Evening Star Newspaper, October 9, 1921, Page 61

it?” says I “So sweet of you to keep me posted, Barry.” “Oh, I say, Trilby May.” he pro- “Don’ get grouchy over it n't mean to—"" *No, of course not, nigh L %* k % ¥ YX7ELL that was the way matters VV stood at 10:45 o'clock next even- W .a trickled in, though, to tellfy o THC B L O tage hands e good news about his aunt's|,,gee3 me this note as I came off being settled and how the|.fier the final curtain. I didn't read housand would soon be in the |y ypey rd shut the dressing room in his name, when those restless \ eyes of his spotted the exhibit. hat's all this?” he asks. h?" says I careless. “Oh, that! another little tribute, Barry pother! Oh, come, Trilby May he. “Just as though this was & ar thing. st night it was roses’” says 'You missed those. They were ies, t00.” d tonight English volets and a ! “Say, Iregistered indifference with a der shrug. “Oh, read the card ju're curious,” says L not,” says he. But he reached he card, all the same. “Gerald n Pitt.” Say, who's he?’ ow should ¥ know?" says I “The d girl ushér couldn’t remember he looked like and didn’t notice jh row he was in, but I rather he must be a nice man. Don't o doubt,” sneers Barry. “They ily are, these old sports who sen rs and candy to actresses. Huh!" rhaps he isn't so old, after all, I “T'm not sure which one he but there was a man in the rowy middle aisle seat who fair- jamed at me all through the per- ance. He was a little bald and eck was rather thick and short, e did have nice eyes. I wonder ‘1l come again tomorrow night.” ] says Barry. “I haven't a t that he will—if his wife is away.” fhey're such a nuisance at times, says L * % * ¥ HICH almost had Barry pawing his front hoof. You can kid him psy. For as a matter of fact, I 't the least idea who this Pitt bn might be. Perhaps he was -necked and shiny on the dome. can always see dozens like that ront if you look for 'em, and I jose one could work up any num- of little across-the-footlight ro- es if one had nothing else to But take it from me, when e playing a part like the flap- you have just as much time for scrt. of thing as a slack wire ler has for scratching himself een the shoulder blades. (will admit being a bit thrilled the second contribution with same card came In. If I had a village belle in my schoolgirl . or even a fairly good looker,! ight have taken it as a matter ourse. But the fatal gift of ty has never been mine. Not so it has bothered me. Up to date dy has ever gone crazy over my eberry green eyes, my carroty or my corn-stalk figure. Even Platt doesn’t try to tell me I could qualify for a carnival n. True, in my makeup ‘and the costume I wear as a Detroit pss who's been shopping on the Marchand, I expect I'm not al- her poisonous to the view; but at the average male ought-to ble to watch me-from the fourth without going dizzy in the head. this bunch of hot- F course, Barry Platt had to discover them. Not that I took any particular pains to hide them away, but I had r hoped he wouldn't be around hnight, or if he was that he'd fail tice what' was displayed on the br table in my dressing room. says L “Good- door and I was glad I hadn’t, for 1 was a bit impetuous in tearing it up. There was only a line, scribbled on a card. “Must see you tonight. Please!” And the card was Gerald Os- born Pitt “The old fool!” I muttered. But that didn't help such a lot. [ Neither did throwing my costume at the chairs, nor stamping my_ foot. |For the fact remained that I was | almost- as much frightened as I was peeved: And as a rule, you know, I'm not one of the timid kind. Hard- ly. Yet here I was, just as courage- ous as a rabbit hiding under a bush. For the first time, I believe, I felt that I was alone in the world with no one to call on. It Barry had been around that night it would have been- different. But he hadn't shown up. Letting me get over our little tiff of last night, I suppose. I might have asked Sczer- noff or P. O. Biggs to go with me as far as the subway entrance. But what should I tell them? That an old Wall Street sport had thrown a scare into me by sending in a.mash note? No, I couldn’t quite see myself doing that. “The Russian_ was too hot- headed. He'd make” a 3cene of it. 11 ya how I'd -‘made an_impression on body. A Mr. Pitt.. Well: I hat him for that. Not if he retting Tagged by limp arms—a human wax bean. very, very youthful. I couldn just how young he was, but I knew he couldn’t be quite so young as he looked. Sitill, there was a weary look about his mouth. Only his eyes showed any signs of his really being a live one. Dark, glowing eyes they were, and they were watching me steadily. And yous sonny?” says I “I'm glad you think so,” says he. “My knees are almost knocking to- gether, though. But you will come, eh? Please! I threw another glimpse over my shoulder at the poddy party. He had stopped and was watching us curious. To see what I'd do, prob- al And if I went on ‘All right, Percival, I here's your bus?’ ‘This one,” says he, opening the door of a classy coupe. “But my name isn’t Percival, you know. “My erro! says I, climbing In and settling myself next to the driver's seat. “I—I .thought you. knew,”. he goes on, “that I was—"" “Say, let's get started, if you don't mind”* says I. “You can tell me all about yourself after you've put a few blocks between us and that two-chinned old Romed over there.” * % ¥ % ¢CT"HAT one!™ says' the youth, glar- ing back as-he shifted gears. “Say, I've a good mnotion to stop and—" “Now don’t blow a gasket, sonny, or do anything rash,” I advises him. one— says 0ld enough 'to-make Methuselah | And I didn’t know Biggs well enough like s quitter. But he'd gone|to guess how he would take it. enough. Absolutely. He'd sald| But before I'd finished getting into th flowers and he'd repeated with | my street dress I had my chin in bns, and so far as 1 was con-|the air once more. Pooh! If I d, that covered the subject. I'd|couldn’t handle a goggle-eyed old up my mind, that any tiaras or | sport I'd better quit the business. I vanity boxes, If he got that silly, | still had a tongue, and even if I d have to go back. No old man's | hadn’t had much practice in telling ng stuft for me. fond admirers where they got off I o think Barry might have given | could improvise something. Anyway, redits for that much sense, too.|I'd have a try. t seems he didn’t, for I'd hardly| So without saying a word to any n home' before he’calls up on‘the | of the company, or even waiting to to -tell me that he'd just ré-|tag along with Auntie Bates and bered, who my unknown friend Daddy, I marched through the stage door. And sure enough, waiting near the exit was a poddy old party in evening clothes. Perhaps I didn’t give him the cold eye, though. It was just a glance, but it sure was frigid. Maybe I imagined it, but I was cer- tain he started to follow me. Any- ‘e caseé that was in the papers a| way, I must have speeded up, for I e of months ago. He began it.nearly collided with a youth standing inging suit against Mrs. Pitt[by the curb. tount of a bathing suit party al Beach, and she came back by Jig’a movie actress and telling 'abot a yachting trip to Jekyll| = “Eh?’ says I, a bit gaspy. Nice mess all around, but| “You'll let me drive you home, dy got a verdict and a big' al-|won't you?' he went on. ‘“The car’ rce he promptly married her|right here.” pr.and it seems that'dld man Pitt| Then I took a good look at him. favors the stage, eh?' A pale, light-haired, stringy young would look that’ way, #ouldn't|chap. with sloping shoulders. and ally!” 'says L “How clever of bt at all” says Barry. “Thought Slike to know before—well, be- you got in too deep. -He's the n Pitt who figured in the double Sorry!" says I. “My fault, entirely,” says he. was hdbing you'd see me, though.” T Voo e iras e taiiie ST TR et SRR WSS e e o DAUSE I NEED SOME ONE LIKE YOU IN MY LIFE,” SAYS HE, PAYING NO ATTENTION TO THE ‘WAITER. “I'VE BEEN LOOKING .FOR YOU FOR YEARS.” “He'd brush. you one,side as if you were a mosquito. Besides, you have Here's your turn for Fifth avenue. Nov;"ut'a see; who is it you say ydu are “Why,” says he, rounding past, the arch, “I'm Gerald Pitt, you know.” ‘Wha-a-at!” says I, edging into the corner of the seat. “Not the Gerald Osborn Pitt who's been sending me |know flowers?” He nod: “I'd intended to let it stop there,” says he. “Really! But I just couldn’t.” “Oh, couldn’t you?’ says I. “See here, sonny, there must be some mis- take. Don't tell me you are the party with a crimson past—divorced on_account of a movie star and all that “How tiresome!"” says he. “No, no! That's dad, of course. Osborn.Pitt. I'm Gerald Osborn, and I've had noth- ing to do with my father since—well, since he stirred up all that fuss about mother. h, ho!” says I. you'd work up a little affair on your own account, did you? Just to keep ;fi"nmuy name on the front page, .1 say, Miss Dodge!” he protests. “Isn’t that rather rough? Of course, I'm no blushing school kid. . I'v been about some. But I'm no rotter.’ ““That's comfortin, says L “Hol rpow. Gerald, just how._old are est, you! “OH, I SAY, TRILBY MAY,” HE PROTESTS. “DON'T GET GROUCHY OVER IT. I, DIDN'T MEAN TO—> | \\/ALK 810ng this dusty street and ‘But I'm curious,” says I. “Nearly nineteen,” “Well, well!” ‘Eighteen’ says he., says I, “Runs in the family, doesn't 1t7' Gerald, “But you don’t understand, slowing up for th town traffic. “Got your nerve with you, haven't|should say you were tin, some “Perhaps no! sdy: s T showing speed—waliting for actresses at the stage door.” he. only— ever have before, truly,” says nd I wouldn’t have. this time well, I wanted to know you, “T ) Miss Dodge, and I couldn’t find any jOther way. I know it must seem a bit crude to you, but I—I just had to do it that way. I “Why?" 1 asks. He shrugs his shoulders. “I wish could tell you," he goes on. 'm stretching my ea: says I “What more do you want? drivers,” can't do it and dodge these tax! says Gerald. “But:if you wouldn't mind, we might stop_for a bite to eat somewhere. a There's quite decent grill'a few" blocks up’ where we could get a chop or & rarebit— that is, if you can trust me that far. ald.” savs I, it, for I am hungry. “It'll be taking an awful risk, Ger- ut I think.I'll-chance You :ses,” I'm letting you get away with the whole program—the pick-up at .the curb, the drive In the'closed car, and the midnight supper. Dodge, were." I about town as he tipped@ the head only -a temporary , rating” yourself. | waiter for a”cozy corner table, waved 7 away the Japanese flower girl, and ordered a pot of tea instead of high-|around doing useless things until we ball glasses. “You—you're perfectly bully, Miss says he. I just knew you * ok ok ok DIDN'T deny it. And I must say Gerald had all the alrs of'.a man “I suppose you're tired of being told how utterly charming.you are as ‘The Flapper'? says L thing like that he.begins. “Not quite wearled to_extinction, “The other one who sdid any- was the man who ‘wrote the play.” fectly delicious. “No!" says he. *But you are. Per- I'm almost ashamed to tell you how many times I've seen the plece. cident one nigl missed ‘& performance since. Dropped in just by -ac- t, and I've hardly It was R only after the third night that I had courage enough to send you the roses. retain my rage. make a good-flapper, you a good judge been surrounded by ’‘em all long. with an aunt while mother was— and then hurries on. Yau “At leas! eren’t offenddd, I hope?” says I, “I was able to So _you think do yo But are says Gerald. .“T've jumer I've been . stopping “I ought to be, You see, “T se says 1. “Honeymogqning.” He pinks up in the ears a little “Auntie has one of those big places in the Berk. shires where my cousins. have con- tinuous MNouse parties. golf and tennis and jass. You know— dashing back and forth to the country club; mixed doubles in the: morning, mixed foursomes in the afternoon,’and danc- ing half the night. with fool picnics and motor trip: I nods. * says I “Doings of 8 thrown in.” e social whirl, eh?” f the younger set. You're not complaining of the life, are_you?" for sports. girls to one man. w! Al says Gerald. “Bitterly,” says he. *I don’t care t can you do? d such silly girls ‘Any flappers?” I asked. “They were nearly all flappers,” ‘“That was the trouble. ‘Even_ the older ones were the giddy, frivolous sort. allke. But they were all ‘They all did their hair just the same, danced the same, dressed the same, and sald the same things. Not one had an original thought or ever had a serious moment, A lot of butterflles fluttering about in the sun. such a crowd can be.” “why you should such as that.” touch, You can't imagine how tiresome (‘ulte sée,” says I, ke me 'inia part “Oh, but you add the tirical says Gerald. ‘T 'don’t know “Then I don’t just How you do it, either. -You're the perfect flapper; and yet you point the finger of scorn. what I've been thin! couldn’t put into words. see, too, that behind it all you're a|says I, real couldn’t make the flapper. in_the p such a silly. ' That's why T You express’ exactly ng of them and Any one can person. - If you weren't you 't I had come night after night. ofterer I came the more'I wanted to you. Say, tell me about your- self, Miss Dodge. How long have you been on .the stage?” Ana before ‘then?” into my. enough. rabbit you.”. insi: “That’ says L “Because I ne ) in my life, ‘So you .thought | tention to the wall “Oh,. ages,” says. L [ “Alinost .a says he. ‘Is’ that all? “No," says'L 'm not: going deep past. It's not - thrilling Besides, here comes the welsh and the tea.” . “But I—I want to know all’ about sts Gerald. 3y a whate of ll‘ ambition,” “What's the big idea?” ed some one lke you says he, payingino at- ter. ““I've been looking for you for years. Honestly, I've been lonely. two fellows at prep. school wh more or les rather dropped T've known_ have been useless. So :ow that I've found you I mean ! breaks In the walte; There weres one or wer worth while., But they'v out. And all‘the‘girls “Shall I serve the rarebit, sir?” “It isn’t mere years that count, is guess [ 1t2" he comes back. chuckling. I But when there are three 1 to know DUSTY road fringed with rag- @ed locust trees is the main street of a hamlet not far from Washington. A few old houses stand by the roadside, and some new ones are also there. Along part of the way a space black with ashes and bitS of charred wood marks Wwhere fire took its toll, and some of the houses that were dissolved in smoke or reduced to that black ash were there when this village was one of the famous hamlets of the world. From the dusty road green lanes lead to old homes framed in locust trees, and some of those houses have asso- ciations which entitle th called historic. The dus!yfl;n;olab: section of a road leadjng east and west, over which hopeful armies ;n:!l";:ehed :D bfl!‘l’le. over which beaten T 'S retreated and al; :hl;h vl;mflou' most fled, over ands and cheers, over which for f years of civil war troops muovredmtl;‘ and fro and along which Union cav- alry, Confederate cavalry and the %fi:un *battalions of Mosby and e were on th, e ® g0 by day and At a bend in the main street, d at the farther edge of the village, is a little brownstone church, which was & military hospital for men meimed In battle. About the church and on the wide, grassy plot at one side, and :! the rear, dead men were as close ogether as they could be laid, and against the brown walls of the church, now partly veiled with ivy, arms and legs were piled as men pile cordwood. And this was not only so after one battle, but after three. A hundred yards from the little Methodist chureh three brick chim- neys rise above a jungle of paper mulberry trees and bushes. Until re- cently four chimneys were there, but one hag fallen. The chimneys and the Jungle growth mark the site of a house which was the headquarters of 2 general whom the north looked on at first with hope’ and confidence and then with disappointment. Back from the dusty street, on a green hillcck, and closely grown around and overshadowed by tall old locust trees, is a big frame house which ‘Wwas headquarters for another Union general from whom the north ex- pected victory and realizeq deteat. | Nearpy are other houses and a plain and pretty littie Episcopal church which once were known to fame. * k X X% you will see old roads that lead to places which have had a full meas- ure of gloom and glory. One road leads to Cub run, Bull run, Stone bridge, Groveton, Galnesville, Hay- market and Warrenton; another to Blackburns ford, Mitchells fora and Manassas; another to Chantilly, or Ox hill, and another to Aldie, where the road passes through the Bull Run mountains, blue and distinct against the sky and which you can see from (xlr base to summit across eight or T miles of wavy country which seems wrapped in woods, though were you to pass through it would be found to hold many wide clearings given over to pastures and farms. You stand in the main street of Centerville, twenty-five miles west of Washington, in Fairfax county,.Va. In one of the heroic ages of the re- public Centerville was what its name implies. The civil war threw such a glare upon the village that the eéyes of the world were on it. Centerville Wwas & name shat some men spoke ex- ultingly and which many women ut- tered between their sobs. Great le- glons of the Union and great armies “You see, Miss Dodge, I—say, do you care if T call you Trilby May? “I can stand it if the waiter can,” says Gerald. '‘Quite so, sir,” says the waiter. n‘t mind -me, sir.” I'm not, thank you,’ “And pléase, Trilby May- “Couldn’t you save it up, in, “until after we've had to eat “Oh, I suppose so0,” sighs Gerald. * kK ok HE waiter seemed a bit disap- pointed, too. Anyway, he hovered 8ays Gerald. ,” 1 breaks something were well under way with our supper and Gerald had shooed him off. “Now,”- says. Gerald, “perhaps we really talk.” 'You weren't doing such a poor job it before,” says 1. “But what's it o says he prompt. *“I don’t want to lose you, now that I've found you..Trilby May." “Eh?" says I, and I expect I was gawping a trifle. “Whaddye mean, lose”" “I want you ‘for my vVery ow he rushes on. .“Of course, you'll not want to leave the stage at once, but I think it will be better that you should in a month or so. Then we can go_abroad and—I know just the spot. It's in southern France, down in the old Basque country. where—" “Just a moment, Gerald bo. I in- terrupts. “Is this something like mat- rimony you're proposing “Oh, naturally,” says he. “I know a minister—the one who officiated at mother's affair. I can get him on the i phone in the morning. Let's see, what date shall I tell him? Today is Friday. Well, how about Sunday aft- ernoon at 5 o'clock? He asked it as easily and as off- hand as If he was making.a date with his dentist. And for a minute or so all T could.do was sit there and stare at him. Then I came to and chuckled. I reached over and:took his hand. “No.. no.” says s he tried to safieeze my fingers. Just wanted to look at vour wrist watch. Twelve fifteen. You've hung up a record, Gerald.” “I beg pardon, ‘Almost omne hour nd if that isn’t getting & jump on Cupld, then I'd like to hear the other rns.” "-"?:;3—;",“ mean T've been a little abrupt about it?" he asked. jomething like that,” says I “Perhaps I was.” says he. “It didn't seem like that to me. Why, it seem as if I'd always known you, Trilb! May. But this isn’'t getting us any- where, is {t? Will Sunday do?" T shook my head. “Nor Monday, nor Tuesday, nor any day-of the week that I can think.of. just now,” says I. “You—you're not saying you won’t have me at all?” he demands. “I'm - trying- to keep up with you, Gerald,” says “Yes, that's the thought. I'm turning you down. Ab- solutely.” ¢ He took it like a little man, too. “You think I'm too young. I sup pose?’ says he. “If I'd had time to think at - all” “I believe that would be the first mark inst you.” § “Oh, well ys he. “Then I might as well go back to prep. sehoold,.nd rd ¢ut take up the old grind-again. all that, you know. “Since when?” says L “Oh, I left a week ago Saturday,” says he. “With your speed they'll hardly know you've been gone,” 1 suggebts: “Oh, T can fix that up all right,” says Gerald. “‘And say, it's been bully you. We can still be friends, can’'t we?” - friénds,” says I~ “T1l sénd you my photo with that written. on 1 “0ld, old ‘Will you?” says he. “Say/that will be perfectly corkin: ¢ i I hope it was, and that all ‘the senlor class envied Gerald when they saw it on his chiffonier. Only I won- der what he told them. As for.ime, I haven’t confessed to anybody. The. nearest I came to .telling any qne was that night when I came in.at 12:30 and found Ines yawning.in you been 50 long?’ she “Oh, I stopped to rock the cradle.” _ (Oopyrieht, 1031 W™ Sewet Yora.) Gerald—-By Sewall Ford THE RAMBLER WRITES OF CENTERVILLE, WHERE BLUE AND GRAY ARMIES CLASHED A HAMLET by the Roadside, Where His- | | tory Was Made During the Civii War. The Village Today and Relics of Many Battles—Citizens Who Heard the Guns in ‘61—Headgquarters of Army Leaders—A Stop at a Convict Camp. of the war, but Mack Thompson was living there about forty years ago and Beauregard Schwartz lived in it fob a long dme. If I am not in too deep a dream I feel quite sure that the four-chimney house was the property and home of S. C. Spotswood at the time McDowell took possession of it, and the old house with the deep and wide porch which stands across the road from the Methodist Church was the home of Lindley Roberts when troops by the hundred thousand cnll'lrlned and fought around Center- ville. The pastor of the stone churex im the Rev. Mr. Thrasher, who lives et of the Confederacy grappled around the town, charging, reeling, mangling, losing as the gods willed or the heaviest battalions ordained. Centerville was a war-racked village, over which one army and then an- 1t was now blue, now changing color in a breath. winning, other rolled. gray, rs held red revels there. A 1 2 on another Miles.” A third was inscribed Aldie 12 Miles Fairfax Court House, ew years ago four rude sign- armies stepped to|boards were posted at the crossroads here the village stands. “To Bull Run 3 Miles.' was 0o Chantilly One read The legend 4 “To A fourth pointed to seven miles Falirfax and is the pastor of the Falv- fax Methodist Church. The rectdr of the Episcopal Church at Centerville Is the Rev. Mr. Stone, whom all the people in the village cail Prof. Stone, because before entering the ministry he was long a member of the faculty of Blacksburg College, or is it Blacks- burg Military Academy? He lives about wto miles west of Centerville on the Warrenton pike. The Rambler cannot tell you the names of all thé school teachers in Centerville, but he would like to introduce you to Mrs. Wilton Buckley, who has been a teacher there for thirty years and whose ancestral home is about one mile from the village on the road to sharp bend to the northwest. Martin and his family live on the westerly side of the road, and about 200 yards off the easterly side is a frame house with a front porch and a set of wood- en steps leading to it at the middle. Years ago, stately old locust trees lined both sides of the land lead- ing to that house, but the lane is bare now, though a grove of big locusts embrace the house.' That house was occupled by Gen. Pope be- fore and after the second battle of Bull Run in August, 1862, and before the battle of Chantilly in September, 1862. Some of those “pins” which are insulated with glass and which sup- A RUIN IN CENTERVILLE. east. A good many vears ago, when | port telegraph wires were on this these “rambles” were bler stood by those signboards at the! crossroads and wrote what follows: These signboards, ronghly lettered on roug oak boards, are scarred and cracked -by rain and sun. grand and mel; stors that awakens in man sweet and bitter—just the not the bitterness of hate—for the ugly pas- slons of the American civil war are burled than_all ti tween the Potomar homely signbonrds ar They ‘are but two-foot sections of planking nailed transversely near the top of 4 chestant pole. at the base of which gneiss, flint and Maoassas sandstone have been he Hold the pole and its signs steady in the wind. Though dumb and unconscious, those old road by time, and wi They oly memories. te minds boues that moulde nd the James. an index to t am 1 to signs are eloquent. The Rambler finds by turning to his files that he wrote this about Center- ville: Centerville Is nat a stirring place. ngle busy throb. 1f ever a village was killed in | t feel deay it was - choked by the smoke of powder or smothered Centerville. it e erhaps new, the Ram- Tn| Rambler put up there vears ago it ! oughte | terness of grief— | deeper It does Some men say Blackburn's ford, whers on July 18, 1861, there was fighting which per- haps might be termed the prelude to the first Bull Run. * k x ¥ T is seven miles from Fairfax Court House to Centerville, and the Ram- bler walked it with his pack because he felt and knew that the charge asked for a Lizzle ride was unreason- able. One mile out of the court town there is a road fork. There the War- renton pike begins, the other road being the Little River turnpike, which runs west and a bit north from Alex- andria, by way of Linconia and An- nandale to Fairfax and then to Aldie by way of Pender, Ox Hill and Chan- tilly. The Little River pike west from Fairfax has been rebuilt recent- 1y and made into as hard and smooth 1 house several vears ago, relics of the telegraph lines that ran into Pope's | headquarters.. They may be there ! yet. For many years it was the hotel | of the hamlet. where tired travelers might rest and eat, and when the was kept by Mrs. Simpson. a good and hospitable woman. who lives now not in' Pope’s headquarters, but in a mansion in the sky. Jim Dobbins. one of the prosperous farmers of the Centerville neighborhood, lives there now. “Just a piece” northwesterly along the village street the Warrenton pike turns sharply to the southwest, and a tollgate with a watchful keeper stands there. In the southwest angle of the village street and the old road stands the little brown stone church, and the view there is much the same as it was during the civil war as shown by one |of Brady's photographs. Brady set up | {his camera on tho west side of the | | Warrenton pike, showed the junction of the street and pike, the little church and by the gas {rom guns: perhaps it was blight- | ed by shell or overcome by the I orrors that. it | @ Very old house, frame, basement, two | 21 putomobile rosd ias thers s fin the saw. Today it be 1ts | stories and garret tall with an outside | Washington region. The work of trees, and -its scars are sunken graves and : A dozen or so houses Half of them cling to the ruadside as though to feed their lean and vine-grown redouhts. compose e hamlet. JOHN THOMAS BEHN. leaning sides on such excitement as a pass- viritation of a stranger fes seem to sniff the by a slow-moving hilarating snuff, ess look, and if ing -team and tI brings. Thes yellow _ dust team, = a; but oh, years ENTERVILLE today sleepy as traffic has aroused it. chifies pass that way that some of se wan lou whirled up though it They bear a feeble and they were sentient things they would likely ‘Centerville is-a little slow just mow, miy, if you hi y ago you wouldn't laugh at us for being & bit shaky and out of j were e: a listl been here about fo; join! * ok ok % is not so it was then. Auto So many ma-~ the ‘old people feel that the whole world passes in review before them and that Centerville- is the tourist center of America and the busiest town between the Chesapeake and the Alleghanies. lagers and nearly all Many of the wvil- the farmers roundabout own automobiles, and it 1s a great deal easier for the aver- age Centervilllan -to explore Wash ington than for the average Wash: {ngtonian to get to Centerville. Tele- graph and telephone wires :run through the village and the people there can go to a phone and call up Alexandria Church ~or -Boston, Philadelphia, S8udley or Chicago. uses’' have fallen down, and have rned and blown down, ] or New York, Falls Brentsville or O1d and new houses, with fresh-painted sides. and porches and gables, have been set up. “The town 'is considerably changed, but the Rambler knew it and -felt at home as soon as his dusty shoes and somewhat sore feet bore him into the good, old . down on Martin Rector’s porch and town. He. sat a few minutes later Mrs. Rector had dinner on the table. Where the War- renton pike, pointing slightly south- west, enters Centerville it makes a stone chimney at its southerly side and a deep porch extending across the whole front. It was on the east side of the road and opposite the church. It is making over the road is being done by convicts. In the angle where the Little River and the Warrenton pikes standing today. When the Rambler | pra 3 o Was in Centerville last time his vener. | o 20ch l""_“ conwcte fhave jitiein able friend Dick Vowles lived there, but | €3mP. It was Sunday and the poor fellows were at rest. But out in the grounds was a black man and the Rambler called to him. He came down to the fence at the roadside and we good old Dick now looks down on this historic town and its famous fields:from an elevation far higher than the chim- ney top of the old house, or it may be that he strolls along the dusty street in sunshine and in moonlight invisible to |talked. He was a pleasant-speaking men. Winter Marshall keeps store in Pl AL Pf;'Eope htge this house, which furnished shelter to £ ow long have you been ? ‘Twelve years, sir; I have one more year to serve. I was sentenced for eighteen years.” “What did they 7" “I was charged h murder, sir. I come from Cape Charles, sir. There are sixty of us here, sir." ‘The Rambler told him that he hoped he could go back to his home and live a happy, peaceful life. The Rambler should have divided with him the money saved by walking from Fair- fax to Centerville to avoid what he thought an overcharge. but the thought did not come to him in time. A little way beyond the convic camp the Rambler stopped to fill and light his pipe. A boy was coming to- ward him. He came on with a strong, steady and deliberate stride, as though he had come a long way and was going a long way. There was nothing nervous in the walk or make- up of the boy. Nothing in the road or at its side diverted his attention from his steady pace. “How far are you going?” a: the Rambler. “To Centerville, sir. 'm goisg there, too. Pretty long walk, isn't it ‘Aw, no sir, only about six miles. He had come from several miles the other side of Fairfax. We walked together from the convict camp to his home, about half a mile east of Centerville. We did not talk much. Neither spoke unless there was some- thing to say. We stopped once for water. Willow spring is a famous spring near where Rocky run crosses the pike about two miles east of Centerville. An automobile party was parked at the spring.i They had eaten lunch there—a man, two handsome women and a little girl. John Thomas Behn (for that is the name of my thirteen-year-old waSking companion) and I came up ,ahd I said to the man, “May we drink at your spring?” "I advise you not to. ‘It does not look wholesome, but we've got some wa- ter with us” Willow spring was nearly dry because of the long drought and what water was in it was ucumm* But the man and the women of the automobile party pro- duced a big jar of water and an alu- minum drinking cup and we all got acquainted. “We are a bit crowded, but we can very comfortably make room for you in the car and take you to Centerville,” sald M Stratton. “No; I gyess John-Thomas and I will finish out the walk.” John Thomas and I and the automobile pafty sepa- rated. They went on in a cloud of tawny dust and we walked on, up hill and down, through glorious afternoon sunlight and thick whifts of dust as one auto after another rushed by. Presently we came to a set of bars marking the entrance to a yard where apple trees are growing and where an old white frame house stand: John : Thomas said, out a bar, “I live here. The Rambler went in and on the grass to repair his tripod, re- pair his camera and repair a plate- holder before taking.John Thomas' picture. John-went in the house and brought out a chalr and went back and washed his face and combed his hair, sat in the chair he had brought out for the Rambler and the faithful little shutter snapped. You have the picture. John lives with 'his father, J. W. Behn. again I hit the pike for Centerville and at length sat down.on the xorch of Martin Rector. I have not told you as much about Centerville as I meant to, but if zoll like Centerville I will write another chapter. all the wounded men it could hold after the first and the second battles of Bull Run. ok ok ok THERE are only two men in Cen- terville today who were there or in that immediate neighborhood when the ciyil war was raging. One is the Rambler’s old acquaintance, Mr. Mohler. His initials are C. J. M. and the in- itials stand for Clarkus Jasper Mohler. Jasper has not lived in Centervifle all the time. He goes far away to pastures new, but he hears the call of the old home town and comes back. He goes away again, and the home town calls, and Jasper's feet once more tread the dusty street. The other citizen or townsman of Centerville who heard the bugles of McDowell, Pope, Tyler, Hunter, Heintzleman, Sumner, Franklin, Hooker, Kearney and Stevens, and of Lee, Beauregard, Jackson, Johnston, Longstreet, Jubal Early, Kirby Smith and all the others, and heard the gunfire of the Bull Run battles and Chantilly, is Bob Otterback, a splen- didly preserved young fellow who lives on the westerly side of the main street in a yellow house surrounded by a clean clipped lawn and beds of |bright flowers just beyond George | Turberville’s store. Bob’s full name is Robert Vernon Otterback, and he !was born at the fine old Otterback home called Locust Grove, about a imile from Centerville. His fathe: B. D. Otterback, and several genera- tions of Otterbacks are at rest in the little burial ground at Locust |Grove. - T forgot to tell in the proper place in this story .that the frame house which _was Pope’'s headquarters, which Mrs. Simpson kept as a hotel and-in which James Dobbins lives now, was owned during the civil war by . Bob Whaley, dead long ago, but ‘whose kindred are numerous in Vir- gifia and the District. Stand with me at the point at the far end of the village where the War- renton pike .passes under the tollgate and leads straight as an arrow to Bull Run. - You will see that the vil- lage street continues as a road to- ward the nortawest with various branches that connect with the Little River turnpike west of Chantilly, Just a few paces along that road you see three chimmneys standing in the jungle of paper mulberry trees arid bushes rgentioned near the be- ginning of this narrative. That was the famous Four Chimney House. It was a blg frame, and from its win- dows and porches one commanded an enrapturing prospect north and west. The, house fell into a state of shabbi- ness and unrepair (if that is a dic- tionary .word) thirty years ago. About ten years-ago all the wood- work had disappeared and four tall chimneys “rémained. That house with,its broad outlook over the fields that were to be smoky and bloody was the headquarters of McDowell- in’ July, 1861. I have for- Igotten who ‘lived there at the time