The Lampasas Daily Leader (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. 30, No. 178, Ed. 1 Monday, October 2, 1933 Page: 3 of 4
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THE LAMPASAS LEADER
YOUTH
UNDERSTANDS
(8
By Jay Burns
©, by McClure-Newspa-per Syndicate.
WNU Service
-r—lOUR eyes rather warily watched
[h Mary Boyd as she lay relaxed in
1 the long garden chair under the
trees on the beach country club
lawn.
Mary was unaware of their gaze.
“That was a swell game of tennis,
Tony,” she said, yawning and stretch-
ing as she dropped her racquet to the
ground beside her.
“What’ll we do now? How about a
swim ?”
“By chance are you speaking to
me?”
Tony’s resonant voice held a hint
of amusement.
“My dear girl, I’m finished for the
day. Such tennis as yours is as much
exercise as 1 need in twenty-four
hours. A book, a long cold drink and
a comfortable chair in the shade—and
that’s all I ask of life.”
Mary laughed joyously, showing
sparkling white teeth, and a little
crinkle of wrinkles about her round
gray eyes.
“Tony, darling,” she said, “did I kill
you? I’m sorry. But you’ll be at the
dance tonight?”
“If I can dance mostly with you—
and stop early. Remember, I’ve got
to go back to town tomorrow on the
seven-fifty-six.”
Tony Lawton was forty-five; Mary
was twenty. His deep' brown eyes, a
trifle grave as they watched the lovely
girl before him, lighted with a smile
as she laughed at him.
“Here, give me a hand.”
She pulled herself—with his help—
up from her low chair with a light
spring.
"Come on, Bob, let’s have a swim.”
Bob Eldridge’s blue eyes lighted to
their normal color from the somber
darkness that had veiled them as he
listened to the banter between the
other two.
“Good,” he said. , “I’m your man
for a swim. Those doubles just warmed
me up for the day.”
He grinned at Tony quite without
malice. But Tony’s eyes became grave
again.
“And as for tonight—I’ll be ready
to dance till morning. But say, Law-
ton, why don’t you get into your swim-
ming suit and come along. Just sun
yourself, old man. if you’re too tired
for a swim. It’s a swell day.”
Tony considered. Then he jumped
briskly to his feet.
“All right,” he said,
And the three started across the
grass toward the clubhouse that stood
out white against the blue sea be-
yond.
Tony was forty-five; Bob was twen-
ty-two.
Both men were in love with Mary
and at the moment Mary was in love
only with life—a gay and happy and
safe life, as she found it at Bradley’s
beach.
Until Bob’s coming, Tony had loved
life at Bradley’s as much as Mary had.
He had been spending a three weeks’
vacation there at the hotel—spending
it there because he had met Mary,
fallen head over heels in love with
her, and followed her to her summer
home.
He had found it hard to bridge the
gap in their ages in the city where
they both lived a rather prominent life,
socially.
His work as an Important lawyer
was engrossing.
He was just old enough to find the
busy, modern young whirl a little baf-
fling.
But here at Bradley’s it hadn’t been
so hard.
Tony was good looking, always fit
physically. Motoring, walking, swim-
ming, tennis, dancing—all, he realized
now, in moderation—had given him
and Mary a common meeting ground
where both were at home. And she had
seemed as unconscious of the twenty-
five years that separated them as he
was.
He had said nothing to Mary of his
feeling for her.
He had planned to ask her to marry
him just before he went back to town,
and then, whether she accepted or re-
fused him, he would have the un-
spoiled memory of their happy holi-
day together.
But five days before time for Tony’s
vacation to end Bob had appeared at
Bradley’s.
He was, it seemed, a childhood friend
of Mary’s, and their cottages adjoined.
This alone gave Bob an advantage—
Tony was staying at the hotel and he
and Mary had a common background
of only a few months: Bob lived next
door to Mary and the two had known
each other forever.
Now, after an hour on the tennis
courts—there had been another girl,
Bob’s partner but she had faded from
the picture to keep another date.
Tony suddenly realized that Bob was
in love with Mary, too. And something
in the way Mary looked at Bob—some
exchange of youthful life and under-
standing—made Tony feel old and out
of step.
Youth belonged to youth, he argued
to himself—and Mary belonged to Bob.
He was just another old fool to have
dreamed she might care for him.
As the three walked across the sil-
very sands after .getting into their
bathing things at the clubhouse, Tony
said, “Mary, I’ve decided I’d better go
back to town this afternoon, instead of
waiting until morning. I'll be better
for a hard day if I get back to my own
apartment tonight and get a good
rest”
“What’s got into you, Tony?” she
asked.
“You act a hundred!”
“Well, rny child,’ he said lightly, “so
I am, nearly.”
And he smiled as gaily as he could
at the flushed, warm young face beside
him.
“And now you youngsters run along.
I’ll sun myself here, and perhaps not
wait for you. But I’ll drop around for
a good-by before I go.”
“I was going to ask you to come over
to our place for lunch—both of you.
But perhaps you’d rather not—”
"Well,” said Tony, still with an ef
fort at lightness, “perhaps I'd better
not. I’ve some things to get together
before I go.”
Bob lqoked searchingly at the older
man. Then he put out his hand.
“If you get away before I see you
again, I want to say good-by now.”
The two men shook hands.
“It's been great knowing j'ou.
I’m—” \
“That’s all right,” said Tony, look-
ing smilingly into Bob’s troubled young
eyes. “You’re a good fellow, Bob. All
kinds of luck.”
And he turned and walked slowly
down the beach.
Mary took Bob’s hand. “Come on,”
she said, running into the breakers.
“Whose funeral was it, anyway?
What on earth were you and Tony
talking about?”
Bob didn’t answer.
Darned fine fellow Tony was.
Bob’s pulses raced, as he felt Mary's ’
hand iri his. He wasn’t afraid of any- ,
body else.
■ He’d win Mary surely, now, Fine
man. Tony.
They dove into the oncoming break-
ers, swam hardly for a few minutes,
and then floated and paddled along
until they reached the float.
There they were alone—alone in a
world of blue sky and sparkling water.
Mary flung herself down in the sun-
shine.
Bob sat beside her.
Then it happened.
One of those quick, treacherous
storms that sometimes seem to come
out of a brooding summer sky.
It rose behind the two on the float,
Mary looking shoreward, Bob looking
at Mary.
And before they knew it the float
was rocking and jumping with the
chopping waves.
“Come on,” said Mary, “let’s swim
in.”
“We can’t,” said Bob quietly. “It’s
too rough—too late !”
Blackness and thunder and lightning,
and a rocking, swaying world.
And then, out of the gloom, a voice
—Tony’s.
“Here, you two. Jump off the float
and climb aboard. I don’t dare bring it
any closer.”
He maneuvered his commandeered
motor boat as near them as he could.
Boh jumped in the water first. Mary
followed him. And that was all Mary
knew.
That afternoon she and Bob were
’ sitting on the terrace of her cottage
that overlooked the sea—a sea again
sparkling and calm under a blue sky.
“But I can’t see why Tony didn’t
come to say good-by,” she said.
“He told us he would.” ■
She was still a little wan and weak
from her morning’s experience.
For a moment Rob was silent.
Then: “Mary,” he said, “he told
me not to tel) you, hut I’ve got to.
You passed out, you know, when you
struck the water—and I couldn’t get
you in, so I climbed in his boat and
held it while he went in for you. And
when he was getting back in the boat
with you he gave his leg an 'awful
whack against the side of the boat.
He’s laid up at the hotel—can’t go
back to town for a couple of days.”
Mary jumped to her feet.
“I must go to him—this minute.
Bob.”
Bob took her roughly by the shoul-
ders.
“Why, Mary? Why?”
Mary stood there pale and shaking
—utterly lovely and desirable in Bob’s
eyes. Suddenly she smiled at him, a
brave smile.
“Bob.” she whispered, “I love him,
But he’ll never know—I just realized
myself.”
Bob turned miserable eyes away
from Mary. He patted her shoulder
gently.
“Mary, I’ll take you over—if you’re
sure. But tell him, Mary. He’s crazy
about you, too. Guess he thought he
was too old—but that doesn’t matter,
does it?”
Mary caught a glimpse of Bob’s mis-
ery. “Oh, Bob,” she said, “I’m sorry.
Take me to Tony.”
Pewter Sacrificed to
Make Patriot Bullets
PCwter vessels, the use of which is
being extensively revived, have an in-
teresting historical background. Pew-
ter sets of importance, which were in
the homes of the American Colonists,
were melted during the War of the
American Revolution to make patriot
bullets.
The “lead” statue of George III,
which formerly stood In Bowling
Green, New York city, seems to have
been made of coarse commercial pew-
ter, writes John W. Harrington, in the
American Druggist. It was torn from
its pedestal by the Sons of Liberty
and sent to Connecticut for conversion
into ammunition. The rarity of Co-
lonial pewter is largely due to its hav-
ing served the cause off independence.
Many silver services were melted down
to help pay the expenses of the revo-
lution in the form of currency.
In Colonial times sideboards or
dressers were fitted out with "gar-
nishes” or sets of pewter consisting
of polished plates placed on edge, pots,
measures, cuds ancKtankards.
the
American
Mazeppa
i gm
wrnmm^m
Mazeppa americain
Simon Butler, or,
LITHOGRAPH by MILLET and BOOKIEK.
Daniel Boone
Simon Kenton
Portrait t>y L.W- Morgan
, . ... Pi - o
■ ■ ■
'f?
' &
IPPli
m :
4
By ELMO SCOTT WATSON
W T WAS just 155 years ago this
| month that a stirring adven-
| ture befell a frontiersman on
i the banks of the Ohio river,
gj the story of which not only
became a classic in border
history, but fastened upon
this frontiersman the title of
“The American Mazeppa” and
was the inspiration for a famous picture upon
which two artists of world renow’n collaborated.
The frontiersman was Simon Kenton, or Simon
Butler, as he w’as also known. The picture was
“Simon Butler, or, Mazeppa Americain” and the
two artists were Jean Francois Millet, the
Frenchman famed for his “The Angelus” and
“The Sower,” and Karl Bodmer, the Swiss, who
was one of the earliest and greatest painters
of the American Indian.
In the summer of 1778 Col. John Bowman,
commander of the fort at Harrodsburg, Ky., sent
three men, Simon Kenton, Alexander Montgom-
ery and George Clark (not THE George Rogers
Clark) on a spying expedition to the Shawnee
Indian town of Chillicothe beyond the Ohio
river. A short time before this, Kenton and
Montgomery accompanied a party led by Daniel
Boone on a similar spying expedition to Paint-
creek-town in Ohio, recaptured four horses which
the Indians had taken from the Kentucky set-
tlers and brought them back safely to Logan’s
Station.
So when the three men started out to scout
for Bowman, they took along a quantity of salt
and some halters in case they should have a
chance to capture some more Indian horses.
Such a chance did present itself and on the
night of September 9, 1778, they fled from Chilli-
cothe, taking with them seven Indian horses.
By riding hard all night, all the next day and
the next night they reached the Ohio river on
the morning of September 11 only to find its
wuaters so whipped up by a storm that they could
not force the horses to plunge in and swim for
the Kentucky shore.
Despite the certainty of pursuit by the Indi-
ans, they resolved to wait there until the river
should subside instead of selecting the three best
horses and making their escape while there was
still time, as Kenton himself later admitted they
should have done. The result was that on the
morning of September 13 a party of Shawnees
“jumped” them as they were preparing to round
up the horses and proceed down the Ohio to
Corn Island, where there was a garrison of Ken-
tuckians. Kenton was the first to fall into the
hands of the epeiny. Montgomery, coming to his
aid, fired at the Indians but missed and fled for
his life with some of the savages in hot pur-
suit. In the meantime Clark dashed down, to
the river, plunged in and, clinging to a piece of
driftwood, managed to reach the Kentucky
shore.
The Indians wTho had been chasing Montgom-
ery soon returned bringing xvitli them his scalp
and they took turns slapping Kenton across the
face with it, exclaiming as they did co, “You
gteal Indian hoss, huh?” The Shawnees were in
an ugly mood, for Daniel Boone had recently es-
caped from them and returned to Boonesbor-
ough in time to help beat off an Indian attack
on that fort. But now they had a captive who
was almost as great a foeman as Boone and
they had no intention of allowing him to escape.
They knew him for a brave man and they were
resolved that he should show “how a brave man
can die,” which meant that he was doomed to
the torture stake.
However, they would wait until they had re-
turned to Chillicothe, where all the members of
the tribe could enjoy his death agonies. In the
meantime they -would inflict upon him a long
series of beatings, kickings and other cruelties,
always making sure that none of the injuries
should prove fatal. So as they started north for
Chillicothe there began for Kenton that “adven-
ture which for its momentous succession of per-
ils, transitions and hairbreadth escapes has not
its parallel in all the adventurous annals of
western border history. *i 1
It would be impossible to condense all the per-
ils of those two months within the brief scope
of this article, so only the highlights can be
given. The first one was his/famous “Mazeppa
ride” which came the next morning after his
capture. Among their recovered horses, the In-
dians found a wild, unbroken three-year-old and
on this animal they fastened their prisoner, ty-
ing his hands behind him and his feet under the
horse’s belly. Around his neck they tied a halter
with its ends fastened to the horse’s neck and
tail. When this was done they released the
horse and gave it a sharp blow’ to start it on its
way. As they did so, one of them exclaimed,
“You like Indian horse, huh?. You ride one now.”
At once the horse began to rear and pitch
to rid itself of its burden, then started to run
through the woods. Bushes and brambles tore
at Kenton’s feet and legs and low-hanging
branches of the trees raked bis face and body.
But his greatest danger lay in his being shaken
loose from the horse, for then he would be
strangled by the halter around his neck before
his captors could stop the fear-maddened ani-
mal. However, he managed to hang on some-
how and after a while the three-year-old ceased
its efforts to throw him off and quietly followed
the others.
During the next two days Kenton was again
and again tied on the colt but by this time it
bad become more accustomed to him and after
a few plunges it quieted down and carried him
along quietly with the rest of the party.
Upon his arrival,at Chillicothe, the cruel pre-
liminaries to his torture at the stake began. He
was forced to run the gauntlet, the first of nine
he was to run before at last he was tied to the
stake. Then the Shawnees decided to take him
to their principal village, Wappatomika, for the
last act of the drama. On the way i.o was forced
to run the gauntlet at every village through
which he and his captors passed.
At Wappatomika the first of his miraculous
escapes came to pass.- For there he was recog-
nized by Simon Girty, the white renegade, as
“Simon Butler” (Kenton had taken that name
when he fled from Virginia early in his career),
a comrade in arms during the Dunmore war,
and Girty succeeded in winning over the Shaw-
nees to freeing their prisoner. But his freedpm
was short-lived, for a war party which returned
from aq unsuccessful raid in Virginia demanded
that his torture proceed. Even Girty could not
prevail against them, but he did succeed in hav-
ing the date for the torture postponed until the
gathering of all the tribes at Sandusky.
On the way to Sandusky the famous Mingo
chief, Logan, befriended Kenton and spared him
some sufferings, but near Sandusky he was
again forced to run the gauntlet, his ninth time.
Then when preparations were going forward- for
burning him at the stake, again fate intervened.
As the torch was applied to tlie wood piled ujS1
around him, a heavy rain started to fall and put
it out. It was two days before the wood was
dry enough to try again. In the meantime Peter
Druillard, a British agent from Detroit, arrived
and ransomed Kenton so that he could be taken
to Detroit for questioning by Gen. Henry Ham-
ilton, the British commander there. Kenton was
held a prisoner at Detroit until June, 1779, when
he escaped and safely made tlie perilous journey
back to Kentucky.
As for the story of how Simon Kenton, the
frontiersman, became the subject for a famous
picture by two celebrated artists, it came about
when Karl Bodmer, a Swiss artist, accompanied
Maximilian, prince of Neuweid, to America to il-
lustrate the book his royal patron was to write
on “Travels in tlie Interior of North America,
1S32-1S34.”
After Bodmer’s return to Europe he lived for
awhile at Fontainebleau in France, where he was
a neighbor of Jean Francois Millet. He told Mil-
let some of the classic stories of the American
border, especially that of Kenton's Mazeppa ride,
and Millet began to make drawings of Indians ia
crayon and charcoal. Eventually he and Bodmer
collaborated in a series of lithographs, Bodmer
doing the landscapes and horses and Millet doing
the human figures, both Indians and white men.
These were published in 1852 and one of them
was "Simon Butler, or, Mazeppa Americain.”
And this was another curious manifestation of
the fate which intervened repeatedly in tlie life
of Simon Kenton—that his last “portrait” should
be painted more than a decade after liis death
by a foreigner, a man who had never seen him
and who, noted for being tlie delineator of quiet,
pastoral French scenes, would be about the last
man on earth one would expect to portray an in-
cident in the tumultuous life of an American
frontiersman!
<<£ by Western Newspaper Union.) ,
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The Lampasas Daily Leader (Lampasas, Tex.), Vol. 30, No. 178, Ed. 1 Monday, October 2, 1933, newspaper, October 2, 1933; Lampasas, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth894382/m1/3/: accessed July 17, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Lampasas Public Library.