by Howard Pyle
WHEN ROBERT was a little boy, he and his brothers played on the trunk of an old tree that had fallen in the pasture years before. Some of the limbs propped it up at an angle, like the prow of a ship—a pirate ship, to be exact. They played for hours on end, sailing the seven seas and generally terrorizing the cows and whoever else got in their way. Someone would raise the battle cry, “Hey! let’s plike we’re pirates!” and they’d drop whatever they were doing and race off down the hill to the ship—pulling on their imaginary buccaneer gear as they went.
This week’s story is Howard Pyle’s account of one of the most famous of the pirates of history—and one which had a fascinating secret.
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