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A BOY'S NIGHT ADVENTURE ON AN UNINHABITED ISLAND. KNOW better, Tom; there's no such thing as a ghost. Is there, Uncle William ?” “TL saw one, many years ago,” replied the gentleman appealed to, between puffs at his cigar. “But you were dreaming, weren't you? Or it was somebody wrapped up in a sheet, wasn’t it?” persisted unbelieving Ned. Uncle William shook his head. “«Twas just as wide awake as Tam at this minute, and it could not have been anybody, for I was the only living person on the island that night.” Ned's eyes grew as large as saucers. “* How old were you then, Uncle William ?” “Twas only a boy, not much older than you and Tom, but I was no soldier, and I wore the gray uniform of the Confederate army.” The other boys, Frank, Gus and Charlie, were crowding around their uncle, as they always did when there was a story on hand. “Tell us all about it, Uncle William, you really must,” cried a chorus of strong, young voices. “Boys, you know I do not like to talk about the war. It is too full of sad recollec tions.” But his nephews were not going to sur render #0 quickly. Take his crutches, Tom,” cried Ned, re moving his uncle’s cigar. “He can’t run away on one foot.” **Let me see, how shall I begin my story? I can’t say ‘Once upon a time,” as they do in the fairy tales.” “You are not going to tell a ghost story in the dark, are you, Uncle William ?” asked Charlie, the youngest of the boys, with a little shiver. **“You don’t call this in the dark, with the full moon glittering on the waves of the Mississippi Sound, just in front of us, do you, Charlie? But I shall want a light at the beginning of my story to point out the places on the map. You boys are pretty well acquainted with the geography of the country around here, for you have rowed all about it in the boat, but I like to be strictly accurate, so, Tom, hold a light while I show you the exact locality in which this occurred.” Seven curious faces bent over the map of Mobile and vicinity, which Mr. Butler drew from his pocket. ‘ “Look down here on the western shore of the lower part of Mobile Bay. Do you see how Fowl river divides Mon Louis Island from the mainland? You see how Heron Bay again divides the southeastern portion? Well, that narrow strip at the end of the eastern strip is Cedar Point, the scene of my ghost story. ‘Southeast of Cedar Point and separated from it by Mississippi Sound, you see Dau phin Island, and on its eastern extremity is Fort Gaines. Just across the waters of Mo bile Bay, where they run into the Gulf of Mexico, is Fort Morgan, built at the point of a long, narrow strip of land, extending from the eastern shore of Mobile Bay. “Just below the forts Admiral Farragut had his fleet of United States iron-clad ves sels anchored. It was his intention to cap ture these forts, and then to take the city of Mobile. You can read in your history how he succeeded. You can move the lamp now, Tom ; I do not need it. ** There was no telegraphic communication at that time in the year 1864 between these forts and Mobile, and of course it was highly important that the ‘Confederate troops and gunboats in the city and bay should be accurately informed of the move ments of the Federal fleet. So they estab lished a signal corps, which conveyed mes sages from point to point by means of differ ent-colored flags in the day, and by torches at night. “The progress of the fleet would be tele graphed thus from Fort Morgan to Fort Gaines, thence to Cedar Point and from that place to the troops stationed on the coast of Fowl River Bay, who would send couriers on horseback along a country road to Mobile, about thirty miles distant, with any import ant intelligence they might learn. “It was considered rather a difficult mat ter to learn this alphabet of fire, but I caught it right away—two waves to the right for A, two to the left for B and soon. The captain of my company looked amazed when I, a mere boy, stepped up to him and asked to be examined for the signal corps. I stood the test splendidly, he said, and was immediately assigned to the position at Cedar Point, “I shall never forget how lonely. I felt when the merry voices of the soldiers, who had rowed me over to Cedar Point, died away in the distance, as they returned to their command, and I felt that I was alone on Mon Louis island. There had been some poor white people living there, but our Con federate troops had made them leave, fearing they might prove traitors to our cause and convey some intelligence to the Federal fleet in the Gulf that would prove advantageous to them when they began their attack on the forts. * ‘There was an old, abandoned hut that I took for my headquarters, I put my mat tress on my cot, hung my mosquito bar and arranged my scanty possessions with what little neatness and taste the circumstances rendered possible. ‘‘ Looking back to that time, I am puzzled to know why I was sent there alone, as I was so young. Perhaps the captain did not think how lonely I should be, or maybe he wanted to test my courage. The next day a soldier was sent as my companion, but that first night I was as desolate as Adam in the Garden of Eden. “I cooked my miserable supper in a fry ing pan on an open fire that I built in the hut. The bread was made of corn meal in which there were husks and half grains of corn. The coffee was made of parched peanuts and was sweetened with sorghum molasses. I singed the bacon in frying it. There was a fine bed of plant oysters just outside the door in Heron bay, but I had not learned to eat them raw, and did not take the trouble to cook them. ‘‘T was not accustomed to better rations at that time, but perhaps it was my own poor cooking that made the meal lay heavily on my conscience. To avert nightmare and to escape the swarm of mosquitoes attracted by the light in my hut I strolled out into the gathering darkness. There was only one place where I could walk and that was on the military road formed of oyster shells, which led to where the land terminated at the southern point of the island. On either side of the way lay a swamp overgrown with canes and bushes, and it was not Put to reflect that there might be hidden there, moon, for there was a halo around it. Ob jects at a little distances looked hazy and in distinct. I was stepping along briskly, whistling away, when I happened to glance towards the left of the road, and there, standing in the shadow of one of those huge, moss-draped cedars, I saw something that made my blood run cold, and every hair of my chi stand upright. The apparition seemed to be a woman. She was furty eight feet tall, and her long, white locks streamed over her neck and shoulders. Her limbs were draped with a snowy dress; her arms were stretched out towards me, and her eyes were fixed upon me with a stony glare. For several minutes I stood rooted to the spot. I wanted to speak, but my dry tongue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth. At length I made a terrible effort and shouted : *“'Madam, are you lost? Can I do anything to assist you ?' ‘Any horrible words that a mad woman could have uttered would have frightened me less than the absolute silence that fol lowed, for I know that this thing must be what I had heard the negroes talk about all my life—a ghost! “*My teeth chattered with cold, although it was a hot night in July, and my knees beat a tattoo against each other. I stood there expecting every minute that those long, white arms would reach out and seize me, “But a ee Bhe stood — as 4 mar’eadstone, glaring at me those stony, terrible eyes. ** At last the stiffness of my limbs relaxed, and I moved away as far from the ghost as the width of the road would permit, looking back all the while to see if she were pur suing. But no; she stood motionless, and I ran hurriedly away, seeking my hut, “I was still under the influence of that ghostly terror when I reached the hut, and threw myself down on my cot. I drew the mosquito bar over me, and lay there a long time before sleep came to make me forget what I had seen. ‘Finally I dozed off, and when I awoke daylight was streaming in through the cracks of my hut. When I had dressed I went out to see if I could find any footsteps besides my own, or if what had frightened me the night before was really an apparition. The ol air of the dawn gave me cour age, and I walked along till I was opposite to the great cedar tree, and there, under its branches with the early rays of the sun streaming over her white hair, stood the great, tall woman I had encountered in the moonlight.” “Why, Uncle William,” cried Charlie, ‘you said she was a ghost, and ghosts don’t show themselves in the daytime.” “This one did, though, Charlie, and I did not feel a bit afraid of her. I marched straight up and took hold of her, and what do you think she was?” “A crazy woman ?” **No, it was a piece of wood made into the shape of a woman. Many years before this time a vessel had been wrecked in a storm, and its figure-head was this great beautiful image of a woman, which was washed by the waves up on the beach of Mon Louis Taland. The people that found it stood it up against the cedar tree, and there it re mained until it frightened me so badly. “I cannot tell you, boys, how much ashamed I felt that I had not had the cour age to walk up to it in the night and find out what it was, for I am fully convinced now that all the so-called ghosts turn out to be something as simple as this one; we are only to be brave enough to investigate em. “Now, boys, give me my crutches and my cigar, for I have told you all I know about ghosts.” Mary M, FRIEND, would have been made happy by kind words and thoughtful care. Metimes the door of his cage was fastened open, and then he would come papes out on his one leg and fly up on our cade oF oulders, and sit there contentedly just as long as he was allowed to,rubbing his feathers cen on our cheeks and whistling his cute little Two or three times a day Mark would make a delightful “find.” His twinkling eyes were ever on the watch for—he knew what. It was on my shoulder that he spent most of his outii and it was my lips that he kept watching for the hemp seed that would some times appear there, peeping ostentational out upon him. Not to stay, though—Mark’s bright eyes and skillful beak made short work of bern seeds, for he was passionately fond of them. He did not hesitate, when I placed one on a tree and prem it back * far - eee o jump up, cling to my lip on and dive he write head in after the seed. Sometimes the feathers tickled and made me cough, which sent him lying across the room. Buot if he had not roi biseeed that he returned to the costae undaunted, and I do believe he enjoyed the fun as much as the rest of us. But he never had more than two or three a day, because they are too heating and fattening to feed freely to any birds, not even to canaries. Many a pet canary has died from having had too many .. They beat the blood and disorder the bowels. Make a note of this, children, and don’t kill your pets with mistaken kindness. It is the fashion among bullfinches to make Presents to those they love. These presents are rather odd ones, to be sure. Some lofty minded folks might despise them, if they look only to the intrinsic value of the gifts they receive. A very poor way that is, in my opinion, Bullfiggles industriously pick up all the threads and ravelings they can find, and carry them in triumph to their best friend as a love token. Our little cripple, true to the tradi tions of his family, tried hard to carry them out. He went hopping over the carpet and fenee up more bits of thread than one would are supposed could be found in a well-kept room. But his helpless leg played him sad tricks. It got tangled in the threads and threw him down over and over again. But he would flutter up just as often and try his brat to hop along with his treasure, and he usually succeeded, with some kindly help from his friends. And no matter how many times he got trip up on the way he never stopped his merry whistle, nor a coaxing cry that all the bullfinches have, like Co-me-he-ere, co-me he-ere! In fact, he seemed to think it was rather funny, a part of the programme, and the more he rolled over the more he whistled and puffed out his feathers and tugged at his bundle of threads. After a while he got apart enough to hop sideways and backwards, then he did not get tripped up quite so often. We all loved little Mark, merry little Mark. No one could help it. No one wanted to help it, to tell the truth. But by and by our pet went the way of all pets. A careless servant left the window open one cold day and the wind blew on him. Then he dropped and faded away, but his merry whistle was kept up to the last. He was merry Mark Tapley to the very last hour of his life, though his voice grew weak and hoarse. Yes, we all loved that little bird. He taught us a beautiful lesson of patient cheerfulness under misfortune. Those bright eyes closed, that merry whistle grew still, years ago, but not one of us has forgotten our dear, cheer ful Mark Tapley. Heiten HARCOURT.
Newspaper Details
Philadelphia Times
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, US
Sun, Apr 27, 1890
Page 15
Full Page
Clipped by
Jenni G.
USA 14 Jul 2026
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