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Chapter Six
THE WHISKY REBELLION.
In the Bedtime Story Manner of Thornton W. Burgess
"Just the DAY for a Whisky Rebellion," said Aunt Polly and off
she ran, lipperty-lipperty-lip, to get a few shooting rifles.
"Oh goody goody," cried little Emily. "Now we can all shoot at
those horrid Revenue Officers," for the collectors of internal
revenue were far from popular with these kindly Pennsylvania folk
and Aunt Polly Pinkwood had often promised the children that if
they were good some day they would be allowed to take a shot at a
Revenue Officer.
Soon she returned, bearing in her arms a number of bright shiny
new guns. The children crowded around in glee and soon all were
supplied with weapons except little Frank who of course was too
young to use a gun and was given a two-gallon jug of nice, old
whisky to carry. Jed hitched up old Taylor, the faithful farm
horse, and as quick as you could say Jack Robinson the little
ones had piled into the old carryall. Round Mr. Sun was just
peeping over the Purple Hills when the merry little party started
on its way, singing and laughing at the prospect of the day's
sport.
"I bet I kill five Revenue Officers," said little Edgar.
"Ha Ha Ha--you boaster, you," laughed Aunt Polly. "You will be
lucky if you kill two, for I fear they will be hard to find
today."
"Oh do you think so, Aunt Polly?" said little Elinor and she
began to cry, for Elinor dearly loved to shoot.
"Hush dear," said Miss Pinkwood with a kindly pat, for she loved
her little charges and it hurt her to see them unhappy. "I was
only joking. And now children I will tell you a story."
"Oh goody goody," cried they all. "Tell us a true story."
"All right," said Aunt Polly. "I shall tell you a true story,"
and she began.
"Once there was a brave handsome man--"
"Mr. Welsbach," cried the children with one voice, for it was
well known in the neighborhood that Aunt Polly had long been
sweet on Julius Welsbach, the popular superintendent of the
Sabbath School and the best whisky maker for miles around.
"Hush children," said Aunt Polly blushing in vexation. "Of
course not. And if you interrupt me I shall not tell my story at
all." But she was not really angry.
"And one day this brave handsome man was out making whisky and he
had just sampled some when he looked up and what do you suppose
he saw?"
"Snakes," cried little Elmer whose father had often had delirium
tremens, greatly to the delight of his children.
"No, Elmer," said Miss Pinkwood, "not snakes."
"Pink lizards," cried little Esther, Elmer's sister.
"No," said Aunt Polly, with a hearty laugh, "he saw a--stranger.
And what do you suppose the stranger had?"
"A snoot full," chorused the Schultz twins. "He was pie-eyed."
"No," replied Miss Pinkwood laughing merrily. "It was before
noon. Guess again children. What did the stranger have?"
"Blind staggers," suggested little Faith whose mother had
recently been adjudged insane.
"Come children," replied Aunt Polly. "You are not very wide
awake this morning. The stranger had a gun. And when the brave
handsome man offered the stranger a drink what do you suppose the
stranger said?"
"I know," cried little Prudence eagerly. "He said, 'Why yes I
don't care if I do.' That's what they all say."
"No, Prudence," replied Miss Pinkwood. "The stranger refused a
drink."
"Oh come now, Aunt Polly," chorused the boys and girls. "You said
you were going to tell us a true story." And their little faces
fell.
"Children," said Miss Polly, "the stranger refused the drink
because he was a Revenue Officer. And he pointed his gun at the
brave handsome man and said he would have to go to jail because
he had not paid the tax on his whisky. And the brave handsome man
would have had to have gone to jail, too; but fortunately his
brother came up just at the right time and--"
"Shot the Revenuer dead," cried the children in glee.
"Yes children," said Miss Polly. "He shot the Revenue Officer
dead."
"Oh goody goody," cried all. "Now tell us another story. Tell us
about the time your father killed a Revenue Officer with an ax."
"Oh you don't want to hear that again, do you children?" said
Aunt Polly.
"Oh yes--yes--please," they cried, and Aunt Polly was just going
to begin when Jed the driver stopped his horses and said:
"This hilltop is as good a place to shoot from as I know of, Miss
Pinkwood. You can see both roads, and nobody can see you."
"Thank you, Jed," said Aunt Polly giving him a kindly smile, and
without more ado the children clambered out of the carryall and
filled their guns with powder and bullets.
"I get first shot," proudly announced Robert, the oldest boy, and
somewhat of a bully.
"Robert!" said Aunt Polly severely, and she looked almost ready
to cry, for Aunt Polly had tried hard to teach the boys to be
true knights of chivalry and it hurt her to have Robert wish to
shoot a Revenue Officer before the girls had had a chance. Robert
had not meant to hurt Aunt Polly's feelings but had only been
thoughtless, and soon all was sunshine again as little Ellen the
youngest made ready to fire the first shot.
The children waited patiently and soon they were rewarded by the
sight of a Revenue Officer riding on horseback in the distant
valley, as pretty a target as one could wish.
"Now do be careful, dear," whispered Miss Pinkwood, "for if you
miss, he may take alarm and be off." But little Ellen did not
miss. "Bang" went her gun and the little Merry Breezes echoed
back and forth, "She got him. She got him", and old Mother West
Wind smiled down at the happy sport. Sure enough, when old Mr.
Smoke had cleared away there was a nice dead Revenue Officer
lying in the road. "Well done, Ellen," said Miss Pinkwood,
patting her little charge affectionately which caused the happy
girl to coo with childish delight.
Mary had next shot and soon all were popping away in great glee.
All the merry wood folk gathered near to watch the children at
their sport. There was Johnny Chuck and Reddy Fox and Jimmy Skunk
and Bobby Coon and oh everybody.
Soon round Mr. Sun was high in the Blue Sky and the children
began to tire somewhat of their sport. "I'm as hungry as a
bear," said little Dick. "I'm as hungry as two bears," said
Emily. "Ha Ha Ha," laughed Miss Pinkwood, "I know what will fix
that," and soon she had spread out a delicious repast. "Now
children," said Miss Pinkwood when all had washed their faces and
hands, "while you were busy washing I prepared a surprise for
you," and from a large jug, before their delighted gaze, she
poured out-- what do you think? "Bronxes," cried little Harriet.
"Oh goody goody." And sure enough Aunt Polly had prepared a jug
of delicious Bronx cocktails which all pronounced excellent.
And after that there were sandwiches and olives and pie and good
three year old whisky, too.
"That's awfully smooth rye, Aunt Polly," said little Prudence
smacking her two red lips. "I think I'll have another shot."
"No dear," said Miss Pinkwood, pleased by the compliment, but
firm withal. "Not now. Perhaps on the way home, if there is any
left," for Aunt Polly knew that too much alcohol in the middle of
the day is bad for growing children, and she had seen many a
promising child spoiled by over-indulgent parents.
After lunch those children who could stand helped Aunt Polly to
clear away the dishes and then all went sound asleep, as is the
custom in Pennsylvania.
When they awoke round Mr. Sun was just sinking behind the Purple
Hills and so, after taking a few more scattered shots at Revenue
Officers, they piled once more into the carryall and drove back
to town. And as they passed Mrs. Oliphant's house (Aunt Polly's
sister) Aunt Flo Oliphant came out on the porch and waved her
handkerchief at the merry party.
"Let's give her a cheer," said Fred.
"Agreed," cried they all, and so twelve little throats united in
three lusty "huzzahs" which made Auntie Flo very happy you may be
sure.
And as they drove up before the Pinkwoods' modest home twelve
tired but happy children with one accord voted the Whisky
Rebellion capital fun and Aunt Polly a brick.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HOW LOVE CAME TO GENERAL GRANT
In the Manner of Harold Bell Wright
On a brisk winter evening in the winter of 1864 the palatial
Fifth Avenue "palace" of Cornelius van der Griff was brilliantly
lighted with many brilliant lights. Outside the imposing front
entrance a small group of pedestrians had gathered to gape
enviously at the invited guests of the "four hundred" who were
beginning to arrive in elegant equipages, expensive ball-dresses
and fashionable "swallowtails".
"Hully gee!" exclaimed little Frank, a crippled newsboy who was
the only support of an aged mother, as a particularly sumptuous
carriage drove up and a stylishly dressed lady of fifty-five or
sixty stepped out accompanied by a haughty society girl and an
elderly gentleman in clerical dress. It was Mrs. Rhinelander, a
social leader, and her daughter Geraldine, together with the Rev.
Dr. Gedney, pastor of an exclusive Fifth Avenue church.
"What common looking people," said Mrs. Rhinelander, surveying
the crowd aristocratically with her lorgnette.
"Yes, aren't they?" replied the clergyman with a condescending
glance which ill befit his clerical garb.
"I'm glad you don't have people like that dans votre eglise, Dr.
Gedney," said young Geraldine, who thought it was "smart" to
display her proficiency in the stylish French tongue. At this
moment the door of the van der Griff residence was opened for
them by an imposing footman in scarlet livery and they passed
into the abode of the "elect".
"Hully gee!" repeated little Frank.
"What's going on to-night?" asked a newcomer.
"Gee--don't youse know?" answered the newsboy. "Dis is de van
der Griffs' and tonight dey are giving a swell dinner for General
Grant. Dat lady wot just went in was old Mrs. Rhinelander. I
seen her pitcher in de last Harper's Weekly and dere was a story
in de paper dis morning dat her daughter Geraldine was going to
marry de General."
"That isn't so," broke in another. "It was just a rumor."
"Well, anyway," said Frank, "I wisht de General would hurry up
and come-- it's getting cold enough to freeze the tail off a
brass monkey." The onlookers laughed merrily at his humorous
reference to the frigid temperature, although many cast
sympathetic looks at his thin threadbare garments and registered
a kindly thought for this brave boy who so philosophically
accepted the buffets of fate.
"I bet this is him now," cried Frank, and all waited expectantly
as a vehicle drove up. The cabman jumped off his box and held
the carriage door open.
"Here you are, Miss Flowers," he said, touching his hat
respectfully.
A silver peal of rippling laughter sounded from the interior of
the carriage.
"Why Jerry," came in velvet tones addressed to the coachman, "You
mustn't be so formal just because I have come to New York to
live. Call me 'Miss Ella,' of course, just like you did when we
lived out in Kansas," and with these words Miss Ella Flowers, for
it was she, stepped out of the carriage.
A hush fell on the crowd as they caught sight of her face--a hush
of silent tribute to the clear sweet womanhood of that pure
countenance. A young man on the edge of the crowd who was on the
verge of becoming a drunkard burst into tears and walked rapidly
away to join the nearest church. A pr-st---te who had been plying
her nefarious trade on the avenue, sank to her knees to pray for
strength to go back to her aged parents on the farm. Another
young man, catching sight of Ella's pure face, vowed to write
home to his old mother and send her the money he had been
expending in the city on drinks and dissipation.
And well might these city people be affected by the glimpse of
the sweet noble virtue which shone forth so radiantly in this
Kansas girl's countenance. Although born in Jersey City, Ella had
moved with her parents to the west at an early age and she had
grown up in the open country where a man's a man and women lead
clean sweet womanly lives. Out in the pure air of God's green
places and amid kindly, simple, big hearted folks, little Ella
had blossomed and thrived, the pride of the whole country, and as
she had grown to womanhood there was many a masculine heart beat
a little faster for her presence and many a manly blush of
admiration came into the features of her admirers as she whirled
gracefully with them in the innocent pleasure of a simple country
dance. But on her eighteenth birthday, her parents had passed on
to the Great Beyond and the heartbroken Ella had come East to
live with Mrs. Montgomery, her aunt in Jersey City. This lady,
being socially prominent in New York's "four hundred", was of
course quite ambitious that her pretty little niece from the West
should also enter society. For the last three months, therefore,
Ella had been feted at all the better class homes in New York and
Jersey City, and as Mrs. van der Griff, the Fifth Avenue social
leader, was in the same set as Ella's aunt, it was only natural
that when making out her list of guests for the dinner in honor
of General Grant she should include the beautiful niece of her
friend.
As Ella stepped from the carriage, her gaze fell upon little
Frank, the crippled newsboy, and her eyes quickly filled with
tears, for social success had not yet caused her to forget that
"blessed are the weak". Taking out her purse, she gave Frank a
silver dollar and a warm look of sympathy as she passed into the
house.
"Gee, there went an angel," whispered the little cripple, and
many who heard him silently echoed that thought in their hearts.
Nor were they far from wrong.
But even an angel is not free from temptation, and by letting
Ella go into society her aunt was exposing the girl to the
whisperings of Satan-- whisperings of things material rather than
things spiritual. Many a girl just as pure as Ella has found her
standards gradually lowered and her moral character slowly
weakened by the contact with the so-called "refined" and
"cultured" infidels one meets in fashionable society. Many a
father and mother whose ambition has caused them to have their
daughter go out in society have bitterly repented of that step as
they watched the poor girl gradually succumbing to the temptation
of the world. Let her who thinks it is "smart" to be in society
consider that our brothels with their red plush curtains, their
hardwood floors and their luxurious appointments, are filled
largely with the worn out belles and debutantes of fashionable
society.
The next minute a bugle call sounded down the street and up drove
a team of prancing grays. Two soldiers sprang down from the
coachman's box and stood at rigid attention while the door of the
carriage opened and out stepped General Ulysses S. Grant.
A murmur of admiration swept over the crowd at the sight of his
manly inspiring features, in which the clean cut virility of a
life free from dissipation was accentuated by the neatly trimmed
black beard. His erect military bearing--his neat, well fitting
uniform--but above all his frank open face proclaimed him a man's
man--a man among men. A cheer burst from the lips of the
onlookers and the brave but modest general lowered his eyes and
blushed as he acknowledged their greeting.
"Men and women," he said, in a voice which although low, one
could see was accustomed to being obeyed, "I thank you for your
cheers. It makes my heart rejoice to hear them, for I know you
are not cheering me personally but only as one of the many men
who are fighting for the cause of liberty and freedom, and
for----" the general's voice broke a little, but he mastered his
emotion and went on--"for the flag we all love."
At this he pulled from his pocket an American flag and held it up
so that all could see. Cheer after cheer rent the air, and tears
came to the general's eyes at this mark of devotion to the common
cause.
"Wipe the d--d rebels off the face of the earth, G-d d--'em,"
shouted a too enthusiastic member of the crowd who, I fear, was a
little the worse for drink. In an instant General Grant had
stepped up to him and fixed upon him those fearless blue eyes.
"My man," said the general, "It hurts me to hear you give vent to
those oaths, especially in the presence of ladies. Soldiers do
not curse, and I think you would do well to follow their
example."
The other lowered his head shamefacedly. "General," he said,
"You're right and I apologize."
A smile lit up the general's handsome features and he extended
his hand to the other.
"Shake on it," he said simply, and as the crowd roared its
approval of this speech the two men "shook".
Meanwhile within the van der Griff house all were agog with
excitement in expectation of the arrival of the distinguished
guest. Expensively dressed ladies fluttered here and there amid
the elegant appointments; servants in stylish livery passed to
and fro with trays of wine and other spirituous liquors.
At the sound of the cheering outside, the haughty Mrs.
Rhinelander patted her daughter Geraldine nervously, and between
mother and daughter passed a glance of understanding, for both
felt that to-night, if ever, was Geraldine's opportunity to win
the handsome and popular general.
The doorbell rang, and a hush fell over the chattering
assemblage; then came the proud announcement from the
doorman--"General Ulysses S. Grant"--and all the society belles
crowded forward around the guest of honor.
It had been rumored that the general, being a soldier, was
ignorant of social etiquette, but such proved to be far from the
case. Indeed, he handled himself with such ease of manner that he
captivated all, and for each and every young miss he had an apt
phrase or a pretty compliment, greatly to their
delight.
"Pleased to know you"--"Glad to shake the hand of such a pretty
girl"--"What a nice little hand--I wish I might hold it all
evening"-- with these and kindred pleasantries the general won
the way into the graces of Mrs. van der Griff's fair guests, and
many a female heart fluttered in her bosom as she gazed into the
clear blue eyes of the soldier, and listened to his well chosen
tactful words.
"And how is the dear General this evening?"--this in the affected
tone of old Mrs. Rhinelander, as she forced her way through the
crowd.
"Finer than silk," replied he, and he added, solicitously, "I
hope you have recovered from your lumbago, Mrs. Rhinelander."
"Oh quite," answered she, "and here is Geraldine, General," and
the ambitious mother pushed her daughter forward.
"Comment vous portez vous, mon General," said Geraldine in
French, "I hope we can have a nice tete-a-tete to-night," and she
fawned upon her prey in a manner that would have sickened a less
artificial gathering.
Were there not some amid all that fashionable throng in whom
ideals of purity and true womanhood lived--some who cared enough
for the sacredness of real love to cry upon this hollow mockery
that was being used to ensnare the simple, honest soldier? There
was only one, and she was at that moment entering the drawing
room for the purpose of being presented to the general. Need I
name her?
Ella, for it was she, had been upstairs busying herself with her
toilet when General Grant had arrived and she now hurried forward
to pay her homage to the great soldier. And then, as she caught
sight of his face, she stopped suddenly and a deep crimson blush
spread over her features. She looked again, and then drew back
behind a nearby portiere, her heart beating wildly.
Well did Ella remember where she had seen that countenance
before, and as she stood there trembling the whole scene of her
folly came back to her. It had happened in Kansas, just before
her parents died, on one sunny May morning. She had gone for a
walk; her footsteps had led her to the banks of a secluded lake
where she often went when she wished to be alone. Many an
afternoon had Ella dreamed idly away on this shore, but that day,
for some reason, she had felt unusually full of life and not at
all like dreaming. Obeying a thoughtless but innocent impulse,
with no intention of evil, she had taken off her clothes and
plunged thus n-k-d into the cool waters of the lake. After she
had swum around a little she began to realize the extent of her
folly and was hurriedly swimming towards the shore when a
terrific cramp had seized her lower limbs, rendering them
powerless. Her first impulse, to scream for help, was quickly
checked with a deep blush, as she realized the consequences if a
man should hear her call, for nearby was an encampment of Union
soldiers, none of whom she knew. The perplexed and helpless girl
was in sore straits and was slowly sinking for the third time,
when a bearded stranger in soldier's uniform appeared on the bank
and dove into the water. To her horror he swam rapidly towards
her--but her shame was soon changed to joy when she realized that
he was purposely keeping his eyes tight shut. With a few swift
powerful strokes he reached her side, and, blushing deeply, took
off his blue coat, fastened it around her, opened his eyes, and
swam with her to the shore. Carrying her to where she had left
her clothes he stayed only long enough to assure himself that she
had completely recovered the use of her limbs, and evidently to
spare her further embarrassment, had vanished as quickly and as
mysteriously as he had appeared.
Many a night after that had Ella lain awake thinking of the
splendid features and, the even more splendid conduct of this
unknown knight who wore the uniform of the Union army. "How I
love him," she would whisper to herself; "but how he must despise
me!" she would cry, and her pillow was often wet with tears of
shame and mortification at her folly.
It was shortly after this episode that her parents had taken sick
and passed away. Ella had come East and had given up hope of
ever seeing her rescuer again. You may imagine her feelings then
when, on entering the drawing room at the van der Griffs', she
discovered that the stranger who had so gallantly and tactfully
rescued her from a watery grave was none other than General
Ulysses S. Grant.
The poor girl was torn by a tumult of contrary emotions. Suppose
he should remember her face. She blushed at the thought. And
besides what chance had she to win such a great man's heart in
competition with these society girls like Geraldine Rhinelander
who had been "abroad" and spoke French.
At that moment one of the liveried servants approached the
general with a trayful of filled wine glasses. So engrossed was
the soldier hero in talking to Geraldine--or, rather, in
listening to her alluring chatter-- that he did not at first
notice what was being offered him.
"Will you have a drink of champagne wine, General?" said Mrs. van
der Griff who stood near.
The general raised his head and frowned as if he did not
understand.
"Come, mon General," cried Geraldine gayly, "We shall drink a
votre succes dans la guerre," and the flighty girl raised a glass
of wine on high. Several of the guests crowded around and all
were about to drink to the general's health.
"Stop," cried General Grant suddenly realizing what was being
done, and something in the tone of his voice made everyone
pause.
"Madam," said he, turning to Mrs. van der Griff, "Am I to
understand that there is liquor in those glasses?"
"Why yes, General," said the hostess smiling uneasily. "It is
just a little champagne wine."
"Madam," said the general, "It may be 'just champagne wine' to
you, but 'just champagne wine' has ruined many a poor fellow and
to me all alcoholic beverages are an abomination. I cannot
consent, madam, to remain under your roof if they are to be
served. I have never taken a drop--I have tried to stamp it out
of the army, and I owe it to my soldiers to decline to be a guest
at a house where wine and liquor are served."
An excited buzz of comment arose as the general delivered this
ultimatum. A few there were who secretly approved his sentiments,
but they were far too few in numbers and constant indulgence in
alcohol had weakened their wills so that they dared not stand
forth. An angry flush appeared on the face of the hostess, for in
society, "good form" is more important than courage and ideals,
and by his frank statement General Grant had violently violated
the canons of correct social etiquette.
"Very well, Mr. Grant," she said, stressing the "Mr."--"if that's
the way you feel about it----"
"Stop," cried an unexpected voice, and to the amazement of all
Ella Flowers stepped forward, her teeth clenched, her eyes
blazing.
"Stop," she repeated, "He is right--the liquor evil is one of the
worst curses of modern civilization, and if General Grant leaves,
so do I."
Mrs. van der Griff hesitated for an instant, and then suddenly
forced a smile.
"Why Ella dear, of course General Grant is right," said she, for
it was well known in financial circles that her husband, Mr. van
der Griff, had recently borrowed heavily from Ella's uncle.
"There will not be a drop of wine served to-night, and now
General, shall we go in to dinner? Will you be so kind as to
lead the way with Miss Rhinelander?" The hostess had recovered
her composure, and smiling sweetly at the guest of honor, gave
orders to the servants to remove the wine glasses.
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