S42 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[May s, 1900. 
An Ancestral Gun* 
BY ROWLAND E. ROBINSON. 
A MORNING train passed out of the thronging city among 
the freshly budding trees and green fields, on and on, 
northward till it reached dun meadows and pastures and 
bare woods, just purpling with swollen buds, that were 
but yesterday deserted by the sugar makers. When the 
last busy town had been left behmd, there was a stretch 
of level country that tired one of the passengers with its 
dreary sameness, and he became more interested in the 
people who entered the train at the little wayside stations. 
There were farmers, ill at ease in holiday attire ; shrewd 
speculators whose conversation was of potatoes and hay; 
a clerk of a country store, proud of the recognition of a 
couple of commercial travelers; a meek-faced clergyman, 
traveling on half-fare and looking as if his living was the 
same; a jaded woman with a crying baby; another, serene 
in the midst of her restless and numerous brood; some 
giggling school girls and the inevitable newly married 
couple, impressed with the idea that the present event of 
their lives is as momentous to all the world as to them Of 
them all, his kindliest interest was drawn to an old woman 
who came in burdened with a satchel, a bundle and a 
double-lidded wicker basket, for which he helped her to 
find places and was rewarded by her gratitude and con- 
fidence. A cloud of anxiety was partially lifted from her 
kindly face when she was settled in her seat with the 
basket in her lap. She raised one lid and, after a careful 
inspection of the contents, selected a couple of cakes, one 
of which she offered her new acquaintance while she at- 
tacked the other with the scattered skirmish line of her 
few remaining teeth. 
"I guess I was journey praoud this mornin' an' this 
noon, tew," she apologized, "for I couldn't seem tu eat no 
breakfus' nor no dinner sca'cely, an' begin tu feej the want 
on 'em. You'd better hev you a cookey; they're proper 
good an' got caraAvays in 'em. My son's wife made 
'em on puppus fer me my luncheon, but there's sights 
more'n I can eat, an' you're more'n welcome." 
"Thank you. I'm sure they're nice, but I've just eaten 
my lunch." 
"Wal, I c'n save 'em fer Sale's chil'n." She replaced 
the cake in her basket and delved deeper among its 
treasures. "They'll consait 'at anythin' gran'ma fetches 
'em's better'n what they have t' hum, for all their mother's 
Jest as good a cook as Jonas' wife is, ef I that larnt her 
du say it. Sally's my darter, an' lives up tu Manchester, 
an' I'm a-goin' up there tu see her if I ever live tu git 
there. Haow these 'ere railroads does go!" Her wrinkled, 
russet face began again to be clouded with the anxieties 
of unaccustomed travel. "You don't s'pose they'll fergit 
tu stop tu Manchester, du ye?" 
"Oh, no," he assured her, "and we'll hear the name 
called." 
"Ah' I s'pose this 'ere ticket's all right?" she asked, sub- 
mitting it to his inspection after a flurried search in every 
possible place of deposit. Having her fears quieted on 
this point, she resumed the exploration of the basket and 
presently brought out of it a big greening, turned to the 
color of old gold with perfect ripeness, 
"Naow, you must take an apple. Anyb'dy can eat an 
apple any time, an' this 'ere's a rael Rhode Islan' 
greeninon,. Gran'ther, he fetched the graf's f'm Rhode 
Islan', hossback, an' sot 'em in the oixhid on aour ol' place 
tu Bennin't'n, where I was homed an' brought up, an' my 
son Jonas, he got the graf's off them very same trees 
which they're a-livin' an' a-bearin' yet." 
"You were born in Bennington ? Was your father or 
grandfather' in the battle?" asked the young man. 
"Land o' massy, yes," she answered, with a flush of 
honest pride. "There was gran'ther an' three o' my great 
uncles fit tu Bennin't'n fight, an' one on 'em was killed an' 
another was wounded. Massy sakes, I've heered gran'ther 
tell it all over, time an' ag'in, when I was a leetle mite 
of a gal." • 
"My great-grandfather was in that battle, too," said the 
young man, with increasing interest. .Shoulder to shoulder 
with your people, like enough. Did you ever hear your 
grandfather speak of a comrade named Belden — Michael 
Belden?" 
"Belden, Belden — ^wal, no, I don't seem to remember 
hearin' tell o' the name. An' so your great-gran'ther was 
tu Bennin't'n fight.. Wal, I say for't, we're sort o' re- 
lated, you an' I be, hain't we?" and the kindly face beamed 
a grandmotherly smile upon him that warmed the young 
man's heart. 
"WalU-loom-loomsack." A brakeman echoed his un- 
intelligible call amid the outer clash and roar that rushed 
in at the briefly opened door. 
"Was 't Manchester he hollered?" the old woman 
quired as she nervously snatched her various articles of 
baggage. 
'.'No ; it is Walloomsack," said he, reading the name of 
the station as the train slowed up. 
"Wall-Ioom-loomsack." A brakeman echoed, his un- 
fit right here. Yes, right on that 'ere little hill over yender 
was where aour folk woostered the Hessians." 
She pointed her crooked and knotted finger, tremulous 
with excitement, to a low, partially wooded hill, and at 
sight of the historic field he too was_ thrilled with patriotic 
eiriotion. . The remainder of her journey seemed short 
to him as he listened to her anecdotes gathered from her 
grandfather, of Revolutionary days, and when he helped 
her from the train he parted with her as with an old 
friend who was drawn to him by a closer tie than ordinary 
friendship, that of ancestral blood offered in the same 
heroic cause. 
' 'Arthur Belden had perfect health, more than ordinary 
good looks, a good temper, an ample fortune, and very 
naturally a host of friends, all of which one would 
imagine might make him contented with his lot, even if 
He had not gained the heart of Katrina Van Tromo, who 
was as good as she was beautiful and high bred. But he 
was not entirely haopy, oerhaos because of this possession 
of high birtli by his affianced, for his own ancestrv wss 
obscure, and he was uncomfortably conscious of it. It 
had heen the prid^ his father during his busy life to be 
the founder of a wealthy and influential family rather 
than the inheritor of a name made famous by some dead 
ancestor, and he scarcely knew the Christian name of 
the honest husbandman who was his grandfather. It was 
known that he fought at the battle of Bennington, but 
there was neither family record nor known public record 
to substantiate the fact. On the death of his grand- 
parents, their humble homestead with all its belongings 
had been sold, and Arthur Belden was now on his way 
thither, in the hope of finding some proof of his grand- 
father's patriotic services which would entitle him to mem- 
bership in the Sons of the Revolution, to which so many 
of his friends belonged. When at nightfall he left the 
train at a little wayside station and saw the miry road 
flanked by drifts of grimy snow, he knew he had outrun 
the advance of spring. Wading through ankle-deep mud 
to the little hotel, he procured decent supper and lodgings. 
The next morning he found the well-known title of the 
"Belden Place" had become so nearly obsolete that he felt 
disgust for the people that could so soon forget the name 
of even the humblest defenders of its country, but having 
gained directions, he set forth in quest of Peter Carter, 
the present owner. There was exhilaration in the clear 
bracing air with a smack of spring mingled in its cold 
drafts and in the crisp response of the frozen sleigh 
path to his footfalls that presently brought him to the 
little gray and brown house. 
He at once recognized the humble homestead of three 
generations of his family, for his father had often de- 
scribed it. There it slept in forgetfulness of its first 
owner, in the long shadow of the great Lombardy poplar 
he had set as a landmark among the fertile acres his hands 
had cleared of their native primeval growth. Close before 
it lay Lake Champlain, waveless and silent beneath its 
white covering of ice. Here, he thought, with a touch 
of tender emotion, the old soldier, tired of war's alarms, 
came to spend his declining years among these peaceful 
scenes of the land whose enemies he had helped to con- 
quer. Arthur was sorry the place was sold. It would be 
pleasant to have the home of the old hero again be- 
long to his family and he was formulating an idea of re- 
purchasing it as he entered the gate. A swarthy little 
man who was chopping wood in the yard ceased his labors 
and leaned upon his axe to regard Arthur long before he 
was within speaking distance, and so continued till he 
was bidden good morning and asked if Mr. Carter lived 
here. 
"Mawny," he answered as he sharply eyed the stranger. 
"Yas, he leeve here. But prob'ly you can't sol' it some- 
t'ings. Ah guess. What kan o' t'ings was you peddled in 
so leetle bag?" 
"No, I am not a peddler." 
"Den prob'ly you was some rellashin, ant it?" 
"I am no relative." 
"Wal, said the Canadian, scratching his puzzled head, 
"you ant peddled, you ant rellashin, you ant look lak 
ministy. Ah don' know mc, what you want of it, One' 
Peter. A-h-h-h-h, Ah guess you was come for took hees 
senses. But he ant mos' gat some, he gat so much hoi'." 
"No, I'm not taking the census. I want to talk with the 
old gentleman if he is at home." 
"Wal, if you goin' talk to it, you got for holler. Ah tdl' 
you. He ant gat very good hear. Yas, One' Peter in de 
haouse," and then, as if satisfied that one who came with 
no purpose but to talk with an old Yankee was worthy no 
further notice, the Canadian began plying his axe with an 
explosive exhalation at every stroke. 
Harry rapped at the low door. It was opened by an old 
woman, whose wrinkled face was like an apple that baking 
has not robbed of all its ruddiness. After eyeing him 
closely for some clue to recognition, she ushered him into 
a tidy Jcitchen wherein lingered a homely savor of innu- 
merable batches of cookery. 
Fortified against the hurry of present days in its tower 
of curled maple, an old clock measured time with de- 
corous solemnity — a fine old relic that might well have 
been owned by the Revolutionary hero. Above the unused 
fireplace and the mantel shelf's array of medicine bottles, 
candlesticks and phenomenal growths of fields and woods, 
hung an old flintlock, rusty with time and dusty with dis- 
use. It looked old enough to have been his great-grand- 
sire's weapon, and Arthur made a mental note of the pos.- 
sibilities. 
A bent old man sat behind the stove, leaning on a staff. 
He nodded while he directed a vacant stare upon the 
visitor as the old woman handed him a flag-bottomed 
chair. 
"Mr, and Mrs. Carter, I presume.'' 
"Them's aour names, and what might yourn be?" said 
she. 
"I am the son of the Mr. Belden who sold you this 
place." 
"I wanter know " and repeating the information 
to the old man, she drew a chair before her visitor, seated 
herself and bestowed upon him a still closer scrutiny. 
"I knowed your father when he wan't knee high to a 
grasshopper," said Peter, with awakened interest, "an' I 
knowed his father afore him, an' his father, ol' Uncle 
Michael Belt'n. They say Henry Belt'n's richer'n mud. 
His father wan't, nor yet his'n, not no richer'n we be. It 
doos beat all ! An' haow's your father stood the winter — • 
tol'able well?" 
"Very well," said Arthur, "and wished to be remem- 
bered to you. You spoke of my great-grandfather. I've 
come all the way from New York to find out what I 
could about him. Did you ever hear him speak of the 
battle of Bennington?" 
"Law, vis," quavered Peter. "I remember ol' Uncle 
Michael as well as if it wan't on'y yist'd'y, a turrible clever 
goo'-natur'd ol' man, he was, 'at you'd never thought o' 
bein' a soger an' killin' folks." 
Again young Belden's eyes returned to the ancient 
musket over the fireplace. 
"Was that my great-grandfather's?" he asked, eagerly. 
"That 'ere old fusee?" Peter asked, his dull rheumy 
stare slowly following Belden's index finger and getting 
an an'^wer to his question from it. "Yes. Oh, yes, that 
was his'n." 
"The one he carried at Bennington?" 
"Yes, I s'pect mebby 't was," Peter answered, non- 
committedly, 
"If vou are willing to part with it, for a consideration, 
I'd like to have it." 
"Oh, I don't know," Peter deliberated. "I kinder need 
a gun, naow an' ag'in, fer tu ketch a pick'ril when the 
ma sh gits open, an' shoot crows a-pullin' corn an' scare 
aw-ay hen hawks. I do' know's I care 'baout sellin' on't 
tu-day." 
"Couldn't you buy another that would answer your 
purpose just as well? I'm willing to pay you a good 
price." 
"Wal, I do' know," Peter deliberated, trying to fix on a 
price not too much above the value, and so likely to 
frighten his customer away. "You see, I'm sorter useter 
the ol' fusee. Don't know's I c'ld git another 'at 'd suit 
me as well fer the money. What was you cal'latin' tu pay 
me for 't you could 'fort tu pay?" 
Harry went over and took the dusty, rusty, dirty old 
piece from its hooks, thinking, as he felt its various accu- 
mulations on his hands, that it might properly be called a 
fowling-piece. 
"Just for shooting purposes, I should say fifteen dollars 
would be all it is worth." 
Peter had not dreamed of asking more than ten dollars, 
and the magnificence of the offer took his breath away, yet 
when he recovered speech he boldly attempted to raise the 
price. 
"Seem's if I'd ortu hev a leetle more. I do' know as 
ever I heard a gun roar ekel tu that ol' fusee. I do' know 
but she's loaded, an' if she is, you'd orter 'low me four- 
five cents more." But upon examination it was found to 
be empty of a charge. "Wa', s'posin' you call it sixteen," 
and when the money was counted out without demur, the 
old man was sorry he had not asked twenty more. 
"Law, yis, a hundred times, fur's I know," the garru- 
lous old man went on in a high-pitched, quavering voice. 
"He wan't a mite bashful abaout talkin' on't. Haow's 
they hurried along through the mud to git bhere an' it 
rained solid water, an' haow the Yankees peppered the 
Hessians f'm behind trees an' fences, an' haow the Injins 
hollered an' run, an' haow aour folks licked 'em clean aout 
twicte an' took all 'at didn't run away. Law, yis." 
Arthur instinctively glanced down to the left side o£ 
his coat lapel and could already see a Jblue and gold 
badge shining there. The old man went on : 
"Law, yis, he didn't seem a mite 'shamed on't." 
"I should think not," said Arthur with pride. "It is 
something for the' humblest man that took part in it to be 
proud of, and for his great grandson to be proud of as 
I am." 
"Praoud? I do' know as him an' his'n hed any gret 
to be praoud on." 
"Not one of our meri failed to do his duty,vas I ever 
heard. Do you know if he was under Gen. Stark or did 
he belong to Warner's Green Mountain Boys?" 
"What ye sayin'?" Peter asked, slowly, with hollow^ed 
palm to his best ear and his toothless jaw dropping far 
from its fellow. When the question was repeated he felt 
into a fit of coughing and wheezy laughter, so violent that 
though he brandished his cane In the vain attempt, he 
could snatch no words out of it till his faithful helpmate 
hobbled across to him and pounded him vigorously on the 
back. At last he gasped between coughs : 
"Lordy, boy, ough-ough-ough, I ca-ought-n't tell ye.. 
Say, mother, where's that ough-ough 'ere paper' at you 
faoun' a-cleanin' aout the upstairs cubberd?" 
"I kep' it," she answered. "It's safe in the top draw' 
o' the chist." 
"Wal, fetch it an' let me see it. He c'n hev it if he 
wants it. It's a kinder cur'osity." 
Arthur thought that here might be the positive proof he 
desired, or at least a valuable relic of his ancestor, while 
old Susan disappeared in jerky, rheumatic haste. 
She soon returned with a scrap of coarse, time-tinted 
paper, which she handed to the young man. He slowly 
deciphered the faded yet bold and handsome writing in- 
scribed on it. An expression of surprise and chagrin 
covered his face as he examined the paper and became 
fully convinced of its authenticity and official origin. 
The next morning, as the rushing train swept Arthur 
Belden past the budding trees of the old battle field, the 
sight aroused no thrill of pride, but one of mortification. 
When he was back among green fields and the genial air of 
established spring and the hum of the city's bustle came 
to his ears, he could but contrast the hopefulness where- 
with he so lately went forth with the disappointment of 
his return. He speculated upon the effect the unforeseen 
results of his research might have upon the proud Katrina 
who traced her line of ancestry on one side back to a 
colonel in the Continental Army and on the other to a 
general commanding a fort on the Hudson. He harbored 
no thought of concealment, however, and believed her love 
would be stronger than her pride. 
"And what did you learn of the old hero?" she asked 
that evening after the first greetings. 
"I learned," said he slowly, handing her the scrap of 
paper, "that my great-grandfather was in the battle of 
Bennington. There is the proof." 
Katrina unfolded the time-stained paper and with swift 
changing color flashing and fading on her face, read the 
words : 
"In Council of Safety, 27 Septem'r, 1777. 
"This is to Sartify that Michael Belten, a Hessian 
Soldier, deserted from Col. Baum's his Force, is this Dav 
parmitted to Pass beyond Otter Crik, to remain until 
further Orders of this Couneil. He behaving as Becometh, 
"Joseph Fay, Sec'y. 
"P. S. Was in Bennington Battle ; has Taken the Oath 
of Fidellity to the United States." 
"Well," said Katrina, slowly, after a long pause, "if he 
was in arms against us, he could not 'serve our country' 
better than by abandoning its enemies. 
Henry Belden took the first opportunity to clean up his. , 
newly acquired relic. Although it fell so far short of 
w^hat he suooosed it to be, he could but prize it as a pos- 
session of his grandfather and a substantial memento of 
a famous battle. 
"It's a queer old weapon, anyhow," he said to himself 
.-"5 he rubbed awav the accumulations of grease and dust 
from the barrel and stock and clumsy barrel lock. 
"It's a relic of a famous battle anyway. There must be 
some marks if I can ever get down to them. Hello. Here 
are letters." and he head on the lock: 
"Springfield, U. S,. 1820." 
"Fooled and swindled to boot, by George. Tm not even 
IH'-- Hen of a Gun," ' 
