of a Ghost 44 
 
 Chapter IV The Story of Lewis's Lake 62 
 
 Chapter V The Last Pack 75 
 
 Chapter VI Story of the Sulphur Spring 84 
 
 Chapter VII The Panther Hide % 
 
 Chapter VIII Marsh Marigold 113 
 
 Chapter IX Story of the Picture Rocks 131 
 
 Chapter X Vindication of Frederick Stump . . .145 
 
 Chapter XI The Cross on the Rock 158 
 
 Chapter XII The Fate of Georgie Dupre 174 
 
 Chapter XIII Billy Anderson's Ghost 185 
 
 Chapter XIV The Dreamer 202 
 
 Chapter XV The Call of the Track 218 
 
 Chapter XVI The Ghost of the Pine 240 
 
 Chapter XVII A Pennsylvania Bison Hunt 254 
 
 Chapter XVIII McElhattan and His Springs 268 
 
 Chapter XIX The Courage of Peter Pentz 284 
 
 Chapter XX Tim Murphy's Ghost 295 
 
 Chapter XXI The Last Drive 310 
 
 Chapter XXII History of Tamarack Swamp .... 323 
 
 Chapter XXIII Cora Pemberton's Biography .... 339 
 
 Chapter XXIV The Vista 357 
 
 Chapter XXV The Pitcher Plant 369 
 
 Chapter XXVI Meeting Hermionie 389
 
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