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Updated: July 4, 2025
On election-day, in Seaford, Del., some young men, going out to hunt rabbits, discharged their guns in sport; the men being absent, all the women in the vicinity took to flight; the alarm spread like the "Ipswich Fright"; soon Seaford was thronged with armed men; and when the boys returned from hunting, they found cannon drawn out to receive them.
He could use a few minutes to gas up, too. There was a pier in Seaford where he could land and get the proper grade of fuel. He taxied out, headed into the wind, and took off. Then, to confuse watchers, he headed straight for Whiteside. As he passed over the cove he saw the houseboat, anchored in the best position for watching the Spindrift-Whiteside boat course.
Cuckmere Haven is the name given to the bay between the last of the "Seven Sisters" and the eastern slopes of Seaford Head which should be ascended for the sake of the lovely view up the valley, seen at its best from this end.
"I am Sprite Seaford," was the gentle answer. "My whole name is Gwendolen Armitage Harcourt. Rather grand, isn't it?" Gwen asked, her hands on her hips, and her feet wide apart. "Mine is just Sprite Seaford," she said, quietly. "Don't you wish you had a middle name?" said Gwen. "It sounds fine." "I don't think I care," said Sprite. Gwen was rather surprised that Sprite seemed little interested.
He, I believe, cabled the Ottawa authorities, who in turn got in touch with my wife, who produced the necessary documentary evidence to prove that I had been alive and a prisoner all this time. I went to the depot at Seaford. I borrowed from my old friends. I hung round the pay office. The paymaster said I was not on the strength of the regiment.
Seaford was a sandy place upon a bluff of the Nanticoke, and, as the procession came in, a party of surveyors, working for Meshach Milburn's railroad, paused to jeer the old kidnapper. She had grown suddenly old, and never raised her voice, that had always been so forward, to make a reply. The magistrate, Dr.
Need he be? His soul took charge again with a smile. Over there on the left that sheer white bluff, thrusting out into the sea, would be Seaford Head. Beyond it lay Newhaven; behind it somewhere Lewes. To get there he had only to keep along the highlands. He held on at a steady jog-trot.
Montagu gave me the paper, and I cherish it as my dearest memorial of my erring but noble schoolboy friend. Knowing how strong an interest Mr. Rose always took in Eric, I gave him a copy of these verses when last I visited him at his pleasant vicarage of Seaford, to which he was presented a year or two ago by Dr. Rowlands, now Bishop of Roslyn, who has also appointed him examining chaplain.
The one was the Ouse, passing through the fertile country around Lewes, and falling at last into the English Channel at Seaford, not as now at Newhaven; the other was the Cuckmere river, which has cut itself a deep glen in the chalk hills just beneath the high cliffs of Beachy Head.
"And in return, little Sprite, I'll ask a favor," he said. "Call me 'Uncle John, just as Rose does, and Polly does the same." "Oh, I will, I will!" she cried. "I've always wanted to." "You will feel more at home with an uncle so near," he said, gently. Already the boys and girls of Avondale were talking of the opening of school. Of all the eager ones, Sprite Seaford was the most excited.
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