{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6606/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6606","id":"gutenberg_6606","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6606","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folklore -- United States"],"text":"Produced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                           MYTHS AND LEGENDS\n                                   OF\n                              OUR OWN LAND\n\n                                   By\n                           Charles M. Skinner\n\n                                Vol. 1.\n\n\n                        THE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF ALL VOLUMES:\n\nTHE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS\n\nRip Van Winkle\nCatskill Gnomes\nThe Catskill Witch\nThe Revenge of Shandaken\nCondemned to the Noose\nBig Indian\nThe Baker's Dozen\nThe Devil's Dance-Chamber\nThe Culprit Fay\nPokepsie\nDunderberg\nAnthony's Nose\nMoodua Creek\nA Trapper's Ghastly Vengeance\nThe Vanderdecken of Tappan Zee\nThe Galloping Hessian\nStorm Ship on the Hudson\nWhy Spuyten Duyvil is so Named\nThe Ramapo Salamander\nChief Croton\nThe Retreat from Mahopac\nNiagara\nThe Deformed of Zoar\nHorseheads\nKayuta and Waneta\nThe Drop Star\nThe Prophet of Palmyra\nA Villain's Cremation\nThe Monster Mosquito\nThe Green Picture\nThe Nuns of Carthage\nThe Skull in the Wall\nThe Haunted Mill\nOld Indian Face\nThe Division of the Saranacs\nAn Event in Indian Park\nThe Indian Plume\nBirth of the Water-Lily\nRogers's Slide\nThe Falls at Cohoes\nFrancis Woolcott's Night-Riders\nPolly's Lover\nCrosby, the Patriot Spy\nThe Lost Grave of Paine\nThe Rising of Gouverneur Morris\n\n\nTHE ISLE OF MANHATTOES AND NEARBY\n\nDolph Heyliger\nThe Knell at the Wedding\nRoistering Dirck Van Dara\nThe Party from Gibbet Island\nMiss Britton's Poker\nThe Devil's Stepping-Stones\nThe Springs of Blood and Water\nThe Crumbling Silver\nThe Cortelyou Elopement\nVan Wempel's Goose\nThe Weary Watcher\nThe Rival Fiddlers\nWyandank\nMark of the Spirit Hand\nThe First Liberal Church\n\n\nON AND NEAR THE DELAWARE\n\nThe Phantom Dragoon\nDelaware Water Gap\nThe Phantom Drummer\nThe Missing Soldier of Valley Forge\nThe Last Shot at Germantown\nA Blow in the Dark\nThe Tory's Conversion\nLord Percy's Dream\nSaved by the Bible\nParricide of the Wissahickon\nThe Blacksmith at Brandywine\nFather and Son\nThe Envy of Manitou\nThe Last Revel in Printz Hall\nThe Two Rings\nFlame Scalps of the Chartiers\nThe Consecration of Washington\nMarion\n\n\nTALES OF PURITAN LAND\n\nEvangeline\nThe Snoring of Swunksus\nThe Lewiston Hermit\nThe Dead Ship of Harpswell\nThe Schoolmaster had not reached Orrington\nJack Welch's Death Light\nMogg Megone\nThe Lady Ursula\nFather Moody's Black Veil\nThe Home of Thunder\nThe Partridge Witch\nThe Marriage of Mount Katahdin\nThe Moose of Mount Kineo\nThe Owl Tree\nA Chestnut Log\nThe Watcher on White Island\nChocorua\nPassaconaway's Ride to Heaven\nThe Ball Game by the Saco\nThe White Mountains\nThe Vision on Mount Adams\nThe Great Carbuncle\nSkinner's Cave\nYet they call it Lover's Leap\nSalem and other Witchcraft\nThe Gloucester Leaguers\nSatan and his Burial-Place\nPeter Rugg, the Missing Man\nThe Loss of Weetamoo\nThe Fatal Forget-me-not\nThe Old Mill at Somerville\nEdward Randolph's Portrait\nLady Eleanore's Mantle\nHowe's Masquerade\nOld Esther Dudley\nThe Loss of Jacob Hurd\nThe Hobomak\nBerkshire Tories\nThe Revenge of Josiah Breeze\nThe May-Pole of Merrymount\nThe Devil and Tom Walker\nThe Gray Champion\nThe Forest Smithy\nWahconah Falls\nKnocking at the Tomb\nThe White Deer of Onota\nWizard's Glen\nBalanced Rock\nShonkeek-Moonkeek\nThe Salem Alchemist\nEliza Wharton\nSale of the Southwicks\nThe Courtship of Myles Standish\nMother Crewe\nAunt Rachel's Curse\nNix's Mate\nThe Wild Man of Cape Cod\nNewbury's Old Elm\nSamuel Sewall's Prophecy\nThe Shrieking Woman\nAgnes Surriage\nSkipper Ireson's Ride\nHeartbreak Hill\nHarry Main: The Treasure and the Cats\nThe Wessaguscus Hanging\nThe Unknown Champion\nGoody Cole\nGeneral Moulton and the Devil\nThe Skeleton in Armor\nMartha's Vineyard and Nantucket\nLove and Treason\nThe Headless Skeleton of Swamptown\nThe Crow and Cat of Hopkins Hill\nThe Old Stone Mill\nOrigin of a Name\nMicah Rood Apples\nA Dinner and its Consequences\nThe New Haven Storm Ship\nThe Windham Frogs\nThe Lamb of Sacrifice\nMoodus Noises\nHaddam Enchantments\nBlock Island and the Palatine\nThe Buccaneer\nRobert Lockwood's Fate\nLove and Rum\n\n\n\nLIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH\n\nThe Swim at Indian Head\nThe Moaning Sisters\nA Ride for a Bride\nSpooks of the Hiawassee\nLake of the Dismal Swamp\nThe Barge of Defeat\nNatural Bridge\nThe Silence Broken\nSiren of the French Broad\nThe Hunter of Calawassee\nRevenge of the Accabee\nToccoa Falls\nTwo Lives for One\nA Ghostly Avenger\nThe Wraith Ringer of Atlanta\nThe Swallowing Earthquake\nThe Last Stand of the Biloxi\nThe Sacred Fire of Natchez\nPass Christian\nThe Under Land\n\n\nTHE CENTRAL STATES AND GREAT LAKES\n\nAn Averted Peril\nThe Obstinacy of Saint Clair\nThe Hundredth Skull\nThe Crime of Black Swamp\nThe House Accursed\nMarquette's Man-Eater\nMichel de Coucy's Troubles\nWallen's Ridge\nThe Sky Walker of Huron\nThe Coffin of Snakes\nMackinack\nLake Superior Water Gods\nThe Witch of Pictured Rocks\nThe Origin of White Fish\nThe Spirit of Cloudy\nThe Sun Fire at Sault Sainte Marie\nThe Snake God of Belle Isle\nWere-Wolves of Detroit\nThe Escape of Francois Navarre\nThe Old Lodger\nThe Nain Rouge\nTwo Revenges\nHiawatha\nThe Indian Messiah\nThe Vision of Rescue\nDevil's Lake\nThe Keusca Elopement\nPipestone\nThe Virgins' Feast\nFalls of St. Anthony\nFlying Shadow and Track Maker\nSaved by a Lightning-Stroke\nThe Killing of Cloudy Sky\nProvidence Hole\nThe Scare Cure\nTwelfth Night at Cahokia\nThe Spell of Creve Coeur Lake\nHow the Crime was Revealed\nBanshee of the Bad Lands\nStanding Rock\nThe Salt Witch\n\n\nALONG THE ROCKY RANGE\n\nOver the Divide\nThe Phantom Train of Marshall Pass\nThe River of Lost Souls\nRiders of the Desert\nThe Division of Two Tribes\nBesieged by Starvation\nA Yellowstone Tragedy\nThe Broad House\nThe Death Waltz\nThe Flood at Santa Fe\nGoddess of Salt\nThe Coming of the Navajos\nThe Ark on Superstition Mountains\nThe Pale Faced Lightning\nThe Weird Sentinel at Squaw Peak\nSacrifice of the Toltecs\nTa-Vwots Conquers the Sun\nThe Comanche Rider\nHorned Toad and Giants\nThe Spider Tower\nThe Lost Trail\nA Battle in the Air\n\n\nON THE PACIFIC SLOPE\n\nThe Voyager of the Whulge\nTamanous of Tacoma\nThe Devil and the Dalles\nCascades of the Columbia\nThe Death of Umatilla\nHunger Valley\nThe Wrath of Manitou\nThe Spook of Misery Hill\nThe Queen of Death Valley\nBridal Veil Fall\nThe Governor's Right Eye\nThe Prisoner in American Shaft\n\n\nAS TO BURIED TREASURE\n\nKidd's Treasure\nOther Buried Wealth\n\n\nSTORIED WATERS, CLIFFS AND MOUNTAINS\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nIt is unthinkingly said and often, that America is not old enough to have\ndeveloped a legendary era, for such an era grows backward as a nation\ngrows forward. No little of the charm of European travel is ascribed to\nthe glamour that history and fable have flung around old churches,\ncastles, and the favored haunts of tourists, and the Rhine and Hudson are\nfrequently compared, to the prejudice of the latter, not because its\nscenery lacks in loveliness or grandeur, but that its beauty has not been\nhumanized by love of chivalry or faerie, as that of the older stream has\nbeen. Yet the record of our country's progress is of deep import, and as\ntime goes on the figures seen against the morning twilight of our history\nwill rise to more commanding stature, and the mists of legend will invest\nthem with a softness or glory that shall make reverence for them\nspontaneous and deep. Washington hurling the stone across the Potomac may\nlive as the Siegfried of some Western saga, and Franklin invoking the\nlightnings may be the Loki of our mythology. The bibliography of American\nlegends is slight, and these tales have been gathered from sources the\nmost diverse: records, histories, newspapers, magazines, oral\nnarrative--in every case reconstructed. The pursuit of them has been so\nlong that a claim may be set forth for some measure of completeness.\n\nBut, whatever the episodes of our four historic centuries may furnish to\nthe poet, painter, dramatist, or legend-building idealist of the future,\nit is certain that we are not devoid of myth and folk-lore. Some\ncharacters, prosaic enough, perhaps, in daily life, have impinged so\nlightly on society before and after perpetrating their one or two great\ndeeds, that they have already become shadowy and their achievements have\nacquired a color of the supernatural. It is where myth and history\ncombine that legend is most interesting and appeals to our fancy or our\nsympathy most strongly; and it is not too early for us to begin the\ncollation of those quaint happenings and those spoken reports that gain\nin picturesqueness with each transmission. An attempt has been made in\nthis instance to assemble only legends, for, doubtful as some historians\nprofess to find them, certain occurrences, like the story of Captain\nSmith and Pocahontas, and the ride of General Putnam down Breakneck\nStairs, are taught as history; while as to folk-lore, that of the Indian\ntribes and of the Southern negro is too copious to be recounted in this\nwork. It will be noted that traditions do not thrive in brick and\nbrownstone, and that the stories once rife in the colonial cities have\nalmost as effectually disappeared as the architectural landmarks of last\ncentury. The field entered by the writer is not untrodden. Hawthorne and\nIrving have made paths across it, and it is hoped that others may deem\nits farther exploration worthy of their efforts.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HUDSON AND ITS HILLS\n\n\n\n\nRIP VAN WINKLE\n\nThe story of Rip Van Winkle, told by Irving, dramatized by Boucicault,\nacted by Jefferson, pictured by Darley, set to music by Bristow, is the\nbest known of American legends. Rip was a real personage, and the Van\nWinkles are a considerable family at this day. An idle, good-natured,\nhappy-go-lucky fellow, he lived, presumably, in the village of Catskill,\nand began his long sleep in 1769. His wife was a shrew, and to escape her\nabuse Rip often took his dog and gun and roamed away to the Catskills,\nnine miles westward, where he lounged or hunted, as the humor seized him.\nIt was on a September evening, during a jaunt on South Mountain, that he\nmet a stubby, silent man, of goodly girth, his round head topped with a\nsteeple hat, the skirts of his belted coat and flaps of his petticoat\ntrousers meeting at the tops of heavy boots, and the face--ugh!--green\nand ghastly, with unmoving eyes that glimmered in the twilight like\nphosphorus. The dwarf carried a keg, and on receiving an intimation, in a\nsign, that he would like Rip to relieve him of it, that cheerful vagabond\nshouldered it and marched on up the mountain.\n\nAt nightfall they emerged on a little plateau where a score of men in the\ngarb of long ago, with faces like that of Rip's guide, and equally still\nand speechless, were playing bowls with great solemnity, the balls\nsometimes rolling over the plateau's edge and rumbling down the rocks\nwith a boom like thunder. A cloaked and snowy-bearded figure, watching\naloof, turned like the others, and gazed uncomfortably at the visitor who\nnow came blundering in among them. Rip was at first for making off, but\nthe sinister glare in the circle of eyes took the run out of his legs,\nand he was not displeased when they signed to him to tap the keg and join\nin a draught of the ripest schnapps that ever he had tasted,--and he knew\nthe flavor of every brand in Catskill. While these strange men grew no\nmore genial with passing of the flagons, Rip was pervaded by a satisfying\nglow; then, overcome by sleepiness and resting his head on a stone, he\nstretched his tired legs out and fell to dreaming.\n\nMorning. Sunlight and leaf shadow were dappled over the earth when he\nawoke, and rising stiffly from his bed, with compunctions in his bones,\nhe reached for his gun. The already venerable implement was so far gone\nwith rot and rust that it fell to pieces in his hand, and looking down at\nthe fragments of it, he saw that his clothes were dropping from his body\nin rags and mould, while a white beard flowed over his breast. Puzzled\nand alarmed, shaking his head ruefully as he recalled the carouse of the\nsilent, he hobbled down the mountain as fast as he might for the grip of\nthe rheumatism on his knees and elbows, and entered his native village.\nWhat! Was this Catskill? Was this the place that he left yesterday? Had\nall these houses sprung up overnight, and these streets been pushed\nacross the meadows in a day? The people, too: where were his friends? The\nchildren who had romped with him, the rotund topers whom he had left\ncooling their hot noses in pewter pots at the tavern door, the dogs that\nused to bark a welcome, recognizing in him a kindred spirit of vagrancy:\nwhere were they?\n\nAnd his wife, whose athletic arm and agile tongue had half disposed him\nto linger in the mountains how happened it that she was not awaiting him\nat the gate? But gate there was none in the familiar place: an unfenced\nyard of weeds and ruined foundation wall were there. Rip's home was gone.\nThe idlers jeered at his bent, lean form, his snarl of beard and hair,\nhis disreputable dress, his look of grieved astonishment. He stopped,\ninstinctively, at the tavern, for he knew that place in spite of its new\nsign: an officer in blue regimentals and a cocked hat replacing the\ncrimson George III. of his recollection, and labelled \"General\nWashington.\" There was a quick gathering of ne'er-do-weels, of\ntavern-haunters and gaping 'prentices, about him, and though their faces\nwere strange and their manners rude, he made bold to ask if they knew\nsuch and such of his friends.\n\n\"Nick Vedder? He's dead and gone these eighteen years.\" \"Brom Dutcher? He\njoined the army and was killed at Stony Point.\" \"Van Brummel? He, too,\nwent to the war, and is in Congress now.\"\n\n\"And Rip Van Winkle?\"\n\n\"Yes, he's here. That's him yonder.\"\n\nAnd to Rip's utter confusion he saw before him a counterpart of himself,\nas young, lazy, ragged, and easy-natured as he remembered himself to be,\nyesterday--or, was it yesterday?\n\n\"That's young Rip,\" continued his informer. \"His father was Rip Van\nWinkle, too, but he went to the mountains twenty years ago and never came\nback. He probably fell over a cliff, or was carried off by Indians, or\neaten by bears.\"\n\nTwenty years ago! Truly, it was so. Rip had slept for twenty years\nwithout awaking. He had left a peaceful colonial village; he returned to\na bustling republican town. How he eventually found, among the oldest\ninhabitants, some who admitted that they knew him; how he found a\ncomfortable home with his married daughter and the son who took after him\nso kindly; how he recovered from the effect of the tidings that his wife\nhad died of apoplexy, in a quarrel; how he resumed his seat at the tavern\ntap and smoked long pipes and told long yarns for the rest of his days,\nwere matters of record up to the beginning of this century.\n\nAnd a strange story Rip had to tell, for he had served as cup-bearer to\nthe dead crew of the Half Moon. He had quaffed a cup of Hollands with no\nother than Henry Hudson himself. Some say that Hudson's spirit has made\nits home amid these hills, that it may look into the lovely valley that\nhe discovered; but others hold that every twenty years he and his men\nassemble for a revel in the mountains that so charmed them when first\nseen swelling against the western heavens, and the liquor they drink on\nthis night has the bane of throwing any mortal who lips it into a slumber\nwhence nothing can arouse him until the day dawns when the crew shall\nmeet again. As you climb the east front of the mountains by the old\ncarriage road, you pass, half-way up the height, the stone that Rip Van\nWinkle slept on, and may see that it is slightly hollowed by his form.\nThe ghostly revellers are due in the Catskills in 1909, and let all\ntourists who are among the mountains in September of that year beware of\naccepting liquor from strangers.\n\n\n\n\nCATSKILL GNOMES\n\nBehind the New Grand Hotel, in the Catskills, is an amphitheatre of\nmountain that is held to be the place of which the Mohicans spoke when\nthey told of people there who worked in metals, and had bushy beards and\neyes like pigs. From the smoke of their forges, in autumn, came the haze\nof Indian summer; and when the moon was full, it was their custom to\nassemble on the edge of a precipice above the hollow and dance and caper\nuntil the night was nigh worn away. They brewed a liquor that had the\neffect of shortening the bodies and swelling the heads of all who drank\nit, and when Hudson and his crew visited the mountains, the pygmies held\na carouse in his honor and invited him to drink their liquor. The crew\nwent away, shrunken and distorted by the magic distillation, and thus it\nwas that Rip Van Winkle found them on the eve of his famous sleep.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CATSKILL WITCH\n\nWhen the Dutch gave the name of Katzbergs to the mountains west of the\nHudson, by reason of the wild-cats and panthers that ranged there, they\nobliterated the beautiful Indian Ontiora, \"mountains of the sky.\" In one\ntradition of the red men these hills were bones of a monster that fed on\nhuman beings until the Great Spirit turned it into stone as it was\nfloundering toward the ocean to bathe. The two lakes near the summit were\nits eyes. These peaks were the home of an Indian witch, who adjusted the\nweather for the Hudson Valley with the certainty of a signal service\nbureau. It was she who let out the day and night in blessed alternation,\nholding back the one when the other was at large, for fear of conflict.\nOld moons she cut into stars as soon as she had hung new ones in the sky,\nand she was often seen perched on Round Top and North Mountain, spinning\nclouds and flinging them to the winds. Woe betide the valley residents if\nthey showed irreverence, for then the clouds were black and heavy, and\nthrough them she poured floods of rain and launched the lightnings,\ncausing disastrous freshets in the streams and blasting the wigwams of\nthe mockers. In a frolic humor she would take the form of a bear or deer\nand lead the Indian hunters anything but a merry dance, exposing them to\ntire and peril, and vanishing or assuming some terrible shape when they\nhad overtaken her. Sometimes she would lead them to the cloves and would\nleap into the air with a mocking \"Ho, ho!\" just as they stopped with a\nshudder at the brink of an abyss. Garden Rock was a spot where she was\noften found, and at its foot a lake once spread. This was held in such\nawe that an Indian would never wittingly pursue his quarry there; but\nonce a hunter lost his way and emerged from the forest at the edge of the\npond. Seeing a number of gourds in crotches of the trees he took one, but\nfearing the spirit he turned to leave so quickly that he stumbled and it\nfell. As it broke, a spring welled from it in such volume that the\nunhappy man was gulfed in its waters, swept to the edge of Kaaterskill\nclove and dashed on the rocks two hundred and sixty feet below. Nor did\nthe water ever cease to run, and in these times the stream born of the\nwitch's revenge is known as Catskill Creek.\n\n\n\n\nTHE REVENGE OF SHANDAKEN\n\nOn the rock platform where the Catskill Mountain House now stands,\ncommanding one of the fairest views in the world, old chief Shandaken set\nhis wigwam,--for it is a mistake to suppose that barbarians are\nindifferent to beauty,--and there his daughter, Lotowana, was sought in\nmarriage by his braves. She, however, kept faith to an early vow\nexchanged with a young chief of the Mohawks. A suitor who was\nparticularly troublesome was Norsereddin, proud, morose, dark-featured, a\nstranger to the red man, a descendant, so he claimed, from Egyptian\nkings, and who lived by himself on Kaaterskill Creek, appearing among\nwhite settlements but rarely.\n\nOn one of his visits to Catskill, a tavern-lounging Dutchman wagered him\na thousand golden crowns that he could not win Lotowana, and, stung by\navarice as well as inflamed by passion, Norsereddin laid new siege to her\nheart. Still the girl refused to listen, and Shandaken counselled him to\nbe content with the smiles of others, thereby so angering the Egyptian\nthat he assailed the chief and was driven from the camp with blows; but\non the day of Lotowana's wedding with the Mohawk he returned, and in a\nhoneyed speech asked leave to give a jewel to the bride to show that he\nhad stifled jealousy and ill will. The girl took the handsome box he gave\nher and drew the cover, when a spring flew forward, driving into her hand\nthe poisoned tooth of a snake that had been affixed to it. The venom was\nstrong, and in a few minutes Lotowana lay dead at her husband's feet.\n\nThough the Egyptian had disappeared into the forest directly on the\nacceptance of his treacherous gift, twenty braves set off in pursuit, and\novertaking him on the Kalkberg, they dragged him back to the rock where\nfather and husband were bewailing the maid's untimely fate. A pile of\nfagots was heaped within a few feet of the precipice edge, and tying\ntheir captive on them, they applied the torch, dancing about with cries\nof exultation as the shrieks of the wretch echoed from the cliffs. The\ndead girl was buried by the mourning tribe, while the ashes of\nNorsereddin were left to be blown abroad. On the day of his revenge\nShandaken left his ancient dwelling-place, and his camp-fires never\nglimmered afterward on the front of Ontiora.\n\n\n\n\nCONDEMNED TO THE NOOSE\n\nRalph Sutherland, who, early in the last century, occupied a stone house\na mile from Leeds, in the Catskills, was a man of morose and violent\ndisposition, whose servant, a Scotch girl, was virtually a slave,\ninasmuch as she was bound to work for him without pay until she had\nrefunded to him her passage-money to this country. Becoming weary of\nbondage and of the tempers of her master, the girl ran away. The man set\noff in a raging chase, and she had not gone far before Sutherland\novertook her, tied her by the wrists to his horse's tail, and began the\nhomeward journey. Afterward, he swore that the girl stumbled against the\nhorse's legs, so frightening the animal that it rushed off madly,\npitching him out of the saddle and dashing the servant to death on rocks\nand trees; yet, knowing how ugly-tempered he could be, his neighbors were\nbetter inclined to believe that he had driven the horse into a gallop,\nintending to drag the girl for a short distance, as a punishment, and to\nrein up before he had done serious mischief. On this supposition he was\narrested, tried, and sentenced to die on the scaffold.\n\nThe tricks of circumstantial evidence, together with pleas advanced by\ninfluential relatives of the prisoner, induced the court to delay\nsentence until the culprit should be ninety-nine years old, but it was\nordered that, while released on his own recognizance, in the interim, he\nshould keep a hangman's noose about his neck and show himself before the\njudges in Catskill once every year, to prove that he wore his badge of\ninfamy and kept his crime in mind. This sentence he obeyed, and there\nwere people living recently who claimed to remember him as he went about\nwith a silken cord knotted at his throat. He was always alone, he seldom\nspoke, his rough, imperious manner had departed. Only when children asked\nhim what the rope was for were his lips seen to quiver, and then he would\nhurry away. After dark his house was avoided, for gossips said that a\nshrieking woman passed it nightly, tied at the tail of a giant horse with\nfiery eyes and smoking nostrils; that a skeleton in a winding sheet had\nbeen found there; that a curious thing, somewhat like a woman, had been\nknown to sit on his garden wall, with lights shining from her\nfinger-tips, uttering unearthly laughter; and that domestic animals\nreproached the man by groaning and howling beneath his windows.\n\nThese beliefs he knew, yet he neither grieved, nor scorned, nor answered\nwhen he was told of them. Years sped on. Every year deepened his reserve\nand loneliness, and some began to whisper that he would take his own way\nout of the world, though others answered that men who were born to be\nhanged would never be drowned; but a new republic was created; new laws\nwere made; new judges sat to minister them; so, on Ralph Sutherland's\nninety-ninth birthday anniversary, there were none who would accuse him\nor execute sentence. He lived yet another year, dying in 1801. But was it\nfrom habit, or was it in self-punishment and remorse, that he never took\noff the cord? for, when he drew his last breath, though it was in his own\nhouse, his throat was still encircled by the hangman's rope.\n\n\n\n\nBIG INDIAN\n\nIntermarriages between white people and red ones in this country were not\nuncommon in the days when our ancestors led as rude a life as the\nnatives, and several places in the Catskills commemorate this fact. Mount\nUtsayantha, for example, is named for an Indian woman whose life, with\nthat of her baby and her white husband, was lost there. For the white men\nearly found friends among these mountains. As far back as 1663 they\nspared Catherine Dubois and her three children, after some rash spirits\nhad abducted them and carried them to a place on the upper Walkill, to do\nthem to death; for the captives raised a Huguenot hymn and the hearts of\ntheir captors were softened.\n\nIn Esopus Valley lived Winnisook, whose height was seven feet, and who\nwas known among the white settlers as \"the big Indian.\" He loved a white\ngirl of the neighborhood, one Gertrude Molyneux, and had asked for her\nhand; but while she was willing, the objections of her family were too\nstrong to be overcome, and she was teased into marriage with Joseph\nBundy, of her own race, instead. She liked the Indian all the better\nafter that, however, because Bundy proved to be a bad fellow, and\nbelieving that she could be happier among barbarians than among a people\nthat approved such marriages, she eloped with Winnisook. For a long time\nall trace of the runaway couple was lost, but one day the man having gone\ndown to the plain to steal cattle, it was alleged, was discovered by some\nfarmers who knew him, and who gave hot chase, coming up with him at the\nplace now called Big Indian.\n\nForemost in the chase was Bundy. As he came near to the enemy of his\npeace he exclaimed, \"I think the best way to civilize that yellow serpent\nis to let daylight into his heart,\" and, drawing his rifle to his\nshoulder, he fired. Mortally wounded, yet instinctively seeking refuge,\nthe giant staggered into the hollow of a pine-tree, where the farmers\nlost sight of him. There, however, he was found by Gertrude, bolt\nupright, yet dead. The unwedded widow brought her dusky children to the\nplace and spent the remainder of her days near his grave. Until a few\nyears ago the tree was still pointed out, but a railroad company has now\ncovered it with an embankment.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BAKER'S DOZEN\n\nBaas [Boss] Volckert Jan Pietersen Van Amsterdam kept a bake-shop in\nAlbany, and lives in history as the man who invented New Year cakes and\nmade gingerbread babies in the likeness of his own fat offspring. Good\nchurchman though he was, the bane of his life was a fear of being\nbewitched, and perhaps it was to keep out evil spirits, who might make\none last effort to gain the mastery over him, ere he turned the customary\nleaf with the incoming year, that he had primed himself with an extra\nglass of spirits on the last night of 1654. His sales had been brisk, and\nas he sat in his little shop, meditating comfortably on the gains he\nwould make when his harmless rivals--the knikkerbakkers (bakers of\nmarbles)--sent for their usual supply of olie-koeks and mince-pies on the\nmorrow, he was startled by a sharp rap, and an ugly old woman entered.\n\"Give me a dozen New Year's cookies!\" she cried, in a shrill voice.\n\n\"Vell, den, you needn' sbeak so loud. I aind teaf, den.\"\n\n\"A dozen!\" she screamed. \"Give me a dozen. Here are only twelve.\"\n\n\"Vell, den, dwalf is a dozen.\"\n\n\"One more! I want a dozen.\"\n\n\"Vell, den, if you vant anodder, go to de duyvil and ged it.\"\n\nDid the hag take him at his word? She left the shop, and from that time\nit seemed as if poor Volckert was bewitched, indeed, for his cakes were\nstolen; his bread was so light that it went up the chimney, when it was\nnot so heavy that it fell through the oven; invisible hands plucked\nbricks from that same oven and pelted him until he was blue; his wife\nbecame deaf, his children went unkempt, and his trade went elsewhere.\nThrice the old woman reappeared, and each time was sent anew to the\ndevil; but at last, in despair, the baker called on Saint Nicolaus to\ncome and advise him. His call was answered with startling quickness, for,\nalmost while he was making it, the venerable patron of Dutch feasts stood\nbefore him. The good soul advised the trembling man to be more generous\nin his dealings with his fellows, and after a lecture on charity he\nvanished, when, lo! the old woman was there in his place.\n\nShe repeated her demand for one more cake, and Volckert Jan Pietersen,\netc., gave it, whereupon she exclaimed, \"The spell is broken, and from\nthis time a dozen is thirteen!\" Taking from the counter a gingerbread\neffigy of Saint Nicolaus, she made the astonished Dutchman lay his hand\nupon it and swear to give more liberal measure in the future. So, until\nthirteen new States arose from the ruins of the colonies,--when the\nshrewd Yankees restored the original measure,--thirteen made a baker's\ndozen.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL'S DANCE-CHAMBER.\n\nMost storied of our New World rivers is the Hudson. Historic scenes have\nbeen enacted on its shores, and Indian, Dutchman, Briton, and American\nhave invested it with romance. It had its source, in the red man's fancy,\nin a spring of eternal youth; giants and spirits dwelt in its woods and\nhills, and before the river-Shatemuc, king of streams, the red men called\nit--had broken through the highlands, those mountains were a pent for\nspirits who had rebelled against the Manitou. After the waters had forced\na passage to the sea these evil ones sought shelter in the glens and\nvalleys that open to right and left along its course, but in time of\ntempest, when they hear Manitou riding down the ravine on wings of storm,\ndashing thunderbolts against the cliffs, it is the fear that he will\nrecapture them and force them into lightless caverns to expiate their\nrevolt, that sends them huddling among the rocks and makes the hills\nresound with roars and howls.\n\nAt the Devil's Dance-Chamber, a slight plateau on the west bank, between\nNewburg and Crom Elbow, the red men performed semi-religious rites as a\npreface to their hunting and fishing trips or ventures on the war-path.\nThey built a fire, painted themselves, and in that frenzy into which\nsavages are so readily lashed, and that is so like to the action of mobs\nin trousers, they tumbled, leaped, danced, yelled, sang, grimaced, and\ngesticulated until the Manitou disclosed himself, either as a harmless\nanimal or a beast of prey. If he came in the former shape the augury was\nfavorable, but if he showed himself as a bear or panther, it was a\nwarning of evil that they seldom dared to disregard.\n\nThe crew of Hudson's ship, the Half Moon, having chanced on one of these\norgies, were so impressed by the fantastic spectacle that they gave the\nname Duyvels Dans-Kamer to the spot. Years afterwards, when Stuyvesant\nascended the river, his doughty retainers were horrified, on landing\nbelow the Dans-Kamer, to discover hundreds of painted figures frisking\nthere in the fire-light. A few surmised that they were but a new\ngeneration of savages holding a powwow, but most of the sailors fancied\nthat the assemblage was demoniac, and that the figures were spirits of\nbad Indians repeating a scalp-dance and revelling in the mysterious\nfire-water that they had brought down from the river source in jars and\nskins. The spot was at least once profaned with blood, for a young\nDutchman and his wife, of Albany, were captured here by an angry Indian,\nand although the young man succeeded in stabbing his captor to death, he\nwas burned alive on the rock by the friends of the Indian whose wrath he\nhad provoked. The wife, after being kept in captivity for a time, was\nransomed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CULPRIT FAY\n\nThe wood-tick's drum convokes the elves at the noon of night on Cro' Nest\ntop, and, clambering out of their flower-cup beds and hammocks of cobweb,\nthey fly to the meeting, not to freak about the grass or banquet at the\nmushroom table, but to hear sentence passed on the fay who, forgetting\nhis vestal vow, has loved an earthly maid. From his throne under a canopy\nof tulip petals, borne on pillars of shell, the king commands silence,\nand with severe eye but softened voice he tells the culprit that while he\nhas scorned the royal decree he has saved himself from the extreme\npenalty, of imprisonment in walnut shells and cobweb dungeons, by loving\na maid who is gentle and pure. So it shall be enough if he will go down\nto the Hudson and seize a drop from the bow of mist that a sturgeon\nleaves when he makes his leap; and after, to kindle his darkened\nflame-wood lamp at a meteor spark. The fairy bows, and without a word\nslowly descends the rocky steep, for his wing is soiled and has lost its\npower; but once at the river, he tugs amain at a mussel shell till he has\nit afloat; then, leaping in, he paddles out with a strong grass blade\ntill he comes to the spot where the sturgeon swims, though the\nwatersprites plague him and toss his boat, and the fish and the leeches\nbunt and drag; but, suddenly, the sturgeon shoots from the water, and ere\nthe arch of mist that he tracks through the air has vanished, the sprite\nhas caught a drop of the spray in a tiny blossom, and in this he washes\nclean his wings.\n\nThe water-goblins torment him no longer. They push his boat to the shore,\nwhere, alighting, he kisses his hand, then, even as a bubble, he flies\nback to the mountain top, dons his acorn helmet, his corselet of\nbee-hide, his shield of lady-bug shell, and grasping his lance, tipped\nwith wasp sting, he bestrides his fire-fly steed and off he goes like a\nflash. The world spreads out and then grows small, but he flies straight\non. The ice-ghosts leer from the topmost clouds, and the mists surge\nround, but he shakes his lance and pipes his call, and at last he comes\nto the Milky Way, where the sky-sylphs lead him to their queen, who lies\ncouched in a palace ceiled with stars, its dome held up by northern\nlights and the curtains made of the morning's flush. Her mantle is\ntwilight purple, tied with threads of gold from the eastern dawn, and her\nface is as fair as the silver moon.\n\nShe begs the fay to stay with her and taste forever the joys of heaven,\nbut the knightly elf keeps down the beating of his heart, for he\nremembers a face on earth that is fairer than hers, and he begs to go.\nWith a sigh she fits him a car of cloud, with the fire-fly steed chained\non behind, and he hurries away to the northern sky whence the meteor\ncomes, with roar and whirl, and as it passes it bursts to flame. He\nlights his lamp at a glowing spark, then wheels away to the fairy-land.\nHis king and his brothers hail him stoutly, with song and shout, and\nfeast and dance, and the revel is kept till the eastern sky has a ruddy\nstreak. Then the cock crows shrill and the fays are gone.\n\n\n\n\nPOKEPSIE\n\nThe name of this town has forty-two spellings in old records, and with\nsingular pertinacity in ill-doing, the inhabitants have fastened on it\nthe longest and clumsiest of all. It comes from the Mohegan words\nApo-keep-sink, meaning a safe, pleasant harbor. Harbor it might be for\ncanoes, but for nothing bigger, for it was only the little cove that was\nso called between Call Rock and Adder Cliff,--the former indicating where\nsettlers awaiting passage hailed the masters of vessels from its top, and\nthe latter taking its name from the snakes that abounded there.\n\nHither came a band of Delawares with Pequot captives, among them a young\nchief to whom had been offered not only life but leadership if he would\nrenounce his tribe, receive the mark of the turtle on his breast, and\nbecome a Delaware. On his refusal, he was bound to a tree, and was about\nto undergo the torture, when a girl among the listeners sprang to his\nside. She, too, was a Pequot, but the turtle totem was on her bosom, and\nwhen she begged his life, because they had been betrothed, the captors\npaused to talk of it. She had chosen well the time to interfere, for a\nband of Hurons was approaching, and even as the talk went on their yell\nwas heard in the wood. Instant measures for defence were taken, and in\nthe fight that followed both chief and maiden were forgotten; but though\nshe cut the cords that bound him, they were separated in the confusion,\nhe disappearing, she falling captive to the Hurons, who, sated with\nblood, retired from the field. In the fantastic disguise of a wizard the\nyoung Pequot entered their camp soon after, and on being asked to try his\nenchantments for the cure of a young woman, he entered her tent, showing\nno surprise at finding her to be the maiden of his choice, who was\nsuffering from nothing worse than nerves, due to the excitement of the\nbattle. Left alone with his patient, he disclosed his identity, and\nplanned a way of escape that proved effective on that very night, for,\nthough pursued by the angry Hurons, the couple reached \"safe harbor,\"\nthence making a way to their own country in the east, where they were\nmarried.\n\n\n\n\nDUNDERBERG\n\nDunderberg, \"Thunder Mountain,\" at the southern gate of the Hudson\nHighlands, is a wooded eminence, chiefly populated by a crew of imps of\nstout circumference, whose leader, the Heer, is a bulbous goblin clad in\nthe dress worn by Dutch colonists two centuries ago, and carrying a\nspeaking-trumpet, through which he bawls his orders for the blowing of\nwinds and the touching off of lightnings. These orders are given in Low\nDutch, and are put into execution by the imps aforesaid, who troop into\nthe air and tumble about in the mist, sometimes smiting the flag or\ntopsail of a ship to ribbons, or laying the vessel over before the wind\nuntil she is in peril of going on beam ends. At one time a sloop passing\nthe Dunderberg had nearly foundered, when the crew discovered the\nsugar-loaf hat of the Heer at the mast-head. None dared to climb for it,\nand it was not until she had driven past Pollopel's Island--the limit of\nthe Heer's jurisdiction--that she righted. As she did so the little hat\nspun into the air like a top, creating a vortex that drew up the\nstorm-clouds, and the sloop kept her way prosperously for the rest of the\nvoyage. The captain had nailed a horse-shoe to the mast. The \"Hat Rogue\"\nof the Devil's Bridge in Switzerland must be a relative of this gamesome\nsprite, for his mischief is usually of a harmless sort; but, to be on the\nsafe side, the Dutchmen who plied along the river lowered their peaks in\nhomage to the keeper of the mountain, and for years this was a common\npractice. Mariners who paid this courtesy to the Heer of the Donder Berg\nwere never molested by his imps, though skipper Ouselsticker, of\nFishkill,--for all he had a parson on board,--was once beset by a heavy\nsquall, and the goblin came out of the mist and sat astraddle of his\nbowsprit, seeming to guide his schooner straight toward the rocks. The\ndominie chanted the song of Saint Nicolaus, and the goblin, unable to\nendure either its spiritual potency or the worthy parson's singing, shot\nupward like a ball and rode off on the gale, carrying with him the\nnightcap of the parson's wife, which he hung on the weathercock of Esopus\nsteeple, forty miles away.\n\n\n\n\nANTHONY'S NOSE\n\nThe Hudson Highlands are suggestively named Bear Mountain, Sugar Loaf,\nCro' Nest, Storm King, called by the Dutch Boterberg, or Butter Hill,\nfrom its likeness to a pat of butter; Beacon Hill, where the fires blazed\nto tell the country that the Revolutionary war was over; Dunderberg,\nMount Taurus, so called because a wild bull that had terrorized the\nHighlands was chased out of his haunts on this height, and was killed by\nfalling from a cliff on an eminence to the northward, known, in\nconsequence, as Breakneck Hill. These, with Anthony's Nose, are the\nprincipal points of interest in the lovely and impressive panorama that\nunfolds before the view as the boats fly onward.\n\nConcerning the last-named elevation, the aquiline promontory that abuts\non the Hudson opposite Dunderberg, it takes title from no resemblance to\nthe human feature, but is so named because Anthony Van Corlaer, the\ntrumpeter, who afterwards left a reason for calling the upper boundary of\nManhattan Island Spuyten Duyvil Creek, killed the first sturgeon ever\neaten at the foot of this mountain. It happened in this wise: By\nassiduous devotion to keg and flagon Anthony had begotten a nose that was\nthe wonder and admiration of all who knew it, for its size was\nprodigious; in color it rivalled the carbuncle, and it shone like\npolished copper. As Anthony was lounging over the quarter of Peter\nStuyvesant's galley one summer morning this nose caught a ray from the\nsun and reflected it hissing into the water, where it killed a sturgeon\nthat was rising beside the vessel. The fish was pulled aboard, eaten, and\ndeclared good, though the singed place savored of brimstone, and in\ncommemoration of the event Stuyvesant dubbed the mountain that rose above\nhis vessel Anthony's Nose.\n\n\n\n\nMOODUA CREEK\n\nMoodua is an evolution, through Murdy's and Moodna, from Murderer's\nCreek, its present inexpressive name having been given to it by N. P.\nWillis. One Murdock lived on its shore with his wife, two sons, and a\ndaughter; and often in the evening Naoman, a warrior of a neighboring\ntribe, came to the cabin, caressed the children, and shared the woodman's\nhospitality. One day the little girl found in the forest an arrow wrapped\nin snake-skin and tipped with crow's feather; then the boy found a\nhatchet hanging by a hair from a bough above the door; then a glare of\nevil eyes was caught for an instant in a thicket. Naoman, when he came,\nwas reserved and stern, finding voice only to warn the family to fly that\nnight; so, when all was still, the threatened family made its way softly,\nbut quickly, to the Hudson shore, and embarked for Fisher's Kill, across\nthe river.\n\nThe wind lagged and their boat drew heavily, and when, from the shade of\nPollopel's Island, a canoe swept out, propelled by twelve men, the hearts\nof the people in the boat sank in despair. The wife was about to leap\nover, but Murdock drew her back; then, loading and firing as fast as\npossible, he laid six of his pursuers low; but the canoe was savagely\nurged forward, and in another minute every member of the family was a\nhelpless captive. When the skiff had been dragged back, the prisoners\nwere marched through the wood to an open spot where the principal members\nof the tribe sat in council.\n\nThe sachem arose, twisted his hands in the woman's golden hair, bared his\nknife, and cried, \"Tell us what Indian warned you and betrayed his tribe,\nor you shall see husband and children bleed before your eyes.\" The woman\nanswered never a word, but after a little Naoman arose and said, \"'Twas\nI;\" then drew his blanket about him and knelt for execution. An axe cleft\nhis skull. Drunk with the sight of blood, the Indians rushed upon the\ncaptives and slew them, one by one. The prisoners neither shrank nor\ncried for mercy, but met their end with hymns upon their lips, and,\nseeing that they could so meet death, one member of the band let fall his\narm and straight became a Christian. The cabin was burned, the bodies\nflung into the stream, and the stain of blood was seen for many a year in\nMurderer's Creek.\n\n\n\n\nA TRAPPER'S GHASTLY VENGEANCE\n\nAbout a mile back from the Hudson, at Coxsackie, stood the cabin of Nick\nWolsey, who, in the last century, was known to the river settlements as a\nhunter and trapper of correct aim, shrewdness, endurance, and taciturn\nhabit. For many years he lived in this cabin alone, except for the\ncompany of his dog; but while visiting a camp of Indians in the\nwilderness he was struck with the engaging manner of one of the girls of\nthe tribe; he repeated the visit; he found cause to go to the camp\nfrequently; he made presents to the father of the maid, and at length won\nher consent to be his wife. The simple marriage ceremony of the tribe was\nperformed, and Wolsey led Minamee to his home; but the wedding was\ninterrupted in an almost tragic manner, for a surly fellow who had loved\nthe girl, yet who never had found courage to declare himself, was wrought\nto such a jealous fury at the discovery of Wolsey's good fortune that he\nsprang at him with a knife, and would have despatched him on the spot had\nnot the white man's faithful hound leaped at his throat and borne him to\nthe ground.\n\nWolsey disarmed the fellow and kicked and cuffed him to the edge of the\nwood, while the whole company shouted with laughter at this ignominious\npunishment, and approved it. A year or more passed. Wolsey and his Indian\nwife were happy in their free and simple life; happy, too, in their\nlittle babe. Wolsey was seldom absent from his cabin for any considerable\nlength of time, and usually returned to it before the night set in. One\nevening he noticed that the grass and twigs were bent near his house by\nsome passing foot that, with the keen eye of the woodman, he saw was not\nhis wife's.\n\n\"Some hunter,\" he said, \"saw the house when he passed here, and as,\nbelike, he never saw one before, he stopped to look in.\" For the trail\nled to his window, and diverged thence to the forest again. A few days\nlater, as he was returning, he came on the footprints that were freshly\nmade, and a shadow crossed his face. On nearing the door he stumbled on\nthe body of his dog, lying rigid on the ground. \"How did this happen,\nMinamee?\" he cried, as he flung open the door. The wife answered, in a\nlow voice, \"O Hush! you'll wake the child.\"\n\nNick Wolsey entered the cabin and stood as one turned to marble. Minamee,\nhis wife, sat on the gold hearth, her face and hands cut and blackened,\nher dress torn, her eyes glassy, a meaningless smile on her lips. In her\narms she pressed the body of her infant, its dress soaked with blood, and\nthe head of the little creature lay on the floor beside her. She crooned\nsoftly over the cold clay as if hushing it to sleep, and when Wolsey at\nlength found words, she only whispered, \"Hush! you will wake him.\" The\nnight went heavily on; day dawned, and the crooning became lower and\nlower; still, through all that day the bereft woman rocked to and fro\nupon the floor, and the agonized husband hung about her, trying in vain\nto give comfort, to bind her wounds, to get some explanation of the\nmystery that confronted him. The second night set in, and it was evident\nthat it would be the last for Minamee. Her strength failed until she\nallowed herself to be placed on a couch of skins, while the body of her\nchild was gently lifted from her arms. Then, for a few brief minutes, her\nreason was restored, and she found words to tell her husband how the\nIndian whose murderous attack he had thwarted at the wedding had come to\nthe cabin, shot the dog that had rushed out to defend the place, beat the\nwoman back from the door, tore the baby from its bed, slashed its head\noff with a knife, and, flinging the little body into her lap, departed\nwith the words, \"This is my revenge. I am satisfied.\" Before the sun was\nin the east again Minamee was with her baby.\n\nWolsey sat for hours in the ruin of his happiness, his breathing alone\nproving that he was alive, and when at last he arose and went out of the\nhouse, there were neither tears nor outcry; he saddled his horse and rode\noff to the westward. At nightfall he came to the Indian village where he\nhad won his wife, and relating to the assembled tribe what had happened,\nhe demanded that the murderer be given up to him. His demand was readily\ngranted, whereupon the white man advanced on the cowering wretch, who had\nconfidently expected the protection of his people, and with the quick\nfling and jerk of a raw-hide rope bound his arms to his side. Then\ncasting a noose about his neck and tying the end of it to his saddle-bow,\nhe set off for the Hudson. All that night he rode, the Indian walking and\nrunning at the horse's heels, and next day he reached his cabin. Tying\nhis prisoner to a tree, the trapper cut a quantity of young willows, from\nwhich he fashioned a large cradle-like receptacle; in this he placed the\nculprit, face upward, and tied so stoutly that he could not move a\nfinger; then going into his house, he emerged with the body of Minamee,\nand laid it, face downward, on the wretch, who could not repress a groan\nof horror as the awful burden sank on his breast. Wolsey bound together\nthe living and the dead, and with a swing of his powerful arms he flung\nthem on his horse's back, securing them there with so many turns of rope\nthat nothing could displace them. Now he began to lash his horse until\nthe poor beast trembled with anger and pain, when, flinging off the\nhalter, he gave it a final lash, and the animal plunged, foaming and\nsnorting, into the wilderness. When it had vanished and the hoof-beats\nwere no longer heard, Nick Wolsey took his rifle on his arm and left his\nhome forever. And tradition says that the horse never stopped in its mad\ncareer, but that on still nights it can be heard sweeping through the\nwoods along the Hudson and along the Mohawk like a whirlwind, and that as\nthe sound goes by a smothered voice breaks out in cursing, in appeal,\nthen in harsh and dreadful laughter.\n\n\n\n\nTHE VANDERDECKEN OF TAPPAN ZEE\n\nIt is Saturday night; the swell of the Hudson lazily heaves against the\nshores of Tappan Zee, the cliff above Tarrytown where the white lady\ncries on winter nights is pale in starlight, and crickets chirp in the\nboskage. It is so still that the lap of oars can be heard coming across\nthe water at least a mile away. Some small boat, evidently, but of heavy\nbuild, for it takes a vigorous hand to propel it, and now there is a\ngrinding of oars on thole-pins. Strange that it is not yet seen, for the\nsound is near. Look! Is that a shadow crossing that wrinkle of starlight\nin the water? The oars have stopped, and there is no wind to make that\nsound of a sigh.\n\nHo, Rambout Van Dam! Is it you? Are you still expiating your oath to pull\nfrom Kakiat to Spuyten Duyvil before the dawn of Sabbath, if it takes you\na month of Sundays? Better for you had you passed the night with your\nroistering friends at Kakiat, or started homeward earlier, for\nSabbath-breaking is no sin now, and you, poor ghost, will find little\nsympathy for your plight. Grant that your month of Sundays, or your cycle\nof months of Sundays, be soon up, for it is sad to be reminded that we\nmay be punished for offences many years forgotten. When the sun is high\nto-morrow a score of barges will vex the sea of Tappan, each crowded with\nmen and maids from New Amsterdam, jigging to profane music and refreshing\nthemselves with such liquors as you, Rambout, never even smelled--be\nthankful for that much. If your shade sits blinking at them from the\nwooded buttresses of the Palisades, you must repine, indeed, at the\nhardness of your fate.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GALLOPING HESSIAN\n\nIn the flower-gemmed cemetery of Tarrytown, where gentle Irving sleeps, a\nHessian soldier was interred after sustaining misfortune in the loss of\nhis head in one of the Revolutionary battles. For a long time after he\nwas buried it was the habit of this gentleman to crawl from his grave at\nunseemly hours and gallop about the country, sending shivers through the\nframes of many worthy people, who shrank under their blankets when they\nheard the rush of hoofs along the unlighted roads.\n\nIn later times there lived in Tarrytown--so named because of the tarrying\nhabits of Dutch gossips on market days, though some hard-minded people\ninsist that Tarwe-town means Wheat-towna gaunt schoolmaster, one Ichabod\nCrane, who cherished sweet sentiments for Katrina Van Tassell, the buxom\ndaughter of a farmer, also a famous maker of pies and doughnuts. Ichabod\nhad been calling late one evening, and, his way home being long,\nKatrina's father lent him a horse to make the journey; but even with this\nadvantage the youth set out with misgivings, for he had to pass the\ngraveyard.\n\nAs it was near the hour when the Hessian was to ride, he whistled feebly\nto keep his courage up, but when he came to the dreaded spot the whistle\ndied in a gasp, for he heard the tread of a horse. On looking around, his\nhair bristled and his heart came up like a plug in his throat to hinder\nhis breathing, for he saw a headless horseman coming over the ridge\nbehind him, blackly defined against the starry sky. Setting spurs to his\nnag with a hope of being first to reach Sleepy Hollow bridge, which the\nspectre never passed, the unhappy man made the best possible time in that\ndirection, for his follower was surely overtaking him. Another minute and\nthe bridge would be reached; but, to Ichabod's horror, the Hessian dashed\nalongside and, rising in his stirrups, flung his head full at the\nfugitive's back. With a squeal of fright the schoolmaster rolled into a\nmass of weeds by the wayside, and for some minutes he remained there,\nknowing and remembering nothing.\n\nNext morning farmer Van Tassell's horse was found grazing in a field near\nSleepy Hollow, and a man who lived some miles southward reported that he\nhad seen Mr. Crane striding as rapidly along the road to New York as his\nlean legs could take him, and wearing a pale and serious face as he kept\nhis march. There were yellow stains on the back of his coat, and the man\nwho restored the horse found a smashed pumpkin in the broken bushes\nbeside the road. Ichabod never returned to Tarrytown, and when Brom\nBones, a stout young ploughman and taphaunter, married Katrina, people\nmade bold to say that he knew more about the galloping Hessian than any\none else, though they believed that he never had reason to be jealous of\nIchabod Crane.\n\n\n\n\nSTORM SHIP OF THE HUDSON\n\nIt was noised about New Amsterdam, two hundred years ago, that a round\nand bulky ship flying Dutch colors from her lofty quarter was careering\nup the harbor in the teeth of a north wind, through the swift waters of\nan ebbing tide, and making for the Hudson. A signal from the Battery to\nheave to and account for herself being disregarded, a cannon was trained\nupon her, and a ball went whistling through her cloudy and imponderable\nmass, for timbers she had none. Some of the sailor-folk talked of mirages\nthat rose into the air of northern coasts and seas, but the wise ones put\ntheir fingers beside their noses and called to memory the Flying\nDutchman, that wanderer of the seas whose captain, having sworn that he\nwould round Cape Horn in spite of heaven and hell, has been beating to\nand fro along the bleak Fuegian coast and elsewhere for centuries, being\nallowed to land but once in seven years, when he can break the curse if\nhe finds a girl who will love him. Perhaps Captain Vanderdecken found\nthis maiden of his hopes in some Dutch settlement on the Hudson, or\nperhaps he expiated his rashness by prayer and penitence; howbeit, he\nnever came down again, unless he slipped away to sea in snow or fog so\ndense that watchers and boatmen saw nothing of his passing. A few old\nsettlers declared the vessel to be the Half Moon, and there were some who\ntestified to seeing that identical ship with Hudson and his spectre crew\non board making for the Catskills to hold carouse.\n\nThis fleeting vision has been confounded with the storm ship that lurks\nabout the foot of the Palisades and Point-no-Point, cruising through\nTappan Zee at night when a gale is coming up. The Hudson is four miles\nwide at Tappan, and squalls have space enough to gather force; hence,\nwhen old skippers saw the misty form of a ship steal out from the shadows\nof the western hills, then fly like a gull from shore to shore, catching\nthe moonlight on her topsails, but showing no lanterns, they made to\nwindward and dropped anchor, unless their craft were stanch and their\npilot's brains unvexed with liquor. On summer nights, when falls that\ncurious silence which is ominous of tempest, the storm ship is not only\nseen spinning across the mirror surface of the river, but the voices of\nthe crew are heard as they chant at the braces and halyards in words\ndevoid of meaning to the listeners.\n\n\n\n\nWHY SPUYTEN DUYVIL IS SO NAMED\n\nThe tide-water creek that forms the upper boundary of Manhattan Island is\nknown to dwellers in tenements round about as \"Spittin' Divvle.\" The\nproper name of it is Spuyten Duyvil, and this, in turn, is the\ncompression of a celebrated boast by Anthony Van Corlaer. This\nredoubtable gentleman, famous for fat, long wind, and long whiskers, was\ntrumpeter for the garrison at New Amsterdam, which his countrymen had\njust bought for twenty-four dollars, and he sounded the brass so sturdily\nthat in the fight between the Dutch and Indians at the Dey Street peach\norchard his blasts struck more terror into the red men's hearts than did\nthe matchlocks of his comrades. William the Testy vowed that Anthony and\nhis trumpet were garrison enough for all Manhattan Island, for he argued\nthat no regiment of Yankees would approach near enough to be struck with\nlasting deafness, as must have happened if they came when Anthony was\nawake.\n\nPeter Stuyvesant-Peter the Headstrong--showed his appreciation of\nAnthony's worth by making him his esquire, and when he got news of an\nEnglish expedition on its way to seize his unoffending colony, he at once\nordered Anthony to rouse the villages along the Hudson with a trumpet\ncall to war. The esquire took a hurried leave of six or eight ladies,\neach of whom delighted to believe that his affections were lavished on\nher alone, and bravely started northward, his trumpet hanging on one\nside, a stone bottle, much heavier, depending from the other. It was a\nstormy evening when he arrived at the upper end of the island, and there\nwas no ferryman in sight, so, after fuming up and down the shore, he\nswallowed a mighty draught of Dutch courage,--for he was as accomplished\na performer on the horn as on the trumpet,--and swore with ornate and\nvoluminous oaths that he would swim the stream \"in spite of the devil\"\n[En spuyt den Duyvil].\n\nHe plunged in, and had gone half-way across when the Evil One, not to be\nspited, appeared as a huge moss-bunker, vomiting boiling water and\nlashing a fiery tail. This dreadful fish seized Anthony by the leg; but\nthe trumpeter was game, for, raising his instrument to his lips, he\nexhaled his last breath through it in a defiant blast that rang through\nthe woods for miles and made the devil himself let go for a moment. Then\nhe was dragged below, his nose shining through the water more and more\nfaintly, until, at last, all sight of him was lost. The failure of his\nmission resulted in the downfall of the Dutch in America, for, soon\nafter, the English won a bloodless victory, and St. George's cross\nflaunted from the ramparts where Anthony had so often saluted the setting\nsun. But it was years, even then, before he was hushed, for in stormy\nweather it was claimed that the shrill of his trumpet could be heard near\nthe creek that he had named, sounding above the deeper roar of the blast.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RAMAPO SALAMANDER\n\nA curious tale of the Rosicrucians runs to the effect that more than two\ncenturies ago a band of German colonists entered the Ramapo valley and\nput up houses of stone, like those they had left in the Hartz Mountains,\nand when the Indians saw how they made knives and other wonderful things\nout of metal, which they extracted from the rocks by fire, they believed\nthem to be manitous and went away, not wishing to resist their possession\nof the land. There was treasure here, for High Tor, or Torn Mountain, had\nbeen the home of Amasis, youngest of the magi who had followed the star\nof Bethlehem. He had found his way, through Asia and Alaska, to this\ncountry, had taken to wife a native woman, by whom he had a child, and\nhere on the summit he had built a temple. Having refused the sun worship,\nwhen the Indians demanded that he should take their faith, he was set\nupon, and would have been killed had not an earthquake torn the ground at\nhis feet, opening a new channel for the Hudson and precipitating into it\nevery one but the magus and his daughter. To him had been revealed in\nmagic vision the secrets of wealth in the rocks.\n\nThe leader in the German colony, one Hugo, was a man of noble origin, who\nhad a wife and two children: a boy, named after himself; a girl,--Mary.\nThough it had been the custom in the other country to let out the forge\nfires once in seven years, Hugo opposed that practice in the forge he had\nbuilt as needless. But his men murmured and talked of the salamander that\nonce in seven years attains its growth in unquenched flame and goes forth\ndoing mischief. On the day when that period was ended the master entered\nhis works and saw the men gazing into the furnace at a pale form that\nseemed made from flame, that was nodding and turning in the fire,\noccasionally darting its tongue at them or allowing its tail to fall out\nand lie along the stone floor. As he came to the door he, too, was\ntransfixed, and the fire seemed burning his vitals, until he felt water\nsprinkled on his face, and saw that his wife, whom he had left at home\ntoo ill to move, stood behind him and was casting holy water into the\nfurnace, speaking an incantation as she did so. At that moment a storm\narose, and a rain fell that put out the fire; but as the last glow faded\nthe lady fell dead.\n\nWhen her children were to be consecrated, seven years later, those who\nstood outside of the church during the ceremony saw a vivid flash, and\nthe nurse turned from the boy in her fright. She took her hands from her\neyes. The child was gone. Twice seven years had passed and the daughter\nremained unspotted by the world, for, on the night when her father had\nled her to the top of High Torn Mountain and shown her what Amasis had\nseen,--the earth spirits in their caves heaping jewels and offering to\ngive them if Hugo would speak the word that binds the free to the earth\nforces and bars his future for a thousand years,--it was her prayer that\nbrought him to his senses and made the scene below grow dim, though the\nbaleful light of the salamander clinging to the rocks at the bottom of\nthe cave sent a glow into the sky.\n\nMany nights after that the glow was seen on the height and Hugo was\nmissing from his home, but for lack of a pure soul to stand as\ninterpreter he failed to read the words that burned in the triangle on\nthe salamander's back, and returned in rage and jealousy. A knightly man\nhad of late appeared in the settlement, and between him and Mary a tender\nfeeling had arisen, that, however, was unexpressed until, after saving\nher from the attack of a panther, he had allowed her to fall into his\narms. She would willingly then have declared her love for him, but he\nplaced her gently and regretfully from him and said, \"When you slept I\ncame to you and put a crown of gems on your head: that was because I was\nin the power of the earth spirit. Then I had power only over the element\nof fire, that either consumes or hardens to stone; but now water and life\nare mine. Behold! Wear these, for thou art worthy.\" And touching the\ntears that had fallen from her eyes, they turned into lilies in his\nhands, and he put them on her brow.\n\n\"Shall we meet again?\" asked the girl.\n\n\"I do not know,\" said he. \"I tread the darkness of the universe alone,\nand I peril my redemption by yielding to this love of earth. Thou art\nredeemed already, but I must make my way back to God through obedience\ntested in trial. Know that I am one of those that left heaven for love of\nman. We were of that subtle element which is flame, burning and glowing\nwith love,--and when thy mother came to me with the power of purity to\ncast me out of the furnace, I lost my shape of fire and took that of a\nhuman being,--a child. I have been with thee often, and was rushing to\nannihilation, because I could not withstand the ordeal of the senses. Had\nI yielded, or found thee other than thou art, I should have become again\nan earth spirit. I have been led away by wish for power, such as I have\nin my grasp, and forgot the mission to the suffering. I became a wanderer\nover the earth until I reached this land, the land that you call new.\nHere was to be my last trial and here I am to pass the gate of fire.\"\n\nAs he spoke voices arose from the settlement.\n\n\"They are coming,\" said he. The stout form of Hugo was in advance. With a\nfierce oath he sprang on the young man. \"He has ruined my household,\" he\ncried. \"Fling him into the furnace!\" The young man stood waiting, but his\nbrow was serene. He was seized, and in a few moments had disappeared\nthrough the mouth of the burning pit. But Mary, looking up, saw a shape\nin robes of silvery light, and it drifted upward until it vanished in the\ndarkness. The look of horror on her face died away, and a peace came to\nit that endured until the end.\n\n\n\n\nCHIEF CROTON\n\nBetween the island of Manhattoes and the Catskills the Hudson shores were\nplagued with spooks, and even as late as the nineteenth century Hans\nAnderson, a man who tilled a farm back of Peekskill, was worried into his\ngrave by the leaden-face likeness of a British spy whom he had hanged on\nGeneral Putnam's orders. \"Old Put\" doubtless enjoyed immunity from this\nvexatious creature, because he was born with few nerves. A region\nespecially afflicted was the confluence of the Croton and the Hudson, for\nthe Kitchawan burying-ground was here, and the red people being disturbed\nby the tramping of white men over their graves, \"the walking sachems of\nTeller's Point\" were nightly to be met on their errands of protest.\n\nThese Indians had built a palisade on Croton Point, and here they made\ntheir last stand against their enemies from the north. Throughout the\nfight old chief Croton stood on the wall with arrows showering around\nhim, and directed the resistance with the utmost calm. Not until every\none of his men was dead and the fort was going up in flame about him did\nhe confess defeat. Then standing amid the charring timbers, he used his\nlast breath in calling down the curse of the Great Spirit against the\nfoe. As the victorious enemy rushed into the enclosure to secure the\nscalps of the dead he fell lifeless into the fire, and their jubilant\nyell was lost upon his ears. Yet, he could not rest nor bear to leave his\nancient home, even after death, and often his form, in musing attitude,\nwas seen moving through the woods. When a manor was built on the ruins of\nhis fort, he appeared to the master of it, to urge him into the\nContinental army, and having seen this behest obeyed and laid a solemn\ninjointure to keep the freedom of the land forever, he vanished, and\nnever appeared again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RETREAT FROM MAHOPAC\n\nAfter the English had secured the city of New Amsterdam and had begun to\nextend their settlements along the Hudson, the Indians congregated in\nlarge numbers about Lake Mahopac, and rejected all overtures for the\npurchase of that region. In their resolution they were sustained by their\nyoung chief Omoyao, who refused to abandon on on any terms the country\nwhere his fathers had solong hunted, fished, and built their lodges. A\nhalf-breed, one Joliper, a member of this tribe, was secretly in the pay\nof the English, but the allurements and insinuations that he put forth on\ntheir behalf were as futile as the breathing of wind in the leaves. At\nlast the white men grew angry. Have the land they would, by evil course\nif good ways were refused, and commissioning Joliper to act for them in a\ndecisive manner, they guaranteed to supply him with forces if his\nnegotiations fell through. This man never thought it needful to\nnegotiate. He knew the temper of his tribe and he was too jealous of his\nchief to go to him for favors, because he loved Maya, the chosen one of\nOmoyao.\n\nAt the door of Maya's tent he entreated her to go with him to the white\nsettlements, and on her refusal he broke into angry threats, declaring,\nin the self-forgetfulness of passion, that he would kill her lover and\nlead the English against the tribe. Unknown to both Omoyao had overheard\nthis interview, and he immediately sent runners to tell all warriors of\nhis people to meet him at once on the island in the lake. Though the\nrunners were cautioned to keep their errand secret, it is probable that\nJoliper suspected that the alarm had gone forth, and he resolved to\nstrike at once; so he summoned his renegades, stole into camp next\nevening and made toward Maya's wigwam, intending to take her to a place\nof safety. Seeing the chief at the door, he shot an arrow at him, but the\nshaft went wide and slew the girl's father. Realizing, upon this assault,\nthat he was outwitted and that his people were outnumbered, the chief\ncalled to Maya to meet him at the island, and plunged into the brush,\nafter seeing that she had taken flight in an opposite direction. The\nvengeful Joliper was close behind him with his renegades, and the chief\nwas captured; then, that he might not communicate with his people or\ndelay the operations against them, it was resolved to put him to death.\n\nHe was tied to a tree, the surrounding wood was set on fire, and he was\nabandoned to his fate, his enemies leaving him to destruction in their\nhaste to reach the place of the council and slay or capture all who were\nthere. Hardly were they out of hearing ere the plash of a paddle sounded\nthrough the roar of flame and Maya sprang upon the bank, cut her lover's\nbonds, and with him made toward the island, which they reached by a\nprotected way before the assailants had arrived. They told the story of\nJoliper's cruelty and treason, and when his boats were seen coming in to\nshore they had eyes and hands only for Joliper. He was the first to land.\nHardly had he touched the strand before he was surrounded by a frenzied\ncrowd and had fallen bleeding from a hundred gashes.\n\nThe Indians were overpowered after a brief and bloody resistance. They\ntook safety in flight. Omoyao and Maya, climbing upon the rock above\ntheir \"council chamber,\" found that while most of their people had\nescaped their own retreat was cut off, and that it would be impossible to\nreach any of the canoes. They preferred death to torture and captivity,\nso, hand in hand, they leaped together down the cliff, and the English\nclaimed the land next day.\n\n\n\n\nNIAGARA\n\nThe cataract of Niagara (properly pronounced Nee-ah-gah-rah), or\nOniahgarah, is as fatal as it is fascinating, beautiful, sublime, and the\ncasualties occurring there justify the tradition that \"the Thundering\nWater asks two victims every year.\" It was reputed, before white men\nlooked for the first time on these falls--and what thumping yarns they\ntold about them!--that two lives were lost here annually, and this\naverage has been kept up by men and women who fall into the flood through\naccident, recklessness or despair, while bloody battles have been fought\non the shores, and vessels have been hurled over the brink, to be dashed\nto splinters on the rocks.\n\nThe sound of the cataract was declared to be the voice of a mighty spirit\nthat dwelt in the waters, and in former centuries the Indians offered to\nit a yearly sacrifice. This sacrifice was a maiden of the tribe, who was\nsent over in a white canoe, decorated with fruit and flowers, and the\ngirls contended for this honor, for the brides of Manitou were objects of\na special grace in the happy hunting-grounds. The last recorded sacrifice\nwas in 1679, when Lelawala, the daughter of chief Eagle Eye, was chosen,\nin spite of the urgings and protests of the chevalier La Salle, who had\nbeen trying to restrain the people from their idolatries by an exposition\nof the Christian dogma. To his protests he received the unexpected\nanswer, \"Your words witness against you. Christ, you say, set us an\nexample. We will follow it. Why should one death be great, while our\nsacrifice is horrible?\" So the tribe gathered at the bank to watch the\nsailing of the white canoe. The chief watched the embarkation with the\nstoicism usual to the Indian when he is observed by others, but when the\nlittle bark swung out into the current his affection mastered him, and he\nleaped into his own canoe and tried to overtake his daughter. In a moment\nboth were beyond the power of rescue. After their death they were changed\ninto spirits of pure strength and goodness, and live in a crystal heaven\nso far beneath the fall that its roaring is a music to them: she, the\nmaid of the mist; he, the ruler of the cataract. Another version of the\nlegend makes a lover and his mistress the chief actors. Some years later\na patriarch of the tribe and all his sons went over the fall when the\nwhite men had seized their lands, preferring death to flight or war.\n\nIn about the year 200 the Stone Giants waded across the river below the\nfalls on their northward march. These beings were descended from an\nancient family, and being separated from their stock in the year 150 by\nthe breaking of a vine bridge across the Mississippi, they left that\nregion. Indian Pass, in the Adirondacks, bore the names of Otneyarheh,\nStony Giants; Ganosgwah, Giants Clothed in Stone; and Dayohjegago, Place\nWhere the Storm Clouds Fight the Great Serpent. Giants and serpents were\nheld to be harmful inventions of the Evil Spirit, and the Lightning god,\ncatching up clouds as he stood on the crags, broke them open, tore their\nlightnings out and hurled them against the monsters. These cannibals had\nalmost exterminated the Iroquois, for they were of immense size and had\nmade themselves almost invincible by rolling daily in the sand until\ntheir flesh was like stone. The Holder of the Heavens, viewing their evil\nactions from on high, came down disguised as one of their number--he used\noften to meditate on Manitou Rock, at the Whirlpool--and leading them to\na valley near Onondaga, on pretence of guiding them to a fairer country,\nhe stood on a hill above them and hurled rocks upon their heads until\nall, save one, who fled into the north, were dead. Yet, in the fulness of\ntime, new children of the Stone Giants (mail-clad Europeans?) entered the\nregion again and were destroyed by the Great Spirit,--oddly enough where\nthe famous fraud known as the Cardiff giant was alleged to have been\nfound. The Onondagas believed this statue to be one of their ancient\nfoes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEFORMED OF ZOAR\n\nThe valley of Zoar, in western New York, is so surrounded by hills that\nits discoverers--a religious people, who gave it a name from Scripture\nsaid, \"This is Zoar; it is impregnable. From her we will never go.\" And\ntruly, for lack of roads, they found it so hard to get out, having got\nin, that they did not leave it. Among the early settlers here were people\nof a family named Wright, whose house became a sort of inn for the\ninfrequent traveller, inasmuch as they were not troubled with piety, and\nhad no scruples against the selling of drink and the playing of cards at\nlate hours. A peddler passed through the valley on his way to Buffalo and\nstopped at the Wright house for a lodging, but before he went to bed he\nincautiously showed a number of golden trinkets from his pack and drew a\nconsiderable quantity of money out of his pocket when he paid the fee for\nhis lodging. Hardly had he fallen asleep before his greedy hosts were in\nthe room, searching for his money. Their lack of caution caused him to\nawake, and as he found them rifling his pockets and his pack he sprang up\nand showed fight.\n\nA blow sent him to the bottom of the stairs, where his attempt to escape\nwas intercepted, and the family closed around him and bound his arms and\nlegs. They showed him the money they had taken and asked where he had\nconcealed the rest. He vowed that it was all he had. They insisted that\nhe had more, and seizing a knife from the table the elder Wright slashed\noff one of his toes \"to make him confess.\" No result came from this, and\nsix toes were cut off,--three from each foot; then, in disgust, the\nunhappy peddler was knocked on the head and flung through a trap-door\ninto a shallow cellar. Presently he arose and tried to draw himself out,\nbut with hatchet and knife they chopped away his fingers and he fell\nback. Even the women shared in this work, and leaned forward to gaze into\nthe cellar to see if he might yet be dead. While listening, they heard\nthe man invoke the curse of heaven on them: he asked that they should\nwear the mark of crime even to the fourth generation, by coming into the\nworld deformed and mutilated as he was then. And it was so. The next\nchild born in that house had round, hoof-like feet, with only two toes,\nand hands that tapered from the wrist into a single long finger. And in\ntime there were twenty people so deformed in the valley: The \"crab-clawed\nZoarites\" they were called.\n\n\n\n\nHORSEHEADS\n\nThe feeling recently created by an attempt to fasten the stupid names of\nFairport or of North Elmira on the village in central New York that, off\nand on for fifty years, had been called Horseheads, caused an inquiry as\nto how that singular name chanced to be adopted for a settlement. In\n1779, when General Sullivan was retiring toward the base of his supplies\nafter a destructive campaign against the Indians in Genesee County, he\nstopped near this place and rested his troops. The country was then rude,\nunbroken, and still beset with enemies, however, and when the march was\nresumed it was thought best to gain time over a part of the way by\ndescending the Chemung River on rafts.\n\nAs there were no appliances for building large floats, and the depth of\nthe water was not known, the general ordered a destruction of all\nimpedimenta that could be got rid of, and commanded that the poor and\nsuperfluous horses should be killed. His order was obeyed. As soon as the\ntroops had gone, the wolves, that were then abundant, came forth and\ndevoured the carcasses of the steeds, so that the clean-picked bones were\nstrewn widely over the camp-ground. When the Indians ventured back into\nthis region, some of them piled the skulls of the horses into heaps, and\nthese curious monuments were found by white settlers who came into the\nvalley some years later, and who named their village Horseheads, in\ncommemoration of these relics. The Indians were especially loth to leave\nthis region, for their tradition was that it had been the land of the\nSenecas from immemorial time, the tribe being descended from a couple\nthat had a home on a hill near Horseheads.\n\n\n\n\nKAYUTA AND WANETA\n\nThe Indians loved our lakes. They had eyes for their beauty, and to them\nthey were abodes of gracious spirits. They used to say of Oneida Lake,\nthat when the Great Spirit formed the world \"his smile rested on its\nwaters and Frenchman's Island rose to greet it; he laughed and Lotus\nIsland came up to listen.\" So they built lodges on their shores and\nskimmed their waters in canoes. Much of their history relates to them,\nand this is a tale of the Senecas that was revived a few years ago by the\ndiscovery of a deer-skin near Lakes Waneta and Keuka, New York, on which\nsome facts of the history were rudely drawn, for all Indians are artists.\n\nWaneta, daughter of a chief, had plighted her troth to Kayuta, a hunter\nof a neighboring tribe with which her people were at war. Their tryst was\nheld at twilight on the farther shore of the lake from her village, and\nit was her gayety and happiness, after these meetings had taken place,\nthat roused the suspicion and jealousy of Weutha, who had marked her for\nhis bride against the time when he should have won her father's consent\nby some act of bravery. Shadowing the girl as she stole into the forest\none evening, he saw her enter her canoe and row to a densely wooded spot;\nhe heard a call like the note of a quail, then an answer; then Kayuta\nemerged on the shore, lifted the maiden from her little bark, and the\ntwain sat down beside the water to listen to the lap of its waves and\nwatch the stars come out.\n\nHurrying back to camp, the spy reported that an enemy was near them, and\nalthough Waneta had regained her wigwam by another route before the\ncompany of warriors had reached the lake, Kayuta was seen, pursued, and\nonly escaped with difficulty. Next evening, not knowing what had happened\nafter her homeward departure on the previous night--for the braves deemed\nit best to keep the knowledge of their military operations from the\nwomen--the girl crept away to the lake again and rowed to the accustomed\nplace, but while waiting for the quail call a twig dropped on the water\nbeside her. With a quick instinct that civilization has spoiled she\nrealized this to be a warning, and remaining perfectly still, she allowed\nher boat to drift toward shore, presently discovering that her lover was\nstanding waist-deep in the water. In a whisper he told her that they were\nwatched, and bade her row to a dead pine that towered at the foot of the\nlake, where he would soon meet her. At that instant an arrow grazed his\nside and flew quivering into the canoe.\n\nPushing the boat on its course and telling her to hasten, Kayuta sprang\nashore, sounded the warwhoop, and as Weutha rose into sight he clove his\nskull with a tomahawk. Two other braves now leaped forward, but, after a\nstruggle, Kayuta left them dead or senseless, too. He would have stayed\nto tear their scalps off had he not heard his name uttered in a shriek of\nagony from the end of the lake, and, tired and bleeding though he was, he\nbounded along its margin like a deer, for the voice that he heard was\nWaneta's. He reached the blasted pine, gave one look, and sank to the\nearth. Presently other Indians came, who had heard the noise of fighting,\nand burst upon him with yells and brandished weapons, but something in\nhis look restrained them from a close advance. His eyes were fixed on a\nstring of beads that lay on the bottom of the lake, just off shore, and\nwhen the meaning of it came to them, the savages thought no more of\nkilling, but moaned their grief; for Waneta, in stepping from her canoe\nto wade ashore, had been caught and swallowed by a quagmire. All night\nand all next day Kayuta sat there like a man of stone. Then, just as the\nhour fell when he was used to meet his love, his heart broke, and he\njoined her in the spiritland.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DROP STAR\n\nA little maid of three years was missing from her home on the Genesee.\nShe had gone to gather water-lilies and did not return. Her mother,\nalmost crazed with grief, searched for days, weeks, months, before she\ncould resign herself to the thought that her little one--Kayutah, the\nDrop Star, the Indians called her--had indeed been drowned. Years went\nby. The woman's home was secure against pillage, for it was no longer the\none house of a white family in that region, and the Indians had retired\nfarther and farther into the wilderness. One day a hunter came to the\nwoman and said, \"I have seen old Skenandoh,--the last of his tribe, thank\nGod! who bade me say this to you: that the ice is broken, and he knows of\na hill of snow where a red berry grows that shall be yours if you will\nclaim it.\" When the meaning of this message came upon her the woman\nfainted, but on recovering speech she despatched her nephew to the hut of\nthe aged chief and passed that night in prayer.\n\nThe young man set off at sunset, and by hard riding, over dim trails,\nwith only stars for light, he came in the gray of dawn to an upright\ntimber, colored red and hung with scalps, that had been cut from white\nmen's heads at the massacre of Wyoming. The place they still call Painted\nPost. Without drawing rein he sped along the hills that hem Lake Seneca,\nthen, striking deeper into the wilds, he reached a smaller lake, and\nalmost fell from his saddle before a rude tent near the shore. A new\ngrave had been dug close by, and he shuddered to think that perhaps he\nhad come too late, but a wrinkled Indian stepped forth at that moment and\nwaited his word.\n\n\"I come,\" cried the youth,--\"to see the berry that springs from snow.\"\n\n\"You come in time,\" answered Skenandoh. \"No, 'tis not in that grave. It\nis my own child that is buried there. She was as a sister to the one you\nseek, and she bade me restore the Drop Star to her mother,--the squaw\nthat we know as the New Moon's Light.\"\n\nStepping into the wigwam, he emerged again, clasping the wrist of a girl\nof eighteen, whose robe he tore asunder at the throat, showing the white\nbreast, and on it a red birth-mark; then, leading her to the young man,\nhe said,--\"And now I must go to the setting sun.\" He slung a pouch about\nhim, loaded, not with arms and food, but stones, stepped into his canoe,\nand paddled out upon the water, singing as he went a melancholy\nchant--his deathsong. On gaining the middle of the lake he swung his\ntomahawk and clove the bottom of the frail boat, so that it filled in a\nmoment and the chief sank from sight. The young man took his cousin to\nher overjoyed mother, helped to win her back to the ways of civilized\nlife, and eventually married her. She took her Christian name again, but\nleft to the lake on whose banks she had lived so long her Indian name of\nDrop Star--Kayutah.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROPHET OF PALMYRA\n\nIt was at Palmyra, New York, that the principles of Mormonism were first\nenunciated by Joseph Smith, who claimed to have found the golden plates\nof the Book of Mormon in a hill-side in neighboring Manchester,--the\n\"Hill of Cumorah,\"--to which he was led by angels. The plates were\nwritten in characters similar to the masonic cabala, and he translated\nthem by divine aid, giving to the world the result of his discovery. The\nHebrew prophet Mormon was the alleged author of the record, and his son\nMoroni buried it. The basis of Mormonism was, however, an unpublished\nnovel, called \"The Manuscript Found,\" that was read to Sidney Rigdon\n(afterwards a Mormon elder) by its author, a clergyman, and that\nformulated a creed for a hypothetical church. Smith had a slight local\ncelebrity, for he and his father were operators with the divining-rod,\nand when he appropriated this creed a harmless and beneficent one, for\npolygamy was a later \"inspiration\" of Brigham Young--and began to preach\nit, in 1844, it gained many converts. His arrogation of the presidency of\nthe \"Church of Latter Day Saints\" and other rash performances won for him\nthe enmity of the Gentiles, who imprisoned and killed him at Carthage,\nMissouri, leaving Brigham Young to lead the people across the deserts to\nSalt Lake, where they prospered through thrift and industry.\n\nIt was claimed that in the van of this army, on the march to Utah, was\noften seen a venerable man with silver beard, who never spoke, but who\nwould point the way whenever the pilgrims were faint or discouraged. When\nthey reached the spot where the temple was afterwards built, he struck\nhis staff into the earth and vanished.\n\nAt Hydesville, near Palmyra, spiritualism, as it is commonly called, came\ninto being on March 31, 1849, when certain of the departed announced\nthemselves by thumping on doors and tables in the house of the Fox\nfamily, the survivors of which confessed the fraud nearly forty years\nafter. It is of interest to note that the ground whence these new\nreligions sprang was peopled by the Onondagas, the sacerdotal class of\nthe Algonquin tribe, who have preserved the ancient religious rites of\nthat great family until this day.\n\n\n\n\nA VILLAIN'S CREMATION\n\nBramley's Mountain, near the present village of Bloomfield, New York, on\nthe edge of the Catskill group, was the home of a young couple that had\nmarried with rejoicing and had taken up the duties and pleasures of\nhousekeeping with enthusiasm. To be sure, in those days housekeeping was\nnot a thing to be much afraid of, and the servant question had not come\nup for discussion. The housewives did the work themselves, and the\nhusband had no valets. The domicile of this particular pair was merely a\ntent of skins stretched around a frame of poles, and their furniture\nconsisted principally of furs strewn over the earth floor; but they loved\neach other truly. The girl was thankful to be taken from her home to\nlive, because, up to the time of her marriage, she had been persecuted by\na morose and ill-looking fellow of her tribe, who laid siege to her\naffection with such vehemence that the more he pleaded the greater was\nher dislike; and now she hoped that she had seen the last of him. But\nthat was not to be. He lurked about the wigwam of the pair, torturing\nhimself with the sight of their felicity, and awaiting his chance to\nprove his hate. This chance came when the husband had gone to Lake\nDelaware to fish, for he rowed after and gave battle in the middle of the\npond. Taken by surprise, and being insufficiently armed, the husband was\nkilled and his body flung into the water. Then, casting an affectionate\nleer at the wife who had watched this act of treachery and malice with\nspeechless horror from the mountain-side, he drove his canoe ashore and\nset off in pursuit of her. She retreated so slowly as to allow him to\nkeep her in sight, and when she entered a cave he pressed forward\neagerly, believing that now her escape was impossible; but she had\npurposely trapped him there, for she had already explored a tortuous\npassage that led to the upper air, and by this she had left the cavern in\nsafety while he was groping and calling in the dark. Returning to the\nentrance, she loosened, by a jar, a ledge that overhung it, so that the\ndoor was almost blocked; then, gathering light wood from the dry trees\naround her, she made a fire and hurled the burning sticks into the prison\nwhere the wretch was howling, until he was dead in smoke and flame. When\nhis yells and curses had been silenced she told a friend what she had\ndone, then going back to the lake, she sang her death-song and cast\nherself into the water, hoping thus to rejoin her husband.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MONSTER MOSQUITOE\n\nThey have some pretty big mosquitoes in New Jersey and on Long Island,\nbut, if report of their ancestry is true, they have degenerated in size\nand voracity; for the grandfather of all mosquitoes used to live in the\nneighborhood of Fort Onondaga, New York, and sallying out whenever he was\nhungry, would eat an Indian or two and pick his teeth with their ribs.\nThe red men had no arms that could prevail against it, but at last the\nHolder of the Heavens, hearing their cry for aid, came down and attacked\nthe insect. Finding that it had met its match, the mosquito flew away so\nrapidly that its assailant could hardly keep it in sight. It flew around\nthe great lake, then turned eastward again. It sought help vainly of the\nwitches that brooded in the sink-holes, or Green Lakes (near Janesville,\nNew York), and had reached the salt lake of Onondaga when its pursuer\ncame up and killed it, the creature piling the sand into hills in its\ndying struggles.\n\nAs its blood poured upon the earth it became small mosquitoes, that\ngathered about the Holder of the Heavens and stung him so sorely that he\nhalf repented the service that he had done to men. The Tuscaroras say\nthat this was one of two monsters that stood on opposite banks of the\nSeneca River and slew all men that passed. Hiawatha killed the other one.\nOn their reservation is a stone, marked by the form of the Sky Holder,\nthat shows where he rested during the chase, while his tracks were until\nlately seen south of Syracuse, alternating with footprints of the\nmosquito, which were shaped like those of a bird, and twenty inches long.\nAt Brighton, New York, where these marks appeared, they were\nreverentially renewed by the Indians for many years.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREEN PICTURE\n\nIn a cellar in Green Street, Schenectady, there appeared, some years ago,\nthe silhouette of a human form, painted on the floor in mould. It was\nswept and scrubbed away, but presently it was there again, and month by\nmonth, after each removal, it returned: a mass of fluffy mould, always in\nthe shape of a recumbent man. When it was found that the house stood on\nthe site of the old Dutch burial ground, the gossips fitted this and that\ntogether and concluded that the mould was planted by a spirit whose\nmortal part was put to rest a century and more ago, on the spot covered\nby the house, and that the spirit took this way of apprising people that\nthey were trespassing on its grave. Others held that foul play had been\ndone, and that a corpse, hastily and shallowly buried, was yielding\nitself back to the damp cellar in vegetable form, before its resolution\ninto simpler elements. But a darker meaning was that it was the outline\nof a vampire that vainly strove to leave its grave, and could not because\na virtuous spell had been worked about the place.\n\nA vampire is a dead man who walks about seeking for those whose blood he\ncan suck, for only by supplying new life to its cold limbs can he keep\nthe privilege of moving about the earth. He fights his way from his\ncoffin, and those who meet his gray and stiffened shape, with fishy eyes\nand blackened mouth, lurking by open windows, biding his time to steal in\nand drink up a human life, fly from him in terror and disgust. In\nnorthern Rhode Island those who die of consumption are believed to be\nvictims of vampires who work by charm, draining the blood by slow\ndraughts as they lie in their graves. To lay this monster he must be\ntaken up and burned; at least, his heart must be; and he must be\ndisinterred in the daytime when he is asleep and unaware. If he died with\nblood in his heart he has this power of nightly resurrection. As late as\n1892 the ceremony of heart-burning was performed at Exeter, Rhode Island,\nto save the family of a dead woman that was threatened with the same\ndisease that removed her, namely, consumption. But the Schenectady\nvampire has yielded up all his substance, and the green picture is no\nmore.\n\n\n\n\nTHE NUNS OF CARTHAGE\n\nAt Carthage, New York, where the Black River bends gracefully about a\npoint, there was a stanch old house, built in the colonial fashion and\ndesigned for the occupancy of some family of hospitality and wealth, but\nthe family died out or moved away, and for some years it remained\ndeserted. During the war of 1812 the village gossips were excited by the\nappearance of carpenters, painters and upholsterers, and it was evident\nthat the place was to be restored to its manorial dignities; but their\ncuriosity was deepened instead of satisfied when, after the house had\nbeen put in order and high walls built around it, the occupants presented\nthemselves as four young women in the garb of nuns. Were they daughters\nof the family? Were they English sympathizers in disguise, seeking asylum\nin the days of trouble? Had they registered a vow of celibacy until their\nlovers should return from the war? Were they on a secret and diplomatic\nerrand? None ever knew, at least in Carthage. The nuns lived in great\nprivacy, but in a luxury before unequalled in that part of the country.\nThey kept a gardener, they received from New York wines and delicacies\nthat others could not afford, and when they took the air, still veiled,\nit was behind a splendid pair of bays.\n\nOne afternoon, just after the close of the war, a couple of young\nAmerican officers went to the convent, and, contrary to all precedent,\nwere admitted. They remained within all that day, and no one saw them\nleave, but a sound of wheels passed through the street that evening. Next\nday there were no signs of life about the place, nor the day following,\nnor the next. The savage dog was quiet and the garden walks had gone\nunswept. Some neighbors climbed over the wall and reported that the place\nhad been deserted. Why and by whom no one ever knew, but a cloud remained\nupon its title until a recent day, for it was thought that at some time\nthe nuns might return.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SKULL IN THE WALL\n\nA skull is built into the wall above the door of the court-house at\nGoshen, New York. It was taken from a coffin unearthed in 1842, when the\nfoundation of the building was laid. People said there was no doubt about\nit, only Claudius Smith could have worn that skull, and he deserved to be\npublicly pilloried in that manner. Before the Revolutionary war Smith was\na farmer in Monroe, New York, and being prosperous enough to feel the\nking's taxes no burden, to say nothing of his jealousy of the advantage\nthat an independent government would be to the hopes of his poorer\nneighbors, he declared for the king. After the declaration of\nindependence had been published, his sympathies were illustrated in an\nunpleasantly practical manner by gathering a troop of other Tories about\nhim, and, emboldened by the absence of most of the men of his vicinage in\nthe colonial army, he began to harass the country as grievously in foray\nas the red-coats were doing in open field.\n\nHe pillaged houses and barns, then burned them; he insulted women, he\ndrove away cattle and horses, he killed several persons who had\nundertaken to defend their property. His \"campaigns\" were managed with\nsuch secrecy that nobody knew when or whence to look for him. His murder\nof Major Nathaniel Strong, of Blooming Grove, roused indignation to such\na point that a united effort was made to catch him, a money reward for\nsuccess acting as a stimulus to the vigilance of the hunters, and at last\nhe was captured on Long Island. He was sent back to Goshen, tried,\nconvicted, and on January 22, 1779, was hanged, with five of his band.\nThe bodies of the culprits were buried in the jail-yard, on the spot\nwhere the court-house stands, and old residents identified Smith's\nskeleton, when it was accidentally exhumed, by its uncommon size. A\nfarmer from an adjacent town made off with a thigh bone, and a mason\nclapped mortar into the empty skull and cemented it into the wall, where\nit long remained.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAUNTED MILL\n\nAmong the settlers in the Adirondacks, forty or fifty years ago, was\nHenry Clymer, from Brooklyn, who went up to Little Black Creek and tried\nto make a farm out of the gnarly, stumpy land; but being a green hand at\nthat sort of thing, he soon gave it up and put up the place near\nNorthwood, that is locally referred to as the haunted mill. When the\nfirst slab was cut, a big party was on hand to cheer and eat pie in honor\nof the Clymers, for Mr. Clymer, who was a dark, hearty, handsome fellow,\nand his bright young wife had been liberal in their hospitality. The\ncouple had made some talk, they were so loving before folks--too loving\nto last; and, besides, it was evident that Mrs. Clymer was used to a\nbetter station in life than her husband. It was while the crowd was\nlaughing and chattering at the picnic-table of new boards from the mill\nthat Mrs. Clymer stole away to her modest little house, and a neighbor\nwho had followed her was an accidental witness to a singular episode.\nMrs. Clymer was kneeling beside her bed, crying over the picture of a\nchild, when Clymer entered unexpectedly and attempted to take the picture\nfrom her.\n\nShe faced him defiantly. \"You kept that because it looked like him, I\nreckon,\" he said. \"You might run back to him. You know what he'd call you\nand where you'd stand with your aristocracy.\"\n\nThe woman pointed to the door, and the man left without another word, and\nso did the listener. Next morning the body of Mrs. Clymer was found\nhanging to a beam in the mill. At the inquest the husband owned that he\nhad \"had a few words\" with her on the previous day, and thought that she\nmust have suddenly become insane. The jury took this view. News of the\nsuicide was printed in some of the city papers, and soon after that the\ngossips had another sensation, for a fair-haired man, also from Brooklyn,\narrived at the place and asked where the woman was buried. When he found\nthe grave he sat beside it for some time, his head resting on his hand;\nthen he inquired for Clymer, but Clymer, deadly pale, had gone into the\nwoods as soon as he heard that a stranger had arrived. The new-comer went\nto Trenton, where he ordered a gravestone bearing the single word\n\"Estella\" to be placed where the woman's body had been interred. Clymer\nquickly sold out and disappeared. The mill never prospered, and has long\nbeen in a ruinous condition. People of the neighborhood think that the\nghost of Mrs. Clymer--was that her name?--still troubles it, and they\npass the place with quickened steps.\n\n\n\n\nOLD INDIAN FACE\n\nOn Lower Ausable Pond is a large, ruddy rock showing a huge profile, with\nanother, resembling a pappoose, below it. When the Tahawi ruled this\nregion their sachem lived here at \"the Dark Cup,\" as they called this\nlake, a man renowned for virtue and remarkable, in his age, for\ngentleness. When his children had died and his manly grandson, who was\nthe old man's hope, had followed them to the land of the cloud mountains,\nAdota's heart withered within him, and standing beneath this rock, he\naddressed his people, recounting what he had done for them, how he had\nswept their enemies from the Lakes of the Clustered Stars (the Lower\nSaranac) and Silver Sky (Upper Saranac) to the Lake of Wandah, gaining a\nland where they might hunt and fish in peace. The little one, the Star,\nhad been ravished away to crown the brow of the thunder god, who, even\nnow, was advancing across the peaks, bending the woods and lighting the\nvalleys with his jagged torches.\n\nLife was nothing to him longer; he resigned it.\n\nAs he spoke these words he fell back, and the breath passed out of him.\nThen came the thunder god, and with an appalling burst of fire sent the\npeople cowering. The roar that followed seemed to shake the earth, but\nthe medicine-man of the tribe stood still, listening to the speech of the\ngod in the clouds. \"Tribe of the Tahawi,\" he translated, \"Adota treads\nthe star-path to the happy hunting-grounds, and the sun is shining on his\nheart. He will never walk among you again, but the god loves both him and\nyou, and he will set his face on the mountains. Look!\" And, raising their\neyes, they beheld the likeness of Adota and of his beloved child, the\nStar, graven by lightning-stroke on the cliff. There they buried the body\nof Adota and held their solemn festivals until the white men drove them\nout of the country.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DIVISION OF THE SARANACS\n\nIn the middle of the last century a large body of Saranac Indians\noccupied the forests of the Upper Saranac through which ran the Indian\ncarrying-place, called by them the Eagle Nest Trail. Whenever they raided\nthe Tahawi on the slopes of Mount Tahawus (Sky-splitter), there was a\npleasing rivalry between two young athletes, called the Wolf and the\nEagle, as to which would carry off the more scalps, and the tribe was\ndivided in admiration of them. There was one who did not share this\nliking: an old sachem, one of the wizards who had escaped when the Great\nSpirit locked these workers of evil in the hollow trees that stood beside\nthe trail. In their struggles to escape the less fortunate ones thrust\ntheir arms through the closing bark, and they are seen there, as withered\ntrunks and branches, to this day. Oquarah had not been softened by this\nexhibition of danger nor the qualification of mercy that allowed him\nstill to exist. Rather he was more bitter when he saw, as he fancied,\nthat the tribe thought more of the daring and powerful warriors than it\ndid of the bent and malignant-minded counsellor.\n\nIt was in the moon of green leaves that the two young men set off to hunt\nthe moose, and on the next day the Wolf returned alone. He explained that\nin the hunt they had been separated; he had called for hours for his\nfriend, and had searched so long that he concluded he must have returned\nahead of him. But he was not at the camp. Up rose the sachem with visage\ndark. \"I hear a forked tongue,\" he cried. \"The Wolf was jealous of the\nEagle and his teeth have cut into his heart.\"\n\n\"The Wolf cannot lie,\" answered the young man.\n\n\"Where is the Eagle?\" angrily shouted the sachem, clutching his hatchet.\n\n\"The Wolf has said,\" replied the other.\n\nThe old sachem advanced upon him, but as he raised his axe to strike, the\nwife of the Wolf threw herself before her husband, and the steel sank\ninto her brain. The sachem fell an instant later with the Wolf's knife in\nhis heart, and instantly the camp was in turmoil. Before the day had\npassed it had been broken up, and the people were divided into factions,\nfor it was no longer possible to hold it together in peace. The Wolf,\nwith half of the people, went down the Sounding River to new\nhunting-grounds, and the earth that separated the families was reddened\nwhenever one side met the other.\n\nYears had passed when, one morning, the upper tribe saw a canoe advancing\nacross the Lake of the Silver Sky. An old man stepped from it: he was the\nEagle. After the Wolf had left him he had fallen into a cleft in a rock,\nand had lain helpless until found by hunters who were on their way to\nCanada. He had joined the British against the French, had married a\nnorthern squaw, but had returned to die among the people of his early\nlove. Deep was his sorrow that his friend should have been accused of\ndoing him an injury, and that the once happy tribe should have been\ndivided by that allegation. The warriors and sachems of both branches\nwere summoned to a council, and in his presence they swore a peace, so\nthat in the fulness of time he was able to die content. That peace was\nalways kept.\n\n\n\n\nAN EVENT IN INDIAN PARK\n\nIt was during the years when the Saranacs were divided that Howling Wind,\none of the young men of Indian Carry, saw and fell in love with a girl of\nthe family on Tupper Lake. He quickly found a way to tell his liking, and\nthe couple met often in the woods and on the shore. He made bold to row\nher around the quieter bays, and one moonlight evening he took her to\nDevil's Rock, or Devil's Pulpit, where he told her the story of the\nplace. This was to the effect that the fiend had paddled, on timbers, by\nmeans of his tail, to that rock, and had assembled fish and game about\nhim in large numbers by telling them that he was going to preach to them,\ninstead of which moral procedure he pounced upon and ate all that were\nwithin his grasp.\n\nAs so often happened in Indian history, the return of these lovers was\nseen by a disappointed rival, who had hurried back to camp and secured\nthe aid of half a dozen men to arrest the favored one as soon as he\nshould land. The capture was made after a struggle, and Howling Wind was\ndragged to the chief's tent for sentence. That sentence was death, and\nwith a refinement of cruelty that was rare even among the Indians, the\ngirl was ordered to execute it. She begged and wept to no avail. An axe\nwas put into her hands, and she was ordered to despatch the prisoner. She\ntook the weapon; her face grew stern and the tears dried on her cheeks;\nher lover, bound to a tree, gazed at her in amazement; his rival watched,\nalmost in glee. Slowly the girl crossed the open space to her lover. She\nraised the tomahawk and at a blow severed the thongs that held him, then,\nlike a flash, she leaped upon his rival, who had sprung forward to\ninterfere, and clove his skull with a single stroke. The lovers fled as\nonly those can fly who run for life. Happily for them, they met a party\nfrom the Carry coming to rescue Howling Wind from the danger to which his\ncourtship had exposed him, and it was even said that this party entered\nthe village and by presenting knives and arrows at the breast of the\nchief obtained his now superfluous consent to the union of the fugitives.\nThe pair reached the Carry in safety and lived a long and happy life\ntogether.\n\n\n\n\nTHE INDIAN PLUME\n\nBrightest flower that grows beside the brooks is the scarlet blossom of\nthe Indian plume: the blood of Lenawee. Hundreds of years ago she lived\nhappily among her brother and sister Saranacs beside Stony Creek, the\nStream of the Snake, and was soon to marry the comely youth who, for the\nspeed of his foot, was called the Arrow. But one summer the Quick Death\ncame on the people, and as the viewless devil stalked through the village\nyoung and old fell before him. The Arrow was the first to die. In vain\nthe Prophet smoked the Great Calumet: its smoke ascending took no shape\nthat he could read. In vain was the white dog killed to take aloft the\npeople's sins. But at last the Great Spirit himself came down to the\nmountain called the Storm Darer, splendid in lightning, awful in his\nthunder voice and robe of cloud. \"My wrath is against you for your sins,\"\nhe cried, \"and naught but human blood will appease it.\"\n\nIn the morning the Prophet told his message, and all sat silent for a\ntime. Then Lenawee entered the circle. \"Lenawee is a blighted flower,\"\nshe sobbed. \"Let her blood flow for her people.\" And catching a knife\nfrom the Prophet's belt, she ran with it to the stream on which she and\nthe Arrow had so often floated in their canoe. In another moment her\nblood had bedewed the earth. \"Lay me with the Arrow,\" she murmured, and,\nsmiling in their sad faces, breathed her last. The demon of the quick\ndeath shrank from the spot, and the Great Spirit smiled once more on the\ntribe that could produce such heroism. Lenawee's body was placed beside\nher lover's, and next morning, where her blood had spilt, the ground was\npure, and on it grew in slender spires a new flower,--the Indian plume:\nthe transformed blood of sacrifice. The people loved that flower in all\nyears after. They decked their hair and dresses with it and made a feast\nin its honor. When parents taught their children the beauty of\nunselfishness they used as its emblem a stalk of Indian plume.\n\n\n\n\nBIRTH OF THE WATER-LILY\n\nBack from his war against the Tahawi comes the Sun, chief of the Lower\nSaranacs,--back to the Lake of the Clustered Stars, afterward called, by\ndullards, Tupper's Lake. Tall and invincible he comes among his people,\nboasting of his victories, Indian fashion, and stirring the scalps that\nhang at his breast. \"The Eagle screams,\" he cries. \"He greets the chief,\nthe Blazing Sun. Wayotah has made the Tahawi tremble. They fly from him.\nHooh, hooh! He is the chief.\" Standing apart with wistful glance stands\nOseetah, the Bird. She loves the strong young chief, but she knows that\nanother has his promise, and she dares not hope; yet the chief loves her,\nand when the feasting is over he follows her footprints to the shore,\nwhere he sees her canoe turning the point of an island. He silently\npursues and comes upon her as she sits waving and moaning. He tries to\nembrace her, but she draws apart. He asks her to sing to him; she bids\nhim begone.\n\nHe takes a more imperious tone and orders her to listen to her chief. She\nmoves away. He darts toward her. Turning on him a face of sorrow, she\nruns to the edge of a steep rock and waves him back. He hastens after.\nThen she springs and disappears in the deep water. The Sun plunges after\nher and swims with mad strength here and there. He calls. There is no\nanswer. Slowly he returns to the village and tells the people what has\nhappened. The Bird's parents are stricken and the Sun moans in his sleep.\nAt noon a hunter comes in with strange tidings: flowers are growing on\nthe water! The people go to their canoes and row to the Island of Elms.\nThere, in a cove, the still water is enamelled with flowers, some as\nwhite as snow, filling the air with perfume, others strong and yellow,\nlike the lake at sunset.\n\n\"Explain to us,\" they cry, turning to the old Medicine of his tribe, \"for\nthis was not so yesterday.\"\n\n\"It is our daughter,\" he answered. \"These flowers are the form she\ntakes. The white is her purity, the yellow her love. You shall see that\nher heart will close when the sun sets, and will reopen at his coming.\"\nAnd the young chief went apart and bowed his head.\n\n\n\n\nROGERS'S SLIDE\n\nThe shores of Lakes George and Champlain were ravaged by war. Up and down\nthose lovely waters swept the barges of French and English, and the green\nhills rang to the shrill of bugles, the boom of cannon, and the yell of\nsavages. Fiction and history have been weft across the woods and the\nmemory of deeds still echoes among the heights. It was at Glen's Falls,\nin the cave on the rock in the middle of the river, that the brave Uncas\nheld the watch with Hawkeye. Bloody Defile and Bloody Pond, between there\nand Lake George, take their names from the \"Bloody morning scout\" sent\nout by Sir William Johnson on a September day in 1755 to check Dieskau\nuntil Fort William Henry could be completed. In the action that ensued,\nColonel Williams, founder of Williams College, and Captain Grant, of the\nConnecticut line, great-grandfather of the President who bore that name,\nwere killed. The victims, dead and wounded alike, having been flung into\nBloody Pond, it was thick and red for days, and tradition said that in\nafter years it resumed its hue of crimson at sunset and held it until\ndawn. The captured, who were delivered to the Indians, had little to\nhope, for their white allies could not stay their savagery. Blind Rock\nwas so called because the Indians brought a white man there, and tearing\nhis eyes out, flung them into embers at the foot of the stone. Captives\nwere habitually tortured, blazing splinters of pine being thrust into\ntheir flesh, their nails torn out, and their bodies slashed with knives\nbefore they went to the stake. An English prisoner was allowed to run the\ngauntlet here. They had already begun to strike at him as he sped between\nthe lines, when he seized a pappoose, flung it on a fire, and, in the\ninstant of confusion that followed, snatched an axe, cut the bonds of a\ncomrade who had been doomed to die, and both escaped.\n\nBut the best-known history of this region is that of Rogers's Rock, or\nRogers's Slide, a lofty precipice at the lower end of Lake George. Major\nRogers did not toboggan down this rock in leather trousers, but his\nescape was no less remarkable than if he had. On March 13, 1758, while\nreconnoitring near Ticonderoga with two hundred rangers, he was surprised\nby a force of French and Indians. But seventeen of his men escaped death\nor capture, and he was pursued nearly to the brink of this cliff. During\na brief delay among the red men, arising from the loss of his trail, he\nhad time to throw his pack down the slide, reverse his snow-shoes, and go\nback over his own track to the head of a ravine before they emerged from\nthe woods, and, seeing that his shoe-marks led to the rock, while none\npointed back, they concluded that he had flung himself off and committed\nsuicide to avoid capture. Great was their disappointment when they saw\nthe major on the frozen surface of the lake beneath going at a lively\nrate toward Fort William Henry. He had gained the ice by way of the cleft\nin the rocks, but the savages, believing that he had leaped over the\nprecipice, attributed his preservation to the Great Spirit and forbore to\nfire on him. Unconsciously, he had chosen the best possible place to\ndisappear from, for the Indians held it in superstitious regard,\nbelieving that spirits haunted the wood and hurled bad souls down the\ncliff, drowning them in the lake, instead of allowing them to go to the\nhappy hunting grounds. The major reached his quarters in safety, and\nlived to take up arms against the land of his birth when the colonies\nrevolted, seventeen years later.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FALLS AT COHOES\n\nWhen Occuna, a young Seneca, fell in love with a girl whose cabin was\nnear the present town of Cohoes, he behaved very much as Americans of a\nlater date have done. He picked wild flowers for her; he played on the\nbone pipe and sang sentimental songs in the twilight; he roamed the hills\nwith her, gathering the loose quartz crystals that the Indians believed\nto be the tears of stricken deer, save on Diamond Rock, in Lansingburgh,\nwhere they are the tears of Moneta, a bereaved mother and wife; and in\nfine weather they went boating on the Mohawk above the rapids. They liked\nto drift idly on the current, because it gave them time to gaze into each\nother's eyes, and to build air castles that they would live in in the\nfuture. They were suddenly called to a realization of danger one evening,\nfor the stream had been subtly drawing them on and on until it had them\nin its power. The stroke of the paddle failed and the air castles fell in\ndismal ruin. Sitting erect they began their death-song in this wise:\n\nOccuna: \"Daughter of a mighty warrior, the Manitou calls me hence. I hear\nthe roaring of his voice; I see the lightning of his glance along the\nriver; he walks in clouds and spray upon the waters.\"\n\nThe Maiden: \"Thou art thyself a warrior, O Occuna. Hath not thine axe\nbeen often bathed in blood? Hath the deer ever escaped thine arrow or the\nbeaver avoided thy chase? Thou wilt not fear to go into the presence of\nManitou.\"\n\nOccuna: \"Manitou, indeed, respects the strong. When I chose thee from the\nwomen of our tribe I promised that we should live and die together. The\nThunderer calls us now. Welcome, O ghost of Oriska, chief of the\ninvincible Senecas! A warrior and the daughter of a warrior come to join\nyou in the feast of the blessed!\"\n\nThe boat leaped over the falls, and Occuna, striking on the rocks below,\nwas killed at once; but, as by a miracle, the girl fell clear of them and\nwas whirled on the seething current to shoal water, where she made her\nescape. For his strength and his virtues the dead man was canonized. His\ntribe raised him above the regions of the moon, whence he looked down on\nthe scenes of his youth with pleasure, and in times of war gave pleasant\ndreams and promises to his friends, while he confused the enemy with evil\nomens. Whenever his tribe passed the falls they halted and with brief\nceremonials commemorated the death of Occuna.\n\n\n\n\nFRANCIS WOOLCOTT'S NIGHT-RIDERS\n\nIn Copake, New York, among the Berkshire Hills, less than a century ago,\nlived Francis Woolcott, a dark, tall man, with protruding teeth, whose\nsinister laugh used to give his neighbors a creep along their spines. He\nhad no obvious trade or calling, but the farmers feared him so that he\nhad no trouble in making levies: pork, flour, meal, cider, he could have\nwhat he chose for the asking, for had he not halted horses at the plow so\nthat neither blows nor commands could move them for two hours? Had he not\nset farmer Raught's pigs to walking on their hind legs and trying to\ntalk? When he shouted \"Hup! hup! hup!\" to farmer Williams's children, had\nthey not leaped to the moulding of the parlor wainscot,--a yard above the\nfloor and only an inch wide,--and walked around it, afterward skipping\nlike birds from chair-back to chair-back, while the furniture stood as if\nnailed to the floor? And was he not the chief of thirteen night-riders,\nwhose faces no man had seen, nor wanted to see, and whom he sent about\nthe country on errands of mischief every night when the moon was growing\nold? As to moons, had he not found a mystic message from our satellite on\nMount Riga, graven on a meteor?\n\nHorses' tails were tied, hogs foamed at the mouth and walked like men,\ncows gave blood for milk. These night-riders met Woolcott in a grove of\nash and chestnut trees, each furnished with a stolen bundle of oat straw,\nand these bundles Woolcott changed to black horses when the night had\ngrown dark enough not to let the way of the change be seen. These horses\ncould not cross streams of water, and on the stroke of midnight they fell\nto pieces and were oaten sheaves once more, but during their time of\naction they rushed through woods, bearing their riders safely, and tore\nlike hurricanes across the fields, leaping bushes, fences, even trees,\nwithout effort. Never could traces be found of them the next day. At last\nthe devil came to claim his own. Woolcott, who was ninety years old, lay\nsick and helpless in his cabin. Clergymen refused to see him, but two or\nthree of his neighbors stifled their fears and went to the wizard's house\nto soothe his dying moments. With the night came storm, and with its\noutbreak the old man's face took on such a strange and horrible look that\nthe watchers fell back in alarm. There was a burst of purple flame at the\nwindow, a frightful peal, a smell of sulphur, and Woolcott was dead. When\nthe watchers went out the roads were dry, and none in the village had\nheard wind, rain, or thunder. It was the coming of the fiend.\n\n\n\n\nPOLLY'S LOVER\n\nIn about the middle of this century a withered woman of ninety was buried\nfrom a now deserted house in White Plains, New York, Polly Carter the\nname of her, but \"Crazy Polly\" was what the neighbors called her, for she\nwas eccentric and not fond of company. Among the belongings of her house\nwas a tall clock, such as relic hunters prize, that ticked solemnly in a\nlanding on the stairs.\n\nFor a time, during the Revolution, the house stood within the British\nlines, and as her father was a colonel in Washington's army she was left\nalmost alone in it. The British officers respected her sex, but they had\nan unpleasant way of running in unannounced and demanding entertainment,\nin the king's name, which she felt forced to grant. One rainy afternoon\nthe door was flung open, then locked on the inside, and she found herself\nin the arms of a stalwart, handsome lieutenant, who wore the blue. It was\nher cousin and fiance. Their glad talk had not been going long when there\ncame a rousing summons at the door. Three English officers were awaiting\nadmittance.\n\nPerhaps they had seen Lawrence Carter go into the house, and if caught he\nwould be killed as a spy. He must be hidden, but in some place where they\nwould not think of looking. The clock! That was the place. With a laugh\nand a kiss the young man submitted to be shut in this narrow quarter, and\nthrowing his coat and hat behind some furniture the girl admitted the\nofficers, who were wet and surly and demanded dinner. They tramped about\nthe best room in their muddy boots, talking loudly, and in order to break\nthe effect of the chill weather they passed the brandy bottle freely.\nPolly served them with a dinner as quickly as possible, for she wanted to\nget them out of the house, but they were in no mood to go, and the bottle\npassed so often that before the dinner was over they were noisy and tipsy\nand were using language that drove Polly from the room.\n\nAt last, to her relief, she heard them preparing to leave the house, but\nas they were about to go the senior officer, looking up at the landing,\nnow dim in the paling light, said to one of the others, \"See what time it\nis.\" The officer addressed, who happened to be the drunkest of the party,\nstaggered up the stair and exclaimed, \"The d---d thing's stopped.\" Then,\nas if he thought it a good joke, he added, \"It'll never go again.\"\nDrawing his sabre he gave the clock a careless cut and ran the blade\nthrough the panel of the door; after this the three passed out. When\ntheir voices had died in distant brawling, Polly ran to release her\nlover. Something thick and dark was creeping from beneath the clock-case.\nWith trembling fingers she pulled open the door, and Lawrence, her lover,\nfell heavily forward into her arms, dead. The officer was right: the\nclock never went again.\n\n\n\n\nCROSBY, THE PATRIOT SPY\n\nIt was at the Jay house, in Westchester, New York, that Enoch Crosby met\nWashington and offered his services to the patriot army. Crosby was a\ncobbler, and not a very thriving one, but after the outbreak of\nhostilities he took a peddler's outfit on his back and, as a\nnon-combatant, of Tory sympathies, he obtained admission through the\nBritish lines. After his first visit to head quarters it is certain that\nhe always carried Sir Henry Clinton's passport in the middle of his pack,\nand so sure were his neighbors that he was in the service of the British\nthat they captured him and took him to General Washington, but while his\ncase was up for debate he managed to slip his handcuffs, which were not\nsecure, and made off. Clinton, on the other hand, was puzzled by the\nunaccountable foresight of the Americans, for every blow that he prepared\nto strike was met, and he lost time and chance and temper. As if the\nsuspicion of both armies and the hatred of his neighbors were not enough\nto contend against, Crosby now became an object of interest to the\nSkinners and Cowboys, who were convinced that he was making money,\nsomehow, and resolved to have it.\n\nThe Skinners were camp-followers of the American troops and the Cowboys a\nband of Tories and renegade British. Both factions were employed,\nostensibly, in foraging for their respective armies, but, in reality, for\nthemselves, and the farmers and citizens occupying the neutral belt north\nof Manhattan Island had reason to curse them both impartially. While\nthese fellows were daring thieves, they occasionally got the worst of it,\neven in the encounters with the farmers, as on the Neperan, near\nTarrytown, where the Cowboys chased a woman to death, but were afterward\ncut to pieces by the enraged neighbors. Hers is but one of the many\nghosts that haunt the neutral ground, and the croaking of the birds of\nill luck that nest at Raven rock is blended with the cries of her dim\nfigure. Still, graceless as these fellows were, they affected a loyalty\nto their respective sides, and were usually willing to fight each other\nwhen they met, especially for the plunder that was to be got by fighting.\n\nIn October, 1780, Claudius Smith, \"king of the Cowboys,\" and three\nscalawag sons came to the conclusion that it was time for Crosby's money\nto revert to the crown, and they set off toward his little house one\nevening, sure of finding him in, for his father was seriously ill. The\nSmiths arrived there to find that the Skinners had preceded them on the\nsame errand, and they recognized through the windows, in the leader of\nthe band, a noted brigand on whose head a price was laid. He was\nsearching every crack and cranny of the room, while Crosby, stripped to\nshirt and trousers, stood before the empty fireplace and begged for that\nnight to be left alone with his dying father.\n\n\"To hell with the old man!\" roared the Skinner. \"Give up your gold, or\nwe'll put you to the torture,\" and he significantly whirled the end of a\nrope that he carried about his waist. At that moment the faint voice of\nthe old man was heard calling from another room.\n\n\"Take all that I have and let me go!\" cried Crosby, and turning up a\nbrick in the fire-place he disclosed a handful of gold, his life savings.\nThe leader still tried to oppose his exit, but Crosby flung him to the\nfloor and rushed away to his father, while the brigand, deeming it well\nto delay rising, dug his fingers into the hollow and began to extract the\nsovereigns. At that instant four muskets were discharged from without:\nthere was a crash of glass, a yell of pain, and four of the Skinners\nrolled bleeding on the floor; two others ran into the darkness and\nescaped; their leader, trying to follow, was met at the threshold by the\nSmiths, who clutched the gold out of his hand and pinioned his elbows in\na twinkling.\n\n\"I thought ye'd like to know who's got ye,\" said old Smith, peering into\nthe face of the astonished and crestfallen robber, \"for I've told ye many\na time to keep out of my way, and now ye've got to swing for getting into\nit.\"\n\nWithin five minutes of the time that he had got his clutch on Crosby's\nmoney the bandit was choking to death at the end of his own rope, hung\nfrom the limb of an apple-tree, and, having secured the gold, the Cowboys\nwent their way into the darkness. Crosby soon made his appearance in the\nranks of the Continentals, and, though they looked askant at him for a\ntime, they soon discovered the truth and hailed him as a hero, for the\ninformation he had carried to Washington from Clinton's camp had often\nsaved them from disaster. He had survived attack in his own house through\nthe falling out of rogues, and he survived the work and hazard of war\nthrough luck and a sturdy frame. Congress afterwards gave him a sum of\nmoney larger than had been taken from him, for his chief had commended\nhim in these lines: \"Circumstances of political importance, which\ninvolved the lives and fortunes of many, have hitherto kept secret what\nthis paper now reveals. Enoch Crosby has for years been a faithful and\nunrequited servant of his country. Though man does not, God may reward\nhim for his conduct. GEORGE WASHINGTON.\"\n\nAssociated with Crosby in his work of getting information from the enemy\nwas a man named Gainos, who kept an inn on the neutral ground, that was\noften raided. Being assailed by Cowboys once, Gainos, with his tenant and\nstable-boys, fired at the bandits together, just as the latter had forced\nhis front door, then stepping quickly forward he slashed off the head of\nthe leader with a cutlass. The retreating crew dumped the body into a\nwell on the premises, and there it sits on the crumbling curb o' nights\nlooking disconsolately for its head.\n\nIt may also be mentioned that the Skinners had a chance to revenge\nthemselves on the Cowboys for their defeat at the Crosby house. They fell\nupon the latter at the tent-shaped cave in Yonkers,--it is called\nWashington's Cave, because the general napped there on bivouac,--and not\nonly routed them, but secured so much of their treasure that they were\nable to be honest for several years after.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LOST GRAVE OF PAINE\n\nFailure to mark the resting-places of great men and to indicate the\nscenes of their deeds has led to misunderstanding and confusion among\nthose who discover a regard for history and tradition in this practical\nage. Robert Fulton, who made steam navigation possible, lies in an\nunmarked tomb in the yard of Trinity Church--the richest church in\nAmerica. The stone erected to show where Andre was hanged was destroyed\nby a cheap patriot, who thought it represented a compliment to the spy.\nThe spot where Alexander Hamilton was shot in the duel by Aaron Burr is\nknown to few and will soon be forgotten. It was not until a century of\nobloquy had been heaped on the memory of Thomas Paine that his once\nenemies were brought to know him as a statesman of integrity, a\nphilanthropist, and philosopher. His deistic religion, proclaimed in \"The\nAge of Reason,\" is unfortunately no whit more independent than is\npreached in dozens of pulpits to-day. He died ripe in honors, despite his\nwant of creed, and his mortal part was buried in New Rochelle, New York,\nunder a large walnut-tree in a hay-field. Some years later his friends\nremoved the body to a new grave in higher ground, and placed over it a\nmonument that the opponents of his principles quickly hacked to pieces.\nAround the original grave there still remains a part of the old\ninclosure, and it was proposed to erect a suitable memorial--the Hudson\nand its Hills the spot, but the owner of the tract would neither give nor\nsell an inch of his land for the purpose of doing honor to the man. Some\ndoubt has already been expressed as to whether the grave is beneath the\nmonument or in the inclosure; and it is also asserted that Paine's ghost\nappears at intervals, hovering in the air between the two burial-places,\nor flitting back and forth from one to the other, lamenting the\nforgetfulness of men and wailing, \"Where is my grave? I have lost my\ngrave!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE RISING OF GOUVERNEUR MORRIS\n\nGouverneur Morris, American minister to the court of Louis XVI, was\nconsiderably enriched, at the close of the reign of terror, by plate,\njewels, furniture, paintings, coaches, and so on, left in his charge by\nmembers of the French nobility, that they might not be confiscated in the\nsack of the city by the _sans culottes_; for so many of the aristocracy\nwere killed and so many went into exile or disguised their names, that it\nwas impossible to find heirs or owners for these effects. Some of the\npeople who found France a good country to be out of came to America,\nwhere adventurers had found prosperity and refugees found peace so many\ntimes before. Marshal Ney and Bernadotte are alleged to have served in\nthe American army during the Revolution, and at Hogansburg, New York, the\nReverend Eleazer Williams, an Episcopal missionary, who lies buried in\nthe church-yard there, was declared to be the missing son of Louis XVI.\nThe question, \"Have we a Bourbon among us?\" was frequently canvassed; but\nhe avoided publicity and went quietly on with his pastoral work.\n\nAll property left in Mr. Morris's hands that had not been claimed was\nremoved to his mansion at Port Morris, when he returned from his\nministry, and he gained in the esteem and envy of his neighbors when the\nextent of these riches was seen. Once, at the wine, he touched glasses\nwith his wife, and said that if she bore a male child that son should be\nheir to his wealth. Two relatives who sat at the table exchanged looks at\nthis and cast a glance of no gentle regard on his lady. A year went by.\nThe son was born, but Gouverneur Morris was dead.\n\nIt is the first night of the year 1817, the servants are asleep, and the\nwidow sits late before the fire, her baby in her arms, listening betimes\nto the wind in the chimney, the beat of hail on the shutters, the\nbrawling of the Bronx and the clash of moving ice upon it; yet thinking\nof her husband and the sinister look his promise had brought to the faces\nof his cousins, when a tramp of horses is heard without, and anon a\nsummons at the door. The panels are beaten by loaded riding-whips, and a\nman's voice cries, \"Anne Morris, fetch us our cousin's will, or we'll\nbreak into the house and take it.\" The woman clutches the infant to her\nbreast, but makes no answer. Again the clatter of the whips; but now a\nmist is gathering in the room, and a strange enchantment comes over her,\nfor are not the lions breathing on the coat of arms above the door, and\nare not the portraits stirring in their frames?\n\nThey are, indeed. There is a rustle of robes and clink of steel and one\nold warrior leaps down, his armor sounding as he alights, and striking\nthrice his sword and shield together he calls on Gouverneur Morris to\ncome forth. Somebody moves in the room where Morris died; there is a\nmeasured footfall in the corridor, with the clank of a scabbard keeping\ntime; the door is opened, and on the blast that enters the widow hears a\ncry, then a double gallop, passing swiftly into distance. As she gazes,\nher husband appears, apparelled as in life, and with a smile he takes a\ncandelabrum from the mantel and, beckoning her to follow, moves from room\nto room. Then, for the first time, the widow knows to what wealth her\nbaby has been born, for the ghost discloses secret drawers in escritoires\nwhere money, title deeds, and gems are hidden, turns pictures and\nwainscots on unsuspected hinges, revealing shelves heaped with fabrics,\nplate, and lace; then, returning to the fireside, he stoops as if to kiss\nhis wife and boy, but a bell strikes the first hour of morning and he\nvanishes into his portrait on the wall.","title":"Myths and Legends of Our Own Land \u2014 Volume 01: the Hudson and its hills","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":24251}