With
frowning brow and sullen pace the martial ranks moved on. Boat after
boat was filled, and, as each discharged its complement in the ships
that lay heaving their anchors in the stream, it return'd, and was
soon filled with another load. And at length it became time for the
last soldier to lift his eye and take a last glance at the broad
banner of England's pride, which flapp'd its folds from the top of the
highest staff on the Battery.
As the warning sound of a trumpet called together all who were
laggards--those taking leave of friends, and those who were arranging
their own private affairs, left until the last moment--a single
horseman was seen furiously dashing down the street. A red scarf
tightly encircled his waist. He made directly for the shore, and the
crowd there gather'd started back in wonderment as they beheld his
dishevel'd appearance and ghastly face. Throwing himself violently
from his saddle, he flung the bridle over the animal's neck, and gave
him a sharp cut with a small riding whip. He made for the boat; one
minute later, and he had been left. They were pushing the keel from
the landing--the stranger sprang--a space of two or three feet already
intervened--he struck on the gunwale--and the Last Soldier of King
George had left the American shores.
WILD FRANK'S RETURN
As the sun, one August day some fifty years ago, had just pass'd the
meridian of a country town in the eastern section of Long Island,
a single traveler came up to the quaint low-roof'd village tavern,
open'd its half-door, and enter'd the common room.
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