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TfiE UPPER DBS MOlNESi ALGONA, IOWA WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 23. 1808, REFUSING A A Bally. Little folks, come marching forth. Little feet, keep time, In the east and west and north. And the southern clime. Lay your lesson-books away. Leave your sums undone, We must celebrate today Brave George Washington. Little yet you understand All his worth and truth, Only know he saved the land, (Faithful from his youth. ENERAL WASHINGTON wanted a man. It was in September, 1776, at the city of New York, a few days after the battle of Long Island. The swift and deep East River flowed between the two hostile armies, and General Washington had as yet no system established for getting information of the enemy's movements and Intentions. He never needed such information so much as at that crisis. What would General Howe do next? If he crossed at Hell Gate, the American army, too small in numbers, and defeated the week before, might be caught on Manhattan Island as in a trap, and the issue' of the contest might be made to depend upon a single battle: for in such circumstances defeat would involve the capture of the whole army. And yet General Washington was compelled to confess: "We can not learn, nor have we been able to procure the least information of late." Therefore he wanted a man. He wanted an intelligent man, cool-headed, skillful, brave, to cross the East River to Long Island, enter the enemy's c&mp, and get information as to his strength and intentions. Ho went to Colonel Knowlton, commanding a remarkably efficient regiment from Connnecticut, and requested him to ascertain if this man so sore needed could be found in his command. Colonel Knowlton called his officers together," stated the wishes of General Washington, and, without urging the enterprise 'upon any individual, left the matter to their reflections. Captain Nathan Hale, a brilliant youth of 21, recently graduated from Yale college, was one of those who reflected upon the subject. He soon reached a conclusion. He was of the very flower of the young men of New England, and one of the best of the younger • soldiers of the patriot army. The officers were conversing in a group. No one had as yet spoken the decisive word. Colonel Knowlton appealed to a French sergeant, an old soldier of former wars, and asked him to volunteer. "No, no," said he. "I am ready to fight the British at any place and time, but I do not feel willing to go among them to be hung up like a dog." Captain Hale joined the group of officers. He said to Colonel Knowlton: "I will undertake it." Some of his best friends remonstrated. One of them, afterwards the famous Gen. William Hull, then a captain in Washington's army, haa recorded Hale's reply to his own attempt to dissuade him: "I think," said Hale, "I owe to my country tho accomplishment of an object so important. I am fully sensible of the consequences of discovery and capture in such a situation. But for a year I have been attached to the army, and have not rendered any material service, while receiving compensation for which I make no return. I wish to be useful, and every kind of service necessary for the public good becomes honorable by being necessary." He spoke, as General Hull remembered with earnestness and decision, as one who had considered the matter well, and had made up his mind. Having received his instructions, he traveled fifty miles along the Sound as far as Norwalk, in Connecticut. One who saw him there made a very wise remark upon him, to the effect that he was "too good looking" to go as a spy. He could not deceive. "Some scrubby fellow ought to have gone." At Norwalk he assumed tho disguise of a Dutch schoolmaster, putting on a suit of plain brown clothes and a round quarter^ at the Beekmaii mansion, on the East Rivet, near the corner of the present Fifty-first street and First avenue. It la a strange coincidence that this house to which he was brought to be tried as a spy was the verj one from which Major Andre departed when he went to West Point. Tradition says that Captain Hale was examined In a greenhouse which then stood in the garden of the Beekman mansion. Short was his trial, for he avowed at once his true character. The British general signed an order to his provost marshal directing him to receive into his custody the prisoner convicted as a spy, and to see him hanged by the neck "tomorrow morning at daybreak." Terrible things are reported of the manner in which this noble prisoner, this admirable gentleman and hero, was treated by his jailor and executioner. There are savages in eve/y large army, and it is possible that this provost marshal was one of them. It is said that he refused him writing materials, and afterwards, when Captain Hale had been furnished them by others, destroyed before his face his last letters to his mother and to the young lady to whom he was engaged to bo married. As those letters were never received, this statement may be true. The other alleged horrors of the execution it is safe to disregard, because we know that it was conducted in the usual form and in the presence of many spectators and a considerable body of troops. One fact shines out from the distracting confusion of that morning, which will be cherished to the latest posterity as a precious ingot of the moral treasures INTERNATIONAL PRESS ASSOCIATION of the American people. When asked if he had anything to say, Captain Hale replied: "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country!" The scene of his execution was probably an old graveyard in Chambers street, which was then called Barrack street. General Howe formally notified General Washington of the execution. In recent years, through the Industry of investigators, the pathos and sublimity of these events have been in part revealed. A few years ago a bronze statue of the young hero was unveiled In the New York City Hall Park. It is greatly to be regretted that our knowledge of this noble martyr is so slight; but we know enough to be sure that he merits the veneration of his coua- trymen. THE WAIF. I AM READY TO FIGHT. He had been educated for the ministry, and his motive for adopting for a time the profession of arms was purely patriotic. This we know from the familiar records of his life at the time when the call to arms was first heard. In addition to his other gifts and graces, he was handsome, vigorous and athletic, all In an extraordinary degree. If he had lived in our day be might have pulled the stroke oar at New London, or pitched for th« "I ONLY REGRET THAT I HAVE ONE LIFE TO LOSE." broad brimmed hat. He had no difficulty in crossing the Sound, since he bore an order from General Washington which placed at his disposal all the vessels belonging' to congress. For several days everything appears to have gone well with him, and there is reason to believe that he passed through the entire British army without detection or even exciting suspicion. Finding the British had crossed to New York, he followed them. He made his way back to Long Island, and nearly reached the point opposite Norwalk, where he had originally landed. Rendered, perhaps, too bold by success, he went into a well known and popular tavern, entered into conversation with the guests, and made himself very agreeable. The tradition is that he made himself too agreeable. A man present, suspecting or knowing that he was not the character he bad assumed ietly left the room, com- municateu ais suspicions to the captain of a British boat anchored near, who dispatched a boat's crew to capture and bring on board the agreeable stranger. His true character was immediately revealed. Drawings of some of the British works, with notes in Latin, were found hidden in the soles of bis shoes. Nor did he attempt to deceive his captors, and the English captain, lamenting, as he said, that "so fine a fellow bad fallen into his power," sent him to New York in one of his boats, and with him the fatal proofs that be was a spy. September 21st was the day on which he reached New York—the day of the great fire which laid one-third of the little city in ashes. From the time of his departure from General Washington's camp to that of his return to New York was about fourteen days. Be v aa tafcsa to General Stewe'e bead' Teddy was hurrying across the snowy field to get the milk on Washington's birthday morning. He hit the bright tin cans together as he skipped along, but stopped the clink, clink, clink when he came to a great high drift which stood beside the long stone wall. This great high drift was a very funny drift indeed, for it had a large, deep hole in one side of it; the side that was sheltered by the stone wall. Teddy stopped to have a peep Into this hole and then he said "Oh!" very loud, for what do you guess he spied curled up In the corner? A bear? Oh, no, indeed. Teddy lived in the country, to be sure, but it wasn't a bear for all of that! It was only a very thin, little, shaggy brown dog, who opened his eyes and stretched his cold paws and jumped up and ran to say, "How do you do?" to the astonished little boy. Teddy patted him and doggie wagged his tail and lapped Teddy's bright red mittens over and over again, he was so glad to see him. And then over the wall and into the barn hurried Teddy with the little brown dog close at his heels. "That dog's been around the village for 'most a week," said Mr. Hlnes, as he poured the milk into Teddy's cans. "He's a stray one, I reckon. • Must have gone into that hole to get out of the wind. Why don't you keep him, Teddy?" And that's just exactly what Teddy did do. He kept him for his very own, for nobody claimed him when Teddy's CHAPTER XXIX.— "What is that to you?" said ho roughly. "I have many things to do which you cannot understand." "And there are things which I can understand," returned Marjorle quietly. Then she showed him the letter which she had received, and asked calmly, "Is this true?" Caussidlere took the letter and read It with a scowl; when he had done so he tore it up and scattered the pieces on the floor. "Leon," said Marjorie, "is it true?" "Yes," he returned. "My friend, Mademoiselle Seraphine, is entertaining and my wife is not; when a man has a little leisure, he does not seek the society of the dullest companion of his acquaintance." He quietly went on eating his breakfast, as if the subject were at an end. For a while Marjorie watched him, her face white as death; then she went to him and knelt at his feet. "Leon," she said, in a low, trembling voice, "let us forget the past; maybe It has been my fault; but, indeed, I never meant it, dear. I have been so lonely and so sad, and I have been kent apart from you because I thought you wished it, and—yes—because you sometimes seemed so angry that I grew afraid!" She tried to take his" hand, but ho thrust her aside. "Do you think this is the way to win me back?" he said: "it is more likely to drive me away, for, look you, I dislike scenes and I have business which demands that I keep cool. There, dry your eyes and let me finish my meal in peace." At that time nothing more was said, but once he was free of the house, Caussidiere reflected over what had taken place. He was- in sore trouble as to what he must do. To abandon Marjorie meant abandoning the goose which laid him golden eggs, for without the supplies which Miss Hetherington sent to her daughter, where would Caussidiere be? I One afternoon, as he was n.b.>ut to return home in no very amiable frame of. mind, an incident occurred which aroused in his mind a feeling not exactly of jealousy, but of lofty moral indignation. He saw, from the window of a shop where he was making a purchase, Marjorie and little Leon pass by in company with a young man whom he recognized at a glance. He crept to the door, and looked after papa advertised, "A dog found," in the village newspaper. Teddy named his pet Washington because he found him on George Washington's birthday. A very long name for such a little dog, isn't, it? But doggie seems to like it, and he is as happy as he can be in his new home. "You must be a very, very good dog, always!" declared Teddy the next morning, when he gave him his break- them, scarcely able to believe his eyes. Yes, it was real! There were Marjorie and little Leon walking side by side with young Sutherland, his old bete noir from Scotland. Half an hour later, when he reached home, he found Marjorie tjuietly seated in the salon. "Leon!" cried Marjorie, startled by his manner, "is anything the mutter?" He did not answer, but glared at her with growing fury. She repeated her question. He was still silent. Then, as she nat trembling, he rose, crossed over, and put his llcrce face close to hers. "Let me look at you. Yes, I see! You are like your mother, the " He concluded with an epithet too coarse for transcription. She sprang up, pale as death. "What have I done?" she cried. "Do you think I am a fool—blind? Do you think I do not know who it is you go to meet out thero? Speak! Answer! How often have you met him?" And he shook his clinched fist in hor face, "Do you mean my old friend, Johnnie Sutherland?" she returned, trembling. "Oh, Leon, I was so glad to see him; he is so kind—I have known him so long. I saw him one day by chance, and since then "Yet you said nothing to me!" "It was often on my tongue, but I was afraid. Oh, Leon, you are not angry with me for speaking to an old friend?" The answer came, but not in words. Uttering a fierce oath, and repeating the savage epithet he had used before, he struck her in the face with all his force, and she fell bleeding and swooning upon the floor. Caussidiere caught his breath nnd tv very ugly look came into his eyes; the man was none other than the one whom he had strictly forbidden his wife to see—John Sutherland! After a momentary hesitation he entered the house and* walked straight to the sitting-room, where he found Marjorie. She had been crying. At sight of her husband she dried her eyes, but she could not hide her sorrow. "What are you crying for?" he asked roughly. "It is nothing, Leon," she returned. "It's a lie; you can't deceive me as well as defy me." "Defy you!" "Yes, defy me. Didn't I forbid you ever again to seek the company of that accursed Scotchman?" "Yes," she returned, quietly, "and I obeyed you. I saw him onco again to tell him we must not meet—that was all." "I tell you you are a liar!" Her face flushed crimson. "Leon,".she said, "think of tha child; say what you pleaso to me, but let us be alone." She took the frightened child by the hand, and was about to lead him from the room, when Caussidiere interposed. "No," he said; "I shall say. what I please to you, and tho child shall remain. I tell you you are a liar— that man was here today—don't trouble yourself to deny it; I saw him leave tho house." "I do not wish to deny it," she returned. "Yes, he was here." The tears had come into her oyes again; she passed her arm around the shoulders of the boy, who clung tremblingly to her. "Why was he here?" continued Caus- sidiere, furiously. "He came here to say gooclby. He is going to Scotland—his father is dying." She bowed her head and laid her lips on the forehead of her child. "Why did you not go with him?" . She raised her head and looked at him with weary, sorrowful eyes. "Why did I not go?" she said. "Att, Leon, do not ask me that—is it the duty of a wife to leave her husband and her child?" "Her husband!" he said, with a sneer. "Ah, well, since you are ceased to put it so, your husband gives you permission, and for the brat, why, you may take him, too." "Leon!" "Well?" "What do you mean?" "What I say, mon amie, I generally do!" "You wish me to leave you?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I think you would be better in Scotland, and I should be better free." Again she looked at him in wonder. What did it all mean? She could not believe that he was speaking the truth. He had been dining perhaps, and drinking too much wine—as he had done so often of late—and ho did not know what he said. Perhaps it would not be well for her to provoke him, she thought, so she said nothing. She turned from her husband, toolc littlb Leon in her arnm.and tried to soothe him, for the child was trembling with fenr. But Caussidiere was not to be sil- er.ced. "Did you hear what I said?" he asked. "Yes, Leon, I heard." "Then heed!" She rose from her seat, still keeping the child in her arms, and again moved toward the door. "Let me put Leon to bed," she said; "he is very tired; then I will come back and talk to you." "You will talk to me now, madame. Put the child down. I tell you it will be better for you if you do as I say." "To do what, Leon?" she demanded, with quivering lips and streaming heft* the truth from mft. Yott ftfe •wife of mine!" . . "Not your wife!" ehe C«M. __ "Certainly not. My mistress, if yottj please, who has been suffered fof «.> time to wear my naine; that la all." | She sprang up as If shot through th6 heart, and faced hint, pale as death. I "We are married! We stood togetn* er before the altar, Lean. I have fitf.j marriage lines." i "Which are so much waste paper^ my dear, here In Franca!" Sick with horror and fear, she tottered to him and clutched him by the arm. "Leon! once more: «vhat do yoU ( mean?" I "My meaning is very simple," ho re-, plied; "the marriage of an Emglish* woman with a French citizen Is no marriage unless the civil ceremony has also been performed in France. Now* do you understand?" "I am not your wife! Not your wife!" cried Marjorie, stupefied. "Not here in France," answered Caussidiere. "Then the child— our child?" "Trouble not yourself about him,"' was the reply. "If you are reasonable he can easily be legitimatized according to our laws; but nothing on earth can make us two man and wife so long as I remain on French soil." , He added coldly: "And I have no intention of again expatriating myself, I assure you." It was enough. Dazed'and mystified as she was, Marjorie now understood plainly the utter villainy of the man with whom she had to deal. She had neither power nor will for further words. She gave one long despairing, horrified look into the man's face, and then, drawing the child with her, staggered into the inner room and closed the door behind her. Caussidlero remained for some time in his old position, frowning gloomily. For the moment he almost hated himself, as even a scoundrel can do upon. occasion; but he thought of Seraphine and recovered his self-possession. He walked to tho door, and listened; all was still, save a low murmuring sound, as of suppressed sobbing. He hesitated a moment; then, setting his lips tight, he lifted his hat and quietly descended the stairs. #*»**** When the great clock of our Lady of Paris chimed forth five, Marjorie still sat in her room staring vacantly ^ into the grate. The room was bitterly cold; the light of the candle was growing dim before the more cheerless light of dawn; the last spark of fire had died away; ana the child, wearied with fatigue and fear, slept soundly in her arms. Marjorie, awakening from her trance, was astonished to see the dawn breaking, and to hear the chiming clocks announce that another day had begun. She looked for a moment into the child's face, and as she did so her body trembled, and her eyes filled with, tears. "My poor little boy!" she sobbed; "my poor little Leon!" She laid him gently on t'ne bed, and let him sleep on. Then she tried to collect her thoughts, and to determine what she must do. "Go back to Scotland?" No, she could not do that. She could not face her old friends with this shame upon her, and show them the child who should never have been born. From that day forth she must be dead to them. What she could not undo she. must conceal. (TO UK CONTINUED.) TEDDY. fast. And Washington wagged hia fringy tall and said, "Bow, I'll try."— Margaret Dane. No Benson to Hune Hack. "Come and take lunch with me today," said one business man to another. "I can't. I've an appointment." "Can't you break it?" "No, a man haa promised to come to my office at noon and pay me some money." "Oh, then, that's all right. I'll order the lunch for two. He Leader. CHAPTER XXX. HE mask of kindness having once fallen, Caussidiere did not think it .worth while to resume it; and from that day forth he completely neglected both Marjorie and her child. The supplies from Miss H e therington having temporarily ceased, Marjorie was no longer necessary to him; indeed, he was longing to be free, and wondering what means he should adopt to obtain bis end. If Marjorie would only leave htm and return to her friend in Scotland the matter would be simple enough, but this she did not seem inclined to do. She thought of her child; for his sake she still clung to the man whom Bbe believed to be her husband. Thus matters stood for a week, when, one day, Caussidiere, whan few yards of bia own door, emerge from it and walk tbj street. eyes. "To go back to your mother; to tell her that we do not agree, or any other nonsense you please, except the truth. We are better apart. We have nothing in common. We belong to different nations — nations which.for the rest, have always hated each other. So let us shake hands and part company — the sooner the better." The mask had fallen indeed! Poor Marjorie read in the man's livid face not merely weariness and satiety, but positive dislike, black almost as hate itself. She clasped her child and uttered a despairing cry. "You can't mean it, Leon! No, no, you don't mean what you say!" she moaned, sinking into a ehair, and covering her face with her hand. "Mamma, mamma!" cried little Leon. "Do not cry." She drew him convulsively to her, and gazed again at Caussidiere. He was standing on the hearth rug, looking at her with a nervous scowl. "It is useless to make a scene," be said. "Understand me onco for all, Marjorie. I want my freedom. I have great work on band, and I cannot pu,i> sue it rightly if encumbered by fore Sheridan as an Orator. After Richard Brisley Sheridan had made his great speech in Westminster Hall, asking for the impeachment of Warren Hastings, Edmund Burke said:. Ho has this day surprised the thour sands who hung with rapture on hia accent, by such an array of talents, such an exhibition of capacity, auch a display of powers as are unparalleled in the annals of oratory; a display that reflected the highest honor on himself, luster upon letters, renown upon parliament, glory upon the country, Of all species of rhetoric, of every kind of eloquence that has been witnessed or recorded, either in ancient or modern times, whatever the acuteness of tho bar, the dignity of the senate, the solidity of the judgment seat and the sacred morality of the pulpit, have htth- erto furnished, -nothing haa equaled what we have this day heard. No holy seer of religion, no statesman, no ora* tor, no man of any literary description whatever, has come up, in one instance, to the pure sentiments of morality; or, in the other, to that variety of knowl*. edge, force of imagination, propriety and vivacity of allusion, beauty nnd. elegance of diction, strength and CO-* piousness of style, pathos and subliw* ity of conception, to which we this, day listened with ardor and adinira-» tion. ••< ! <-«i A Sure Slgu, "When a woman," said the cornfed philosopher, "says that she really be-< lieves she is getting fat, and her bus* band retorts that it is because she eats too much and doesn't do enough, work, it is safe to presume that the honeymoon has ceased to be."—Savannah Bulletin. So SuUUvn. "Mr. TiUinghast left me f50,000," re* marked the interesting widow to young Hilow. "My dear Mra. TiWngbast." replied HilQw, "you should husband ygur reso\jr«ee." "Ob, Frank, dear, tbia, But are you really su,r§ Ida and Ends.