W.N.U. *.<*
♦mvici.
if CJUkHm mUlkf
CHAPTER IV—Continued
“And me, married to Victor Tubbs
for twenty years? You should be
ashamed, Matthew Adam. I don't
believe In divorce; and I wouldn't
marry your brother If I was a
widow woman and he the only male
qrfgture In Pine Itldge. He's got a
fickle nature, Mark Adam has; and
I’ve always said, give me a faithful
man or none at all. Help yoUr
aelf to another slice, Matthew, If
you’re so hungry you have to lick
the frosting off your Ungers. And
then you'd better be starting along
home These young folks will want
to begin unpacking; and If you’ve
got some good, thick cotton stock
ings, Nancy, I advise you getting
into them double quick. Did you
travel SI! the way from Massachu
setts In that dress? It looks real
fresh. If you’ll give me your trunk
key Pd admire to unpack for you."
“No doubt you would," spoke up
Cousin Columbine, “but It’s high
time you were thinking about our
supper, Aurora. Better take more
cake to munch on the way home,
boys; and here’! a couple of dollars
that I owe you.”
"What for?” asked Mark, puzzled
•yea on the proffered money.
“For carting those trunks and us,
yon donkey,” she replied.
“Great thundering prairie dogs!"
exploded Mark. “Do you take us
fbr a pair of gyps. Miss Columbine?
Come on. Matt, we better get going.
The lady wants to pay us for a lit
tle matter of lifting trunks!”
“The cake was pay enough. Miss
Columbine,” Matthew assured her
with a shy smile. “We wouldn’t
tblnk of taking any money. Good
night—er — good night, everybody,”
ne added, and hurrying to escape,
collided with Aurora at the door.
This caused still further confu
sion, the young man apologizing, his
face scarlet; and Aurora demanding
to know why be didn't look where
he was going.
“Land knows I’m not so small he
bad to miss me in the landscape,”
she complained as Matthew van
ished, his ears pink with embar
rassment, a wedge of the precious
cake In band. “If that’s a third
slice of cake you’re cutting for your
self, Mark Adam, you’d better go
easy on your supper or I won’t be
accountable for how you’ll feel come
midnight. That's a rich cake; rlch
•r’n commop because of company. If
you don’t hurry Matthew will get
home first with all the news.”
“Ton sure do speed the parting
guest, Aurora,” he commented, “but
don’t you worry about that news.
I’ll overtake poor Matt before that
cruel blush has had time to subside.
Good-night, Miss Columbine. The
cake was bully.”
There was surely nothing shy
about this young man, thought
Nancy, as he extended,a friendly
hand to all of them (not omitting
Aurora); lifted his third slice of
cake from the platter, and said:
“I’ll drop In tomorrow and see If
you’ve got acclimated.”
To all appearances he was ad
dressing Jack; but his eyes were on
Nancy, and Aurora burst out as tbe
door closed: “I warn you straight
off, Nancy Nelson, that you must
take anything Mark Adam says to
you with a grain of salt He’s as
unreliable as an April snow storm;
And hks broken more Pine Ridge
hearts than anyone On record up to
date. There’s an innocent look
about you that makes me tremble,
and I feel It my duty—”
“Oh, hash ap!” commanded Coasln
Columbine, while Jack found sudden
Interest in the landscape. So Nance
looked innocent! That was ■ good
one I He’d have to write that to
Aunt Judy. And wasn’t it distinctly
understood that there were to be no
boy friends? It was mighty queer
about Cousin Columbine, mused the
boy, still at the window. She was
no more what you’d expect from her
letter than—than Nancy was like
Aurora Tubbs. There was certainly
something to explain here, and—
He wheeled about at a crisp com
mand from this surprising relative.
"Wake up, Jack. Time enough to
get acquainted with Pike's Peak
after you’re settled. I want to show
you your rooms before It gets too
dark. Bring those bags along and
we’ll go right up I dare say you’re
used to electric lights; but lamps
ind candles are all I can provide
you with. The stairs are steep;
but high ceilings were stylish when
father built the mansion, and he
wanted the best There! This Is
the tower room, my dear, and 1 hope
you’ll like It There isn't a Oner
view for miles around.”
However prejudiced Columbine
Plke’a Peak stood out gloriously
clear against the sky.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t It?" breathed
Nancy, truly Impressed. "I—I'm
sure I’m going to love this room."
Cousin Columbine smiled.
“It’s our best, and I'm glad to see
that you appreciate It Jack will
be next to you with only a door be
tween. t slefep downstairs; and as
I stated In my letter, Aurora goes
home at night. Victor Tubbs Is an
invalid, or thinks he is, which
amounts to the same thing, and his
wife has supported him for years;
a state of affairs that satisfies them
both, though It makes me furious.
However, It's none of my business;
and if Aurora wants to work her
fingers to the bone for such a lazy
specimen, why worry, as Mark
Adam would say? Now I’ll leave
you in peace.”
The old lady moved toward the
door, then stopped to add: “If you
need a lamp, the matches are In that
tin box on the wall. Supper's at six
sharp, so Aurora can get home to
feed her precious Victor. There’s
water in the pitcher, but you may
wash in the bathroom If you pre
fer.”
She was gone at last, leaving Nance
rather breathless with instructions.
Jack had departed to his own quar
ters, and the girl stood quite still,
looking about curiously. She had
meant the view, of course, when she
told Cousin Columbine that she
loved the room. Now, sitting down
suddenly on a straight, uncomfort
able "bedroom chair," she wondered
how it was possible to get so many
ugly things Into one place.
The bed I Towering black walnut,
ornately carved. It was cold com
fort to remember that her grandfa
eyes, resting on Pike's Peak, saw
only a closet filled with dancing
frocks, and a white fur wrap that
she had never worn. She had to
wink to keep the tears out of her
eyes as she vowed audibly:
“I'll write tonight and tell Dad
everything. Didn't he say that
homesickness might as well be
fatal? He’ll understand. He’ll send
for me If he has to borrow the money
for the ticket Jack will call me a
slacker, but who cares? I Just can’t
stand It here. I’d almost rather die
than stay. What can there possibly
be to Interest a girl like me In a
dreadful, ramshackle, down-at-the
heel settlement like Pine Ridge, Col
orado?”
Later Nancy was to realise that
as she stood there, oblivious to
everything save self-pity, she hadn't
known what sort of girl she was.
"There’s nothing," observed Jack
from the door of his northeast bed
room, "like good, thick, sirloin
steak to bolster up a morale that’s
slipping. Remember that, 81s."
It was eleven at night, and Nancy,
attired In a wadded dressing gown
of crimson silk, turned from the bu
reau to ask coldly: “May I Inquire
whose morale you have In mind?”
Her brother smiled as he Inves
tigated the patent rocking chair.
“I’m no moron, Nance. I knew
when I found you staring out of the
window In the dusk, that yon were
planning your escape. That’s why
I opened the door Into this frigid
hall. The aroma of broiling steak
was In the air and I felt sure It
would revive that fainting spirit—
stiffen the backbone—stir your pio
neer blood—”
“Hush up,” warned Nancy. “Our
voices will disturb Cousin Colum
bine, and she admitted sitting up to
an unheard of hour. Say I” the girl
came nearer, whispering: “Did you
ever see anything more—more soul
destroying than this room?”
Jack grinned, gesturing with a
thumb toward his own quarters.
“Ton should see mine! Not even
a view, my dear; and It lacks this
handsome walnut furniture!” The
boy’s eyes shone with merriment;
and though she wouldn't have be
lieved such a proceeding possible a
few hours earlier, Nance laughed a
little. She didn't realize that after
a leave of absence her sense of hu
mor was returning, but she knew
that something made her feel bet
ter.
"It was a wonderful supper,
wasn’t It?" she murmured.
“Trust you to appreciate it! And
THE STORY FROM THE BEGINNING
Ruined, Qnanclally. by the stock market crash, James Nelson, Boston
merchant, breaks the news to hi* household. Nance, his daughter, nineteen,
Is on the verge of her Introduction to society. A short time before, an
elderly cousin of Nelson'*, Columbine, ha'd written suggesting that Nance
com* to her at Pine Ridge, Colo., ai a paid companion. The offer had been
regarded as a Joke. Jack, Nancy's seventeen-year-old brother, urges her
to accept Cousin Columbtns's proposition, thus relieving their father of a
certain financial burden, and offering to go with her so that she wjll not
fesl too lonely. The girl does not like the Idea, but agrees that Jack write
to Cousin Columbine, and they will await her answer. Columbine wires
welcome to both of them, and despite some misgivings It Is arranged that
the two phall go. At the railroad station they are welcomed by Cousin
Columblne.lBomewhat dismayed by her unconventional attire and man
nerisms, they realise she has character. The driver of their car Is a young
friend of the old lady. Mark Adam. The desolation (to Nance's city ideas)
of Pine Ridge appalls the girl. The newcomers meet Aurora Tubbs, Cousin
Columbine's cook and housekeeper, and Matthew Adam, Mark's older
brother.
ther had had one almost as hideous
at Edgemere. A bureau to match;
even a washstand, behind which
hung a square of linen to protect
the wallpaper. Hadn’t she heard
somewhere that they were called
“splashers” In the dark ages when
people used such things?
Nancy arose to regard this cu
rious antique on which, embroidered
In red cotton, was an Infant splash
ing happily in a wash bowl, with
the words, “Our Darling,” below It
Horrors! Must she live with this
monstrous baby for months and
months? Must she wash In that bowl
—even brush her teeth into It?
The girl could have wept for her
own tiled dressing room; then re
membered that It was bers no long
er anyway. She turned slowly to
observe a marble-topped table be
tween the windows—a patent rock
ing chair upholstered In flowered
carpet—a shelf above the air tight
stove on which stood two blue vases
apd what appeared to be a mound
of mineral specimens mysteriously
glued together, with a clock In the
center, a silent timepiece now, prob
ably useless save as an “ornament"
Nancy’s eyes lifted to the wall
paper, a nondescript faded tan,
which, she decided, “might be
worse." Bqt the pictures (only two,
thank goodness!) were simply ter
rible ; an oil painting of a deformed
looking kitten playing with a ball
of yarn, and a steel engraving of
General Grant Could anything be
more depressing?
As If to get away from all these
objects, Nance moved to a window,
half sick at thought of the long
weeks ahead. Night was descend
ing, and even the Peak, rising now
against a. gloomy sky, looked austere
and forbidding. All the excitement
of their arrival—the elation she had
felt during the wonderful ride In
Mark Adam’s flivver—her Interest
In this new part of her own coun
try-even the girl’s sense of humor,
were lost In an attack of overwhelm
ing homesickness.
▲unt Louise had been right, she
told herself. They shouldn’t have
come so far. This terrible room!
And what In the world was she go
ing to do with herself when the du
ties that Cousin Columbine Imposed
were finished? There would he
nothing—absolutely no way to kill
time. This thought, pleaspre
loving Nancy Neilop, was appalling
-4»of td be endhrM. Her unhappy
what swell china I I wish Annt Lou
could see It”
“It came from Denver In
18— well elghteen-somethlng-or-oth
er, anyway. There’s a complete din
ner set Imagine choosing that aw
ful green-brown pattern 1 And
Cousin Columbine’s so proud of It
too. How on earth does she re
member the date that everything
was purchased?"
Jack shook his bead, remarking
In muffled tones: “She’s a wonder,
Isn’t she? Who else would have
thought of cooking up that letter as
a—what did she call It? Character
test? You’ve got an awful lot to
live up to, Sis, If you ask me. Hop
Into bed. Til open the windows.
And don't forget that breakfast’s at
seven sharp.”
Sleep did not come quickly to
Nance that night. She lay there
under a patchwork quilt (whose
weight, she wrote Aunt Judy later,
was “almost crushing”), and thought
about the evening that had just
passed. There must be some truth
In Jack's statement regarding the
Sirloin steak. What else could ac
count for her more cheerful frame
of mind?
There was no doubt that Aurora
could cook a steak; and with un
expected tact. Jack had done most
of the talking, leaving his sister
free to get herself In hand after
What she now called her “brain
storm." And when Aurora had
gone. Jack carried that awful
lamp Into the sitting room and
Cousin Columbine remarked cas
ually, though her eyes twinkled: “I
suppose you’re thinking me an out
rageous humbug. Sit down, my
dears, while I confess.”
This confession with Its Illuminat
ing detours Into the past had iept
Columbine Nelson talking until long
after her customary bedtime.
"I’m going clear back to the be
ginning,” she explained, “so you’ll
understand, If possible, just why I
posed as a tottering old relic, too
frail to stay alone at night Thd
truth Is, there's nothing to be afraid
of here, and If there were I wouldn’t
turn a hair. To one who can re
member the Indian troubles of 1888,
and as a child has hidden for hours
In fear of hostile savages, well—you
can readily see why an ordinary
pmtrlfer would be tame in eomparl
aour
She looked up Smiling; Whtli
jack; eyei popping tut of hit head;
exclaimed: "Ton really lived through
things like that?”
"Why ndt?” asked the old lady
calmly. “This was nothing but wil
derness when I was born. As you’ve
heard tell, my first home was a cov
ered wagon which, naturally, I don't
remember. I do remember a house
with a dirt floor and a stone fire
place In one corner, however; and
dimly recall the furniture made from
poles and rough-hewnHumber. It
was home, and nothing to be
ashamed of, because no one ells
nearby had anything better.”
“But wasn't It frightfully cold?"
said Nancy. “A dirt floor, I mean?”
“I suppose It must have been—at
this altitude; but Mother took care
that I shouldn’t suffer, of course. I
was wnrm and cozyl It was my
mother who suffered. Men can
stand hardships better than women;
You Really Lived Through Thing#
Like That?"
and even In those rough days Fa
ther seemed always to be—well, my
dears, to express It ns you would,
he seemed to be having the time of
his young life."
"Did that cabin stand where this
bouse does now?" Jack questioned.
“Very nearly. It was a bleak spot
then. Except for the big pine be
side the barn, Father planted every
tree himself after he bulltThe man
sion."
“But why, whan^there was plenty
of land to choost? from, didn't you
build back In the woods where It
was more sheltered?”
“Fear of two things," responded
Cousin Columbine. “Fire, and In
dians. If the savages were to at
tack us, we at least had a chance to
see them approaching If we were
In the open. And a forest fire’s a
terrible thing In the wilderness.
Jack. I recall when I was a tiny
girl, watching one at night with my
courageous little mother. We were
all alone. Father having gone to Cali
fornia Gulch in search of gold.
That fire was a terrifying sight, my
dears. It must have been miles off,
but looked almost near enough to
touch. The growth was very thick
and tall Just there, and the flames
seemed to leap from tree to tree,
ahd as they reached the top, shoot
up Into the air, far up, higher than
you'd believe possible, before sub
siding. I have never forgotten It."
Nancy shivered; and Cousin Co
lumbine continued: “So you see why
we built In this bare place.”
“And did your father find the
gold?” Jack questioned.
"Not then. Not ever, to any great
amount. It was Leadvllle silver
which built this mansion; but poor
Mother never saw it. She dled-in
1874, when I was fifteen. A won
derful woman, my dears. She had
the true pioneer spirit, but not the
body to stand up under the pioneer
hardships. She was only thirty-five
when she left us to Join my little
brother who died In Infancy.”
There ' followed a silence until
Cousin Columbine exclaimed : “Dear
me! Here 1 am dwelling on the past
like an old woman; when wlmt I
started out to tell you was why I
wrote that Idiotic letter. You see,
my mother instilled Into me the
knowledge that we came of gentle
people—finer people, perhaps, than
some of our good neighbors. She
was an orphan, with no near rela
tives of her own; but she was very
proud of the Nelson connections,
and always kept us up to certain
standards. If we lived In a cabin
with a dirt floor, at least, there
were spotless curtains at the wln
dbws, and we ate off a white clflttF—
s clean one, tool I think her dreafc
was to send me Bast for an edu*
cation; and long as they lived'
ihe Corresponded with Father’s par
ents, something he might bare
neglected to do himself. Later she
wrojg dttwn the names of the
yodijpft members of his family,
tmoB them your Grandfather Nel
wri’lt Father’s half-brother, telling
me St if l were left alone and
neede^%elp, 1 wai to appeal to
them.” *
"It mus^seem strange sever to
have seen any of yonr own people,”
commented Jack.
“Not only strange,” said Cousin
Columbine, “but sad. In a way. It
eras that sadness which caused ms
tb make a resolution to aee soma
one belonging to me—some one of
my own blood, before I died.”
(TO BK CONTINtTBD.)
Fisk Called Ottk
For no known reason, la Bomba#,
India, a fish la called a dock.
Howe About:
Sentiment
Manufactured Roar
Ford’s Philosophy
Bell 8yndic*tt.—WNU Serrlce,
• * ee a ■ . • • »■■« :« > . »,
By ED HOWE
THE gross sentimentality Amer
icans -have long practiced In
their public affairs, and do not prl
lately believed In, has done them
great harm. No one can doubt It
was our foolishly sentimental task
of making the World safe for democ
racy that landed us In the World
war, at an expense which bankrupt
ed ns, and harmed Instead of pro
moted democracy ; It gave the polltl
clans their present terrible power.
Gross sentimentality (too much
sympathy for evil doers) ruined our
courts, and built up a legal system
that Is the astonishment of the In
telligent world; It has corrupted our
youth, our women and our religion
—everything we are now In almost
universal revolt against had Its In
ception In gross sentimentality.
The writers and leaders known as
the Sob Squa’h have taken advantage
of our smiling, hypocritical acqules
ence In sentimental folly until we
are the laughing stock of sane for
eigners. Our present groaning be
cause of self-inflicted wounds will
make a page In future histories that
will disgrace the once brave word
American.
• • •
I have Just been reading another
African book, and encountering two
well-behaved maidenly ladles who
went everywhere. They had no am
bition beyond seeing the country; no
reforms to Introduce. So they were
welcomed by all the whites, and the
natives found them so unusual they
were all delighted to see them. The
author thus dismisses them finally:
"They had been everywhere In the
world that one would like to go, and
experienced nothing that In their
eyes amounted to risk or discom
fort. But they will never write a
travel book, their observation Is too
accurate, their views too sane, to
command attention."
• • •
I have lived so long, and heard so
many tales, only a very unusual one
Interests me. Today I gave a little
attention to this: A twenty-year-old
girl of the best set In a small town
is taking a liquor cure.
• • •
The writing between the lines
here Is that publishers will print
nothing about Africa, or anything
else, not absurdly exaggerated. In
everything In print publishers Insist
that lions roar raennclngly, maul
hunters, and carry off women and
children.
In all you read, look out for the
manufactured roar, and discount It,
or your rending will add to your
confusion.
• • •
Henry Ford recently wrote: “A
man has no divine right to a Job,
but must work to find work. Char
ity undermines character; self-help
is the only road to economic salva
tion. I do not believe In routine
charity; I think It a shameful thing
that any man should have to stoop
to take It or give It It Is neither
helpful nor human. The charity of
our cities Is the most barbarous
thing In our system. True charity Is
a much more costly effort than
money giving. Unemployment has
become one of the most dreadful
words In the language." . . . This
philosopher spent a large amount
of money In getting this sound
thinking before the people, hut they
paid not the slightest attention to It
I was once In the company of a
mother and daughter, and especially
admired the daughter. “She de
serves all you say of her now,” the
mother said, “but as a child she
was terrible; I was busy half the
time returning things she stole
from the neighbors. And she was
a tyrant with the other children
and with her parents. In her baby
hood I as sincerely regretted she
ever was born as I now rejoice In
It, for she Is an unusually credit
able woman; she frequently shames
me with her ladylike manners.” . . .
I admired the young woman the
more because she so successfully
overcame the natural bad habits of
youth. Success tn life Is realisa
tion as we grow up that If we are
to enjoy the comforts of civilisation,
we must acquire civilized habits.
• • •
1 rarely read without encounter
ing a statement that capitalism has
failed. . . . Every such statement
is silly, but no one can be convinced
bf It. Capitalism la nothing more
than the least troublesome way
demonstrated by long experience, of
handling necessary barter. It has
no more failed than haf' marriage,
or law, or philosophy; not nearly so
much as religion or democracy. . . .
What do these men mean when they
say capitalism has failed? Are they
declaring that when we wish to buy
a railroad ticket It Is better to pay
for It with corn on the ear or pigs
on the hoof than with money?
• • •
If a man Is born s fool, must he
remain one forever? ... At least
one philosopher holds out the
hope that the brain may be Im
proved by proper exercise, as may
the muscles. I have forgotten hta
name, but this philosopher declares
that a man who betters bin conduct
nt the same time Increase* his brain
power.
Roanoke Island
Modern Transportation on Roanoko Island.
IV©p«ired by National Geographic Society,
Washington, D. C.—WNU Service.
MODERN engineers have
thrust Virginia Dare trail
down the Islands off the
North Carolina coast and built the
Wright memorial bridge across Cur
rituck sound, bringing the Islands
Into touch with the modern world,
yet the visitor still finds In Roan
oke Island the speech and customs
common In the days of Sir Walter Ra
leigh whose followers established
there the first English settlement In
America.
From the skipper of the small mail
boat that plies between the Islands
one may supplement his limited
knowledge of this region supplied
by obsolete descriptions and by
copies of the original letters and
maps left by Sir Walter Raleigh's
adventurers. He learns that Roan
oke Island perfectly exemplifies the
adage that byways of isolation
pocket the choicest realities of life.
Here is a genuine, Inbred dignity,
expressive of a mild-mannered, hos
pitable folk. The Islanders are
proud of their physique, speech,
manners and customs, historic sur
vivals of old English Devon.
The ubiquitous automobile did not
reach Roanoke Island until less
than a decade ago. For land trans
portation there were up to that
time only two-wheeled carts and the
sand ponies and occasional oxcarts.
Even the little sand ponies' tradi
tion went back to castawny vessels,
to the Portuguese and to Sir Wal
ter Raleigh's voyagers.
On Raleigh's attempts to coloniza
tion hinged momentous results In
the New world. The “Lost Col
onies," though they began and end
ed Sir Walter’s ventures upon the
North Carolina Sea islands, were
the first English-speaking settle
ments in America.
Discovered in 1584.
In 1584 the adventurer obtained
a patent from Queen Elizabeth,
whose favors his genius readily
commanded, and dispatched to the
New world the first of Ills expedi
tions. The little band, under Ama
das and Barlowe, sailed through an
Inlet oh July 4, 1584, to discover
Roanoke Island—a spot so favored
In climate and setting and so rich
In fruits, game, and bird life that
It seemed to them a veritable para
dise.
Back to England they sailed to
describe it, taking With them two
friendly Indian chiefs; and also to
bacco, sassafras, maize, pumpkins,
squash, grapes, and other fruits.
Their story created exrltement, and
In the following year Itaieigh sent
out Sir Richard Grenville with a
second colony, numbering 108 souls,
determined to make a permanent
home on Roanoke Island and estab
lish plantations.
They landed on August 17, 1585,
and built a log fortification, to
which they gave the name “The
New Fort in Virginia,” also spoken
of as “Fort Raleigh.” However,
they could not live at peace with
the Indians, and the entire colony
sailed back with Sir Francis Drake
In 1586, Just two weeks before the
arrival of reinforcements. Finding
the fort deserted, the new group
also returned to England, but left
15 men on the Island.
A third expedition, sent out by
Raleigh in 1587, found the fort de
molished and no trace of the 15 men
except the bones of one slain by
the savages. The gruesome discov
ery was a shock to the homeseek
ers, and* they willingly followed the
advice of their leader, John White,
to forestall future hostility by mak-'
Ing friends of the Indians. The plan
succeeded admirably. Manteo, one
of the friendly chiefs, was even bap
tized and given a title of nobility
as Lord of Roanoke—the first Eng
lish peerage In America.
Virginia Dare'a Birth.
On August 18, 1587, five days aft
er the baptism of the Indian, was
born John White’s granddaughter,
Virginia Dare, the first English na
tive of America. She was baptized
an the following Sunday. Thus was
Elizabethan civilization anchored
here by a baby, a mother and the
American family.
Around little Virginia Dare re
mained more than a hundred men,
women and children. They were
left alone for three years. Then
John White, who Lad gone back to
England After establishing the col?
any, returned—to find that they had
AUaoiaeared.
The only promising cine White
found was the sign *‘CRO” blazed on
a tree. Since these letters were
part of a code agreed upon by the
colonists three years before, the
rescue party hoped that their
friends had gone to Croatan, home
of the friendly Manteo, who had
promised sanctuary In emergency;
but the captain, pleading bad
weather and lack of supplies, forced
the party to sail away, before the
clue could be Investigated.
What had been the colonists’ fate?
The blazed sign was all that was
ever found of the Lost Colonies ex
cept hasty marks of departure,
burned chests, rusty Iron Imple
ments, household effects and books.
Whatever the fate of the col
onists, either they or their early
successors left their Elizabethan
dialects, manners, customs, and fea
tures In this American byway.
As the little mall boat bobs along
toward Roanoke Island, the travel
ler's thoughts turn from the story
of Virginia Dare and the first col
onists to another historic,drama* of
the Banks. In 1812, Just across the
channel from Roanoke Island, on
the ocean sand spits of Nags Head,
the pilot boat Patriot, carrying The
odosia Burr Alston, daughter of
Aaron Burr and wife of Governor
Alston of Sooth Carolina, ended Its
last voyage. After the tragic col
lapse of her father's career and the
loss of her little son, the only hope
of the Burr family, Mrs. Alston was
In the depths of despair. She set
sail from Georgetown, S. C, to Join
her lonely father, and disappeared
forever!
Life on the island.
A bit of life on Roanoke Is re
vealed by a recent visitor, a wom
an doctor.
An old midwife and nurse, the
widow of a life service man, was
to care for an nged woman In her
ancient cottage by the sound, where
she lived alone. Her name was
“ ‘Mis’" Bash!—the “Mis' ’’ an Is
land designation for mistress, and
“Bashi,” she said, “a Bible name
after Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah;
but they call me Bashi.”
Surnames on the Island do not
denote the Individual, for the fam
ilies In a hamlet are usually alt
members of one or two clans.
In a worn slab-wood rocker In
which the old woman had rocked
her six children the doctor rested
after dinner and listened to her
tale of a remarkable life history.
What she learned entitles Mis’
Bashi to a place in the annals of
medical history. The old nurse be
longed to the Island's remnant. Her
blood, her sterling character, and
her beautiful, broad dialect were
heritages of the old Devonshire
castaway. She was comely and
agile, her visage one of strength and
thought.
Of only live weeks’ “schoolin’,”
she had never learned to rend, but
had been taught to work Indoors
and out and to spin. At sixteen
“out” (old) she married and at
twenty-one “out,” In a far life serv
ice station hamlet, she undertook
her first obstetrical case.
“Doctor, I knew nothin’ of It; but
Mehaley read me a doctor book, and
the moon was cornin’ to full, so the
baby would be thrifty.- One born In
the dark of the moon Is not"
Mis' Baehi’a Nursing.
Og her little plantation, In pine
woods by the sound, though wid
owed later, she cared for a psychi
atric mother, raised her own brood
and her mother's and her brother's
children, cared for cows, pigs, and
gardens. Then for 45 years she
ministered to all the sick of the re
gion, a local doctor coming only
at rare Intervals.
Her sand pony Napoleon carried
her In a two-wheeled cart through
woods and sand and water. In gale
or sunshine to her patients. Often
afoot she swung with her Viking
stride down beaches or through the
woods. She was smart, exact, and
knowing, though she signed by
mark, and She was known as a
“couthy” (capable) woman. Her
dignity of bearing and courtesy were
exquisite. Thus she fell Into the
role that nature cast for her.
Months later the doctor realised
how the personality of this island
woman, linked with a touch of
science^ prevented morbid results
from household conditions. She
established her own art of medicine
and It worked.