a pencil from his pocket and began to write

"Maw when you git this i will be out of Mums. if you want to no why ask Pensee. if she dont no she will fore long. dont you let dad go huntin after me. i dont no where i will be, but im going to stay away till this lie about me and Pensee is stopt."

Five minutes later Molly saw the light slip off the cherry trees. Thinking Rudge had gone to bed, she sadly picked her way back into the path and

"I

I.

came to a small shack with a burlesque rail fence surrounding it. The bright moonlight enabled me to distinguish a rude door. Scarce hoping to find such a hovel inhabited, I pounded lustily upon the boards, and shouted salutations in various tongues and keys. At last, to my huge satisfaction, I heard unmistakable signs of life within. For several minutes, however, I had to continue my boisterous

summons.

"Is-is-is anybody dar?' finally came in muffled accents from inside the hut, coz if dar is, he better done go away lively, or old Bill Mose gwine to blow him inter de middle ob nex' week wid a shotgun.'

"I had to enter upon a most lengthy argument with the old negro, and shove my hand under the door for him to feel, before he would consent to admit me.

"Didn't know but you might be some ob dat gallus sojer crowd come bodderin' roun',' he cackled tremulously, while ushering me inside of his small and very far from cleanly abode. 'Sometimes dey do go galivantin' all over mah patch, an' worrit ole Bill Mose tremenjus.'

"Soldier crowd? I queried amazedly, wondering if the old negro might be insane. Dose dah sojer folkses 'round Redcoat's Road.'

"Yes.

"I did not know that there were any soldiers nearer than Halifax.' "Dese yere not libe sojers. Deys ghostesses!'

"This seemed to prove the insane theory, and I hastily changed the subject by asking him to pilot me townward.

"Now? No, sah,' he replied vigorously,' wait till mornin' an' I'm gwine in myself. But dis yere ole Bill Mose don't cross no Redcoat Road in dah moonlight, foh all dah money eber was made.'

Strange to relate the old fellow utterly refused to be moved from his determination. But I finally compromised. It appeared that his objections only lay to actually crossing what I understood to be a thoroughfare called Redcoat Road. As this, according to his account, was more than half-way in towards the town, and as I could readily do the balance of the distance unassisted, I managed to prevail upon him to accompany me so far.

"Dis Redcoat Road,' continued

old Bill, entirely of his own accord, as we walked along, ain't much ob a road at all, and dats what makes it so gulgouslike.' (Old Bill's English was most original.) Nobody knows whah it comes from nor gwine to, neidder,' he continued, but, anyway, dese yere sojer ghostesses uses it reg'lar-specially on moony nights.'

Have

"What do they look like? you ever seen them close at hand?' I queried, more to pass away the time than anything else.

"Seen dem? Shuah! Dis ole Bill Mose seen dem more dan a thousan' thousan' times, an' as clo'cest as I am o you now. Dey ride in fine coaches, one after annuder, dah hosses jist jumpin' up an' down like hoppin' cats. Dah genel'men is dressed in red coats wid swords an' gold lace an' things mighty gay. And dah ladies-dah ladies all in silks an' satins, wid diimons an' socktossles jist scrumpschious: But dah road

"I could no longer restrain my mirth. The new word 'socktossles,' and the comical seriousness of 'ole Bill Mose were too much for me. I laughed out loud.

"Dats jist dah way dah sojer folksess done carry on,' resumed my aged companion grimly, only when dey laff, it jist make yah creepy-like all ober.

I reckon a ghost laff is diff'runt from a libe pusson's. 'Sides, its jist pow'rful scary to see dem coaches full ob ladies an' genelmens go galivantin' 'long through dah woods jist as if dey was acomin' from--'

“Ifit is a real road, it must surely be somewhere,' I remarked.

"T'aint no road yah kin see, leastway, only jist what might hab been a road oncest. But, bless yer! dose ghost coaches and hosses don't need any reg'lar road. Y'kin look right through an' through de hull passel ob dem. Dey don't stop for no trees, nor nuthen. Dey-bless-de-good-Lord-forall-His-mercies !-Here dey are acomin' now-listen!'

"What? Where?' I ejaculated, astonished at the continued earnestness of my guide, who had sunk to his

knees, and was pointing one long, lean finger towards a spot some few hundred feet ahead of us.

"Kin yah make out dat big gum tree?' went on the old negro, in a sort of awed whisper, which gradually increased to a species of howl, as he continued: 'Dat tree am d'reckly in dah centre ob Redcoat Road. Hark! Duz yah hea dah wheels a-rollin' an' a-creakin', an' dah hosses a-snortin' an' a gallopin'? . . . . Here dey come. . . Look, Massa, look! . . . . One, two, three, fouh-fibe. Fibe coaches all shiny an' goldy-like! Dat big fouh hoss one allus goes ahead. . . See dah sojer folksess in dah redcoats an' big swords? . . . . What did I done tole you 'bout dem? Ain't dey gay? . . . Dat team allus done shy ober at dat big gum. . . . Reckon dey like to scart dah ladies. .'. Dah is missus dat allus smiles so, pertyain't she!

"I leaped towards that big gum tree, as old Bill called it, in about two bounds. Upon each side, and extending as far as I explored in both directions, were deep furrows which might have been the ruts of an old waggon road. But if it ever was such a thing, it must have been years ago, for the whole was overgrown with trees, and many of them were even greater in girth than the big gum. That I saw a long procession of old-fashioned, lowhung coaches, filled with gentlemen and ladies, attired in the elaborate military and civilian costumes of the eighteenth century, bowling merrily along through the woods, careless alike of obstructing trees and the incongruity of their surroundings, is, of course, utterly absurd. But, between the eloquence of old Bill Mose, the moonlight, and my own highly excited frame of mind, I could readily have imagined almost anything."

II.

EXTRACTS FROM "WANDERINGS IN

BLUENOSELAND."

"Close up there, men!" "No straggling! "Forward all!"

These and similar orders were being voiced at frequent intervals by haggardlooking officers.

It was a cheerless day in late autumn. The cold rain fell in drenching torrents. A regiment of soldiers was marching down Broadway. Not the palace-bordered thoroughfare of the present, however, but the crude street of colonial times.

The troops were followed and surrounded by a crowd of wildly excited civilians. The behaviour of those latter ran the whole gamut of human emotions. Women held young babes aloft and sobbed a tearful farewell to bronzed veterans. Others, giving no heed to their squalling infants, threw handfuls of mud and even rocks at the marching column; and howled derisive epithets into the very ears of the sullen men. Here and there whitehaired patriarchs invoked blessings upon their departing sons. Others,

however, were calling down the vengeance and wrath of Heaven upon individual malefactors. Half-naked children scuttled about, cheering, reviling, or simply screaming, as the whim suited.

The silken flags of the regiment, carried along in the centre of the column, hung all limp and lifeless from their crown-topped poles; but the rents and tears made by the bullet-hails, could easily be distinguished. The men were uniformed in no very regular fashion, but bright scarlet jackets and white leather belts predominated. Upon some parts of their equipment were the letters "L.N.Y.L.I."

In many ways this little historic pageant was a uniquely sad one.

It took place on the 25th day of November, 1783. On that date the rear guard of Sir Guy Carleton's army evacuated New York. Among this general's troops were many bodies of American-born soldiers. Of such was the Loyal New York Light Infantry,

The acknowledgment of the Independence of the United States by Great Britain brought joy and peace to many thousands of American households; but it also shattered or partially

destroyed no inconsiderable number. The Loyal New York Light Infantry, as well as other similar organizations, were forced to expatriate themselves.

"Good-bye, mother," shouted a tall sergeant, bravely waving his shakoo towards a window, wherefrom a silverhaired matron leaned outward, unmindful alike of pelting rain and the great tear-drops slowly following one another down her cheeks.

"Your cousin vows that you shall see the Stars and Stripes floating from the tall flagstaff on the beach before your boats are many rods from shore," remarked a gossip rather sneeringly to a young ensign who marched upon the left flank of the column.

"He does," growled the officer between his teeth. "Perhaps we can disappoint him that much."

"It is hard indeed to be parted from you thus," sobbed a pale wife, struggling along beside her soldier husband.

"I know it, Ann; I know it," he replied, striving to comfort her with his strong right arm, "but the transports will be dangerously overloaded as it is. We are promised that other shipping will soon arrive to bring all that care to away. Then you can join me, and together we will make another happy happy home in the new country."

"Whither away, Charles," jauntily cried a foppish-looking young man, addressing an officer, whose insignia declared him a major in the Royal service. The major's sword arm was in a sling, and his cheek showed the

scar of a recent bullet wound.

"I understand that the 2nd Massachusetts are in the advance of General Washington's line," eagerly queried the officer, without paying any attention to the supercilious air of the other. "Is it so?"

"Yes," replied the civilian, "together with some artillery and infantry of the Continental Army.".

"Would it be asking too much to

Arrived at the shore, there was considerable delay incidental to the embarkation. A young ensign slowly and laboriously ascended the tall staff from which the banner of England still waved. In the bustle and confusion of the moment, however, his actions excited but slight notice. Not till the noise of hammering was heard aloft was any great attention paid to him. Then it could be seen that he was engaged in firmly nailing the big flag to the staff.

"A foolish act, young sir," commented the old colonel harshly, and yet with a certain degree of sadness in his tones, when the ensign descended to earth once more with his task accomplished.

"My mother's sister's son will find it no easy thing to have that down and the American banner in its place before we are out of sight," cried the young officer to a throng of applauding comrades.

The future of the Loyal New York Light Infantry had been settled for them by the too-late generosity of the British Government. In common with the great bulk of the other loyalist troops, they were to be disbanded and given grants of land in that part of

America still remaining to the Crown. After various vicissitudes and adventures, which need not be, enumerated here, the regiment and its followers finally settled upon a beautiful, though still entirely primitive, spot near the easternmost extremity of Nova Scotia. With much pomp and state, salutes of artillery, and other ceremonials, they took up their abode.

These soldier-colonists were far different from the bulk of those religionists, adventurers, and traders who first settled upon the shores of the New World. Their officers were men of considerable education, and in most cases had formerly held commissions in the regular army. Even the rank and file was mainly composed of young men of gentle birth, who had left comfortable city homes in order to fight for what they considered to be the right cause. The years of campaigning had long sapped out whatever mercantile or dogmatic instincts they had formerly possessed. The regiment had become inured to the practice of arms, and knew no other trade so well.

When it came to founding a settlement, they modelled it upon the plan, as nearly as could be, of their native city. Broad streets, alternating with narrow lanes, public squares, governmental sites, fortifications, even a navy yard, were plotted and staked out in the midst of this howling wilderness. Rude structures of logs arose, where, later on, goodly piles of brick and masonry were intended to be placed. Shiploads of furniture and upholsterings came out from England, and the richest products of the European looms brushed against the virgin mosses of the forest. What with back pay, bounty money, and the lavishly-provided governmental supplies, the new colony was fairly bubbling over with prosperity.

With all the prejudice of rank and class, several of the field officers of the Loyal New York Light Infantry had chosen a site some miles distant from the main town for their own peculiar estate. They had caused to be there erected the most elaborate residences of which

cut

the rough building material was capable. Also, a good road was through the thick woods that intervened, and the huge lumbering coaches soon wore deep ruts between Stormont -as the little suburb was called-and the main settlement.

Although no longer officially in existence, yet such was the force of past discipline, that, at regular intervals, the regiment paraded as of yore, and went through accustomed evolutions to the awe and bewilderment of curious red-skinned aborigines. It is true that after some few years both ranks and officers were scanty in number, and once brilliant uniforms and accoutrements sadly worn and bedraggled; but the shot-torn colours and the fierce old white-haired colonel remained constant. After each of these functions, the aged warrior would tenderly place the regimental flags within his satin-lined vehicle and trundle back to his big log mansion at Stormont.

It can readily be imagined that there was much social commerce between the officers resident in the two settlements. Scarcely a fine night passed but what the lumbering carriages went back and forward on the Stormont road, carrying belles and beaux attired in all the costly bravery of their times. Stately dinner parties alternated with more trivial dancing assemblages; lovers broke and exchanged vows; social ambitions fought out all their insidious campaigns, and the elegance and puerility of the then society was reproduced on a petty scale, where some short while before had been but lonely forest trees and redskins' wigwams.

But fate had more trials and tribulations in store for these joyous settlers. After a year or two the governmental

supplies were no longer available. The colony was left to work out its own destiny. The result would have been a foregone conclusion to any shrewd man of the world. These soldier-settlers knew little of agriculture, not very much about fishing, and rather less of commerce. Their efforts in these directions were persistent, but without skill, and therefore well-nigh unavailing. When back pay and bounty money gave out, something very much like starvation stared them in the face, despite their luxuriant surroundings. Many, in desperation, fled with their wives and families to more hospitable climes.

The last parade of the Loyal New York Light Infantry was held at midnight, when the old colonel was buried. His grave is near the site of his own house. Old Micmac Indians have told of the three volleys fired and the dull rattle of the muffled drums. After that, the regiment scattered far and wide. The colours were never seen again.

In the fall of 1811 a most terrific gale of wind swept over the province. Among other damage it blew down many trees along the Stormont road, which made that thoroughfare impasable for wheeled vehicles. These obstructions were never cleared away, and the buildings at Stormont, as well as most of those at the main settlement, soon became untenanted, and in due course left only hollows in the ground to show where they once had stood.

In a lonely grave among the thickgrowing fir trees of that place, once called Stormont, lie the two crowntopped poles, which in by-gone days bore the colours of a New York redcoated regiment through many a hardfought field.