THK 
 
 iL AND Express 
 
 FOURTH OF JULY 
 
 X rize Otories and X oems, 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE 
 
 American Ivevolution 
 
 2-x Park Row, New York. 
 
Book 
 
THE 
 
 Mail and Express 
 
 FOURTH OF JULY 
 
 rize Otories and X oems, 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE 
 
 American ivevolution 
 
 23 Park Row, New York. 
 
Copyright by the Mail and Express, 1888. 
 
 AMERICAN BANK NOTE COi 
 
 dkvk-Hif 
 
^ NOTE. 
 
 1/ 
 
 Thkre has been so much inquiry for the historic 
 
 Revolutionary War Poems and Stories 
 
 which were produced by the school children of New 
 York and vicinity, in response to the offer of prizes 
 therefor by 
 
 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS, 
 
 (the only Republican, and the leading, evening New 
 York City newspaper), and the request has been made 
 from so many enlightened and respected sources that 
 they should be brought together in one publication for 
 convenient examination, circulation and preservation, 
 and the works themselves have so much brilliancy and 
 intrinsic literary and patriotic excellence, that this 
 Journae, always desirous of carrying out the public 
 wishes, now complies with this sentiment, in the 
 hope that the people will find the present pamphlet 
 both to justify its demand and to keep alive affection 
 for America in the hearts of all of her citizens. 
 
ol603 . 
 
 '05.. 
 
 Arn 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 5 
 
 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE 
 COMPETITION. 
 
 In May last, the Mail and Express conceived 
 the idea of offering prizes for the best stories and 
 poems to be written for this paper, by boys and girls, 
 on subjects relating to the War of Independence. The 
 annual recurrence of Decoration Day and the personal 
 interest so often centered in the h^o^Jbf the Civil 
 War, bring that period distinctly and^^^^^ S^eat fre- 
 quency before the minds of the risii^'^-'gfendration. But 
 the incidents of the Revolutionary War and the 
 struggles and sufferings of those who took part in 
 it, have perhaps been in danger of losing their proper 
 relative place in public regard. 
 
 It was thought desirable, therefore, to direct in this 
 way, the attention of those who are at the most im- 
 pressible period of their lives, to the great struggle of 
 the Revolution, with its wealth of romance and adven- 
 ture, and to stimulate their interest in the persons, the 
 localities and the incidents which will ever remain 
 associated with the War of Independence. 
 
 The prizes offered by the Mail and Express were 
 for stories not to exceed 1800 words, and poems 100 
 lines, in length, as follows : 
 
 1. A prize of $100 for the best story of fiction. 
 
 2. A prize of $50 for the second best story. 
 
 3. A prize of $35 for the best poem. 
 
 4. A prize of $15 for the second best poem. 
 
 5. A prize of $25 for another good story. 
 
 6. A prize of $25 for another good story. 
 
6 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 
 
 THE CONDITIONS OF THE COMPETITION. 
 
 The conditions were that the boys and girls who 
 might compete for the prizes must be not over sixteen 
 years of age, and must be living within fifty miles of 
 New York, and the time expired on Saturday, June 23. 
 A lively interest was soon manifested in the prize com- 
 petition, and the enterprise of the Maii, and Express 
 in instituting it was warmly commended by those 
 best fitted to estimate its beneficial influence upon 
 the young persons who were invited to take part in it. 
 The members of the different boards of education 
 as well as the school teachers of New York and of 
 adjacent cities, gave their hearty approval and endorse- 
 ment of the plan. It was the universal opinion of those 
 interested in the subject and qualified to judge of its 
 merits, that the competition would give a marked 
 impetus to a line of study which would be productive 
 of excellent results. 
 
 Stories and poems soon began to come in from all 
 directions. Notwithstanding that the time allowed 
 for the competition was coincident with that of the 
 preparation for the annual school examination, the 
 young people evidently gave special attention to the 
 study of the history of the Revolutionary War, and 
 when the time for receiving contributions had ex- 
 pired, there was a surprising collection of manuscripts 
 ready for examination. 
 
 EXAMINING THE STORIES AND POEMS. 
 
 The task of examining the hundreds of stories and 
 poems that were sent in for competition was by no 
 means a light one. To lay on one side the better and 
 on the other the poorer of these productions, to re-ex- 
 amine the great number of excellent contributions and 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 7 
 
 finally to decide upon which were really entitled to the 
 prizes offered, was not easily accomplished. In mak- 
 ing their decision, the committee considered not so 
 much the details of literary finish in the productions, 
 the faultless spelling, the unimpeachable grammar, or 
 the smooth flow of composition, as the intrinsic merit 
 with regard to originality of feeling, thought or inven- 
 tion, and the proper construction of the stor^^ or poem. 
 Some excellent stories were marred by an inconsistency 
 or an improbability that made them inadmissible, and 
 some that began well ended poorly. Others were laid 
 aside on account of their extreme shortness. Some 
 revealed the gift of invention but a lack of proper ex- 
 pression ; others showed a felicity of expression and of 
 description along with an unfortunate lack of anything 
 particular to say. 
 
 There was often an amusing misconception of the 
 plain terms of the competition. One ingenuous young 
 person sent a copy of the Declaration of Independence, 
 another gave a dry recital of the chief events of the 
 Revolutionary War, and another sent a brief biography 
 of General Washington, with an amplification of the 
 incident of the cherry tree and the hatchet. 
 
 But the high average merit of the stories is worthy 
 of special notice. There was of course much uniform- 
 ity both in the selection of subjects and in the method 
 of treatment. Yet there were some startling excep- 
 tions to this rule, and in these cases the untamed 
 imagination of youth produced unexpectedly thrilling 
 results. As the subjects were, by the rules of the 
 competition, confined to such as relate to incidents of 
 the Revolutionary War, a good many writers chose the 
 same historical occurrence for the groundwork of their 
 stories. Arnold's treason, the capture of Major Andre, 
 the winter at Valley Forge, the battle of Long Island, 
 
8 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 
 
 the battle of Trenton and the siege of Boston were the 
 favorite sources of inspiration for the young writers. 
 The relation of the hero or the heroine of the story to 
 one or another of these subjects, and the bodily perils 
 or the mental conflicts which these persons underwent, 
 furnished the material for the story-teller's skill ; and 
 it is safe to say that the diligent readers of the manu- 
 scripts during the week devoted to the task had never 
 before encountered so much mingled patriotism and 
 sentiment within the same number of days. 
 
 The girls' stories for the most part abounded in 
 romantic adventures of young soldiers who go forth to 
 fight for their country, and, meeting sympathizing 
 maidens, straightway fall in love with them. The 
 boys' stories were of a more sanguinary cast, and the 
 prowess of some of the defenders of their country's 
 rights, who figure in the exciting contests that are de- 
 scribed, commands the reader's admiration and recalls 
 the exploits of the heroes of ancient fable. 
 
 The description of the heroes and the heroines of 
 the different productions have a common likeness. 
 The young men are fine, manly fellows, full of noble 
 but stilted sentiment and effusive patriotism ; and the 
 girls, mostly slender creatures, with dark hair, ruby 
 lips, sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, invariably 
 exhibit the most touching devotion to the cause of 
 their native land and the young men of their choice. 
 
 There is a striking uniformity noticeable in the de- 
 scriptions of natural scenery. It is curious to notice 
 in how large a number of the stories we are told in the 
 first few lines that ' ' the last rays of the setting sun 
 were falling ' ' upon something or somebody, in the 
 landscape, and how various other hackneyed forms of 
 expression are brought into service. The number 
 of grandfathers' and grandmothers' tales among the 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 9 
 
 contributions, too, grew to be wearisome, and a sim- 
 ilar uniformity in other ways was observable. 
 
 As for the appearance of the manuscripts that came 
 to the Mail and Express office in such manifold 
 variety of size and shape, some written on foolscap 
 paper as directed in the terms of the competition, some 
 on the smallest size of note paper, some with the leaves 
 stitched together and great numbers with gay ribbons 
 that formed a brilliant variety of color — as for the ap- 
 pearance of all these efforts of the boys and girls, it 
 was in many ways very suggestive. The handwriting 
 was for the most part excellent, and the general ar- 
 rangement very creditable. A few stories — the com- 
 mittee wished the number were larger — were written 
 on the type-writer, and the task of examination was so 
 far lightened. 
 
 An interesting feature of the competition was the 
 letters that accompanied the contributions. These in 
 many cases revealed the individuality of the writer in 
 a way that made the prize-story editor regret as he laid 
 down the letter, that the hopeful competitor was, with 
 so many hundreds of others, doomed to disappoint- 
 ment. One youth writes that he is a poor boy and 
 wants to go to the country this summer, and so has 
 tried his best to win the prize by writing a story. An- 
 other, aged twelve, with a calm faith in the sterling 
 merit of his production, saj^s that this is the first time 
 he was ever tempted to write for a prize of any kind, 
 and, sending his story, hopes he will be the winner. 
 A young gentleman, who expresses his willingness 
 to receive either the first or the second prize, gives 
 special directions respecting the typographical arrange- 
 ment of his poem when it should appear in the 
 Maii, and Express. Alas ! there is little hope of 
 his immediate success as a poet. 
 
lo THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 
 
 But Dorothy L,ee, aged eleven, who dates from Sea 
 Cliff under that nojn de phime, and writes with a 
 notable blending of diffidence and good sense, shows 
 herself to be a true philosopher : "I send my little 
 story," she says, "with scarcely a thought of its much 
 favor. Still, it is no harm to try, but good practice. ' ' 
 Right, little Dorothy ! You have not won a prize, but 
 you have a still more valuable possession in your 
 theory of life. It was a wise man who wrote, ' ' Diffi- 
 cult}', struggle, progress — that is the law." Let the 
 disappointed competitors always remember, with little 
 Dorothy Lee, that "it is no harm to try, but good 
 practice. ' ' 
 
 AWARDING THE PRIZES. 
 
 The committee selected to act as judges and to 
 award the prizes were Dr. Thomas Hunter, of the 
 Normal Female College, New York ; Mr. William H. 
 Maxwell, Superintendent of Public Instruction, Brook- 
 lyn ; Mr. Addison B. Poland, Superintendent of Public 
 Instruction, Jersey City, and Mr. Henry W. Domett, 
 of the editorial staff of the Mail and Express, who 
 acted as prize-story editor. 
 
 The great number of manuscripts sent in were care- 
 fully examined, and the committee awarded the prize 
 of $ioo for the best story to Bertha Loomer, of Hobo- 
 ken, N. J., for her story, "An Incident of the Revolu- 
 tion ; ' ' the prize of $50 for the second best story to 
 Emma Locke Rianhardt, of New Brighton, Staten 
 Island, for her story, "The Continental Wife ; or, Mary 
 Butler's Ride;" the prize of $35 for the best poem to 
 Alexander Nelson Easton, of Summit, N. J., for his 
 poem, "Mad Anthony's Charge," and the prize of $15 
 for the second best poem to Margaret Ridgely Schott, 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION, ii 
 
 of No. 43 East 19th Street, New York, for her poem, 
 ' ' The Battle of Trenton. ' ' 
 
 A number of the stories and poems which were sent 
 in were so excellent, in different ways, as to entitle 
 them to honorable mention. Two of the stories, "The 
 Great American Tea Party," by Charles ly. Pollard, of 
 New York, and "The Hessians," by Isaac Moss, of 
 New York, had such special claims to consideration 
 that the Mail and Express decided to award to each 
 of the authors of them an additional prize of $25, 
 thus making in all six prizes received by the successful 
 competitors. 
 
 The stories which were considered to be entitled to 
 honorable mention were ' ' A Romance of the Revolu- 
 tion," by Edith Hobart, No. 42 East i32d Street, New 
 York; "A Family Tradition," by Nettie Covington, 
 of New York ; ' ' How Dorothea Hathaway Averted a 
 National Catastrophe," by Alice H. Meigs, of Orange, 
 N. J.; "A Martyr of the Revolution," by Dorothea 
 Dean, of New York; "The End of the Strife," by 
 Ruth lyudlow Searing, of No. 212 West 130th Street, 
 New York; "How it Happened," by Sarah T. Ben- 
 jamin, of No. 51 East 17th Street, New York; "The 
 Hero of Bennington," by A. G. Armstrong, of No. 
 159 West 94th Street, New York ; "Plow Maj^ Pitcher 
 Won a Sergeant's Commission," by Schuyler Emerson 
 Day, of New York, and "A Story with a Perverted 
 Moral," by Raymond D. Thurber, of Brooklyn. 
 
 The poems entitled to honorable mention were 
 "Gavin James's Stand," by Walterina Frank, of New 
 York; "Nathan Hale," by May Elder, of No. 64 East 
 131st Street, New York; "The Midnight Alarm," by 
 Sadie Goodmati, of No. 112 East 84th Street, New 
 York, and "Elsie's Ride," by Margaret E. Dunbar, of 
 No. 113 East io8th Street, New York. 
 
12 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 
 
 PRESENTING THE PRIZES. 
 
 MUNICIPAL HONOR TO THEJ WINNERS. 
 
 The successful competitors for the prizes, these for- 
 tunate 5'oung persons, with their friends, assembled at 
 the office of the Mail and Express, 23 Park Row, 
 New York, on Thursday, July 5th, 1888, and were 
 escorted to the Mayor's office, in the historic City Hall, 
 where his Honor was awaiting them. 
 
 COLONEL SHEPARD'S SPEECH, 
 
 The prize-winners formed a line before the Mayor 
 (Hon. Abram S. Hewitt), with the rest of the company 
 in a semi-circle behind them, and Col. Elliott F. Shepard 
 then addressed his Honor as follows : 
 
 Mayor Hewitt : These are the prize girls and boys 
 of New York and vicinity, a bright, intelligent Six. 
 Your gracious willingness, as chief magistrate of the 
 metropolitan city of the Western Hemisphere, to award 
 to them the prizes provided by the Mail and Express 
 for the best stories and poems founded on the Revolu- 
 tionary history of our beloved country, whose birthday 
 we celebrated yesterday, will indelibly fix your Honor 
 in the prize winners', and in our, memory, affection and 
 gratitude. 
 
 It is the opinion of the Committee of Award, com- 
 posed of President Hunter of the Normal Female Col- 
 lege, Superintendent Maxwell of the Public Instruc- 
 tion of Brooklyn, Superintendent Poland of Jersey 
 City, and Mr. Domett of the Mail and Express, 
 (and we heartily thank them for the cheerful perform- 
 ance of their arduous duties) — an opinion in which all 
 will concur who read the prize contentions — that their 
 excellence, in connection with the hundreds and hun- 
 dreds of others received and examined, shows a very 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 13 
 
 general and creditable knowledge among our school 
 children of the glorious deeds of our fathers. 
 
 A public newspaper is an educational institution, 
 and if the present effort of the Mail and Express 
 shall direct the young students in our public schools 
 towards that knowledge of the United States which is 
 the foundation for true patriotism, we shall never 
 grudge the cost, but always rejoice, and shout, God 
 bless America ! (Applause.) 
 
 THE mayor's address. 
 
 At the conclusion of Colonel Shepard's speech, 
 Mayor Hewitt responded as follows : 
 
 Colonel Shepard : This is a very creditable idea on 
 your part. This nation is not very old. It has just 
 concluded its first century, and yet in that time the 
 patriotic instinct led our fathers to make greater sacri- 
 fices than perhaps were ever made by any other people, 
 to establish a free government and keep America from 
 falling into desuetude (if I may quote a word from the 
 chief executive of the United States). (lyaughter.) 
 There has been a revival within the last four or five 
 years of these patriotic sentiments, and I think the 
 feeling is very general in this country that the time has 
 come when this country of ours, which has cost so 
 much in sacrifice of every kind, should be the country 
 of Americans. (Applause.) It does not belong to the 
 rest of the world. It belongs to our own people. We 
 have opened the doors very widely for emigration from 
 foreign countries. We have been literally the refuge 
 for the oppressed, and, during the last one hundred 
 years the world has never witnessed such benefactions 
 conferred by the principle of free government as have 
 been conferred by the principles of this free govern- 
 ment upon the people of all the world. (Applause.) 
 
14 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 
 
 By Americans I mean not only those who are born on 
 the soil, but those who have come to this country, and, 
 forswearing allegiance to all other potentates and pow- 
 ers, become in heart as well as in name, American 
 citizens. I exclude none. The law excludes none 
 from citizenship when they have gone through the 
 requirements of the law. It doesn't follow, however, 
 that because we have opened these doors so widely in 
 the past, we are going to keep them open forever. 
 
 RESTRICT IMMIGRATION. 
 
 My experience in this ofl&ce has brought me to the 
 conclusion that the time has come when greater restric- 
 tions will have to be imposed upon foreign immigra- 
 tion. Those who originally came to this country came 
 from motives of conscience, or because they thought 
 they could provide a better future for themselves and 
 their families in this new world. They were mostly 
 people of some education, of industrious habits, and 
 with a training which fitted them for American citizen- 
 ship. That time has gone by. They have been bring- 
 ing in here from six to seven hundred thousand immi- 
 grants a year during the last three years, largely a 
 class of persons such as were unknown in the earlier 
 immigration of this country. They come here practi- 
 cally under contract ; serfs bound to certain contractors 
 who bring them out, and undertake to sell their labor 
 in the United States in competition with the free labor 
 of this country. This is a new and a very great 
 danger. It threatens not merely the livelihood of 
 American citizens, but it threatens the perpetuity of 
 free institutions. As the labor of these people is sold 
 in block, so their votes can be sold. They are sold. 
 They are delivered at the polls, and where public sen- 
 timent is so finel)^ divided as it is between the two 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 15 
 
 great parties, a small contingent can determine which 
 shall possess the government of this country. 
 
 NO NATURALIZATION WITHOUT SOME LEARNING. 
 
 That is the danger which we must face and elimi- 
 nate from the American system. If you should ask me 
 what remedy I could propose for this state of affairs, I 
 should say that two things certainly ought to be done. 
 We should only admit to American citizenship those 
 who, on a satisfactory examination, can show that they 
 are entitled to such a privilege. I certainly would 
 admit no human being to American citizenship who 
 could not read and write. 
 
 Colonel Shepard— Our language ? 
 
 Mayor Hewitt — I won't say our language, for the 
 reason that the American language (for I use it as dis- 
 tinct from the English tongue) is very easily acquired, 
 which is proved by the girls and boys who have won 
 these prizes. I should require that the immigrants 
 should be able to acquire a knowledge of American insti- 
 tutions, by studying either in their own tongue or ours. 
 
 Colonel Shepard— A residence of five years, as re- 
 quired by the present law, would teach them that, 
 would it not ? 
 
 Mayor Hewitt— Yes; but I think it hardly wise 
 to make the limitation to the American language. 
 
 AND TWENTY-ONE YEARS' RESIDENCE. 
 
 I think that if our own children are required to be resi- 
 dents of this country for twenty-one years, like these 
 three boys and these three girls, it would not be a great 
 hardship if we wer^ to ask foreigners for a fourteen 
 years' or a twenty-one years' residence. I myself 
 should be in favor of twenty-one years before natural- 
 ization. 
 
i6 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 
 
 I know everything I am saying is being taken down 
 by these reporters, and they will ruin my political rep- 
 utation (laughter), but we have got to take care of 
 ourselves ; and what is known as the flag incident, or 
 I might say the flag incidents, is very suggestive of the 
 condition to which we have arrived in this country. 
 The foreigners who are here brought with them nat- 
 urally their love of their respective flags. I am glad 
 they so treasure them, and it is quite right for them to 
 revive the memories of their youth in their own homes. 
 But when it is claimed that these foreign flags are to 
 float over public buildings, and are to be objects of 
 reverence to everybody here, who have left their own 
 country for this, to be our American citizens, I think 
 our own patriotic instinct revolts, and is best indi- 
 cated by a reverence for the American flag ; and I will 
 not allow that reverence to be diluted one particle by 
 any competition with any other flag whatever. (Ap- 
 plause.) Here on this continent, where we advocate 
 home rule for other nations within their own countries, 
 let us equally assert the doctrine of home rule within 
 
 our own. 
 
 A PUBI.IC service;. 
 
 When Colonel Shepard brings this out into prom- 
 inence, as he does by the offer of these prizes, he has 
 rendered a great public service. There is no doubt 
 in my mind that these children will remember to their 
 dying day the fact that they have been engaged in this 
 competition. 
 
 Every boy and girl who has entered into this com- 
 petition will never forget it. They will go as mission- 
 aries and teachers of the American doctrine all their 
 lives. I have entire confidence in the committee who 
 have awarded the prizes. They are among the most 
 estimable citizens we have, and I have no doubt they 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 17 
 
 have wisely decided ; although I do not doubt in the 
 least that they have had many difficulties in coming to 
 a conclusion. Of course there are not prizes enough to 
 go round among all the boys and girls in this country 
 who would write stories for prizes of $100. Even 
 Colonel Shepard with his great income from the 
 Mail and Express could not quite meet all the appli- 
 cations that would come in. But he has started some- 
 thing which will not stop. I am sure that we shall 
 have better citizens than we have ever had before in 
 this country. Two centuries hence we will witness 
 a revival of the old American idea that caused our 
 fathers to engage in the struggle of the Revolution. 
 
 Yesterday, as I was passing over the old Conti- 
 nental road which Washington and his generals trav- 
 eled from West Point to Morristown, a lady accom- 
 panying me happened to make some remarks about 
 the memories of the past, and I said : " Well, it is a 
 curious thing that when George III. offered amnesty 
 to the American people who were in rebellion against 
 the British Empire, he excepted from the proffer of 
 amnesty, Washington, Hancock, Jefferson and Samuel 
 Adams." He graciously forgave them if they would 
 sacrifice their best men. He was so ignorant of hu- 
 man nature. This proposition compelled the Amer- 
 ican people to fight it out to the bitter end, as they 
 have done. 
 
 The first mission of an American citizen is never to 
 do a mean thing, and the meanest thing an American 
 citizen can do is, when he takes a public office and 
 knows what his duty is, not to do it because he is 
 afraid it will hurt his personal popularity. That is the 
 meanest thing he can do. 
 
 I congratulate you upon having won these prizes 
 and I felicitate myself upon being able to deliver them. 
 
i8 THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 
 
 THE PRIZES PRESENTED. 
 
 The Mayor then presented the prizes, accompany- 
 ing them with the following remarks : 
 
 This is the first prize of $ioo, and is for Miss Bertha 
 lyOomer, of Hoboken, N. J., and is for her storj^ en- 
 titled "An Incident of the Revolution." Miss Loomer: 
 The last time I had to bestow anything upon anybodj^ 
 in this room it was the matrimonial crown of a duchess. 
 I availed myself upon that occasion of the privilege, 
 which the Maj'or always has, to salute the bride. I 
 now salute the prize winner. 
 
 His Honor here advanced, presented the prize and 
 kissed the fair recipient. He then continued : 
 
 The second prize of $50 is for Miss Emma lyocke 
 Rianhardt, of New Brighton, Staten Island. Miss 
 Rianhardt, it gives me great pleasure to give you the 
 second prize, although you would have been much bet- 
 ter pleased no doubt if it had been the first. But I can 
 only say to you that the first shall be last and the last 
 shall be first. You won this prize b}^ your story en- 
 titled "The Continental Wife; or, Mary Butler's 
 Ride." 
 
 After presenting the prize to Miss Rianhardt, with 
 the privileged salutation, the Mayor continued : 
 
 The first prize for poetr>', $35, is for Master Alex- 
 ander Nelson Easton, of Summit, N. J., for his poem, 
 "Mad Anthony's Ride." Master Easton, yo\x are a 
 poet, are you? Your "eye in a fine frenzy rolling?" 
 lyCt me look at it. 
 
 Mr. Domett — He inherits the poetic gift. He is a 
 nephew of Edmund Clarence Stedman and a grandson 
 of Mrs. Elizabeth Kinney, the poetess. 
 
 Mayor Hewitt — He can't inherit anything ; that's 
 what Henry George says. (lyaughter.) He says that 
 we must not inherit anything. But, Master Easton, 
 
THE MAIL AND EXPRESS PRIZE COMPETITION. 19 
 
 you have not only inherited the poetic talent, but have 
 got $35 in addition. Therefore, don't give that to 
 Henry George. (Laughter.) 
 
 To Miss Margaret Ridgely Schott, of New York, 
 was awarded the prize of $15, for the second best poem, 
 entitled "The Battle of Trenton." To Master Isaac 
 Moss, of New York, a supplementary prize of $25, for 
 the stor\' entitled "The Hessians," was awarded, and 
 to Master Charles L. Pollard, of New York, the other 
 supplementary^ prize of $25, for the story entitled "The 
 Great American Tea Party. ' ' 
 
 At the conclusion of the proceedings Colonel 
 Shepard in behalf of those present, as well as him- 
 self, thanked the Mayor in fitting terms for his cour- 
 tesy and eloquence in presenting the prizes. The 
 simple proceedings were telegraphed all over the 
 United States, and elicited general approval and com- 
 mendation from the press and the public. 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 An Incident of the Revolution. 
 
 BY BERTHA LOOMER. 
 
 (Awarded the first prize of $ioo for the best story.) 
 
 THE sun was slowly rising in the East. Brighter 
 and brighter grew the great round ball, until 
 with a sudden movement it seemed to burst, and 
 a golden, dazzling flood covered the sky ; the birds 
 were slowly wakening, first a faint peep was heard and 
 as faintly answered, then a sudden twitter, and the 
 air was full of bird voices. The flowers were lazily, 
 drowsily opening their dainty petals, and all Nature, 
 refreshed by a still night's slumber, awoke to a prob- 
 able day of joyousness. 
 
 It was just after the battle of Long Island, when 
 the Americans, pressed in on every side, had suffered a 
 serious defeat, and the Tories were everywhere — in the 
 bushes, up the trees, taking possession of comfortable 
 farm houses, anywhere, where rest was to be found 
 there also was found a Tory. 
 
 Good Farmer Whitcombe, among all this mass of 
 British, was a true patriot in the cause of freedom, but 
 residing as he did in a Tory neighborhood, outside of 
 the circle of his near neighbors he was thought to be 
 a loyalist. 
 
 Great consternation reigned in the kitchen of the 
 farm house on that beautiful morning, for news of the 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 21 
 
 American defeat had just reached there. Joel Ashlej^, 
 the boy who had just brought the news, added to his 
 tale, ' 'And do you know they are going to the different 
 farm houses, demanding shelter and food. I shouldn't 
 wonder a bit but what they would soon be here, ' ' he 
 added comfortingly. 
 
 "The nasty varmints; not a moment's rest or a 
 morsel of food will they get here, and if they demand 
 it, why they will find out whom they have to deal 
 with," and certainly Mistress Dorothy looked fierce 
 enough to make the bravest heart quail as she stood 
 with one hand upraised, as if to strike the foe with a 
 large iron spoon which she held, and with the other 
 hand placed defiantly on her hip. 
 
 " Sh ! sh ! " murmured the old man, "if thine 
 enemy hunger — " 
 
 "Now, father, you just keep quiet, there's no use 
 in quotin' Scrip tur' to me, when I know them British- 
 ers are comin'. You know if 'twant for your blindness 
 and my bein' a woman, there would be two of the best 
 soldiers in the Continental army as they would want. ' ' 
 
 Just then was heard the patter of tiny feet, and the 
 door was burst open, admitting a little girl, followed 
 by a young woman. 
 
 ' ' The Tories have beaten ! ' ' exclaimed Mistress 
 Dorothy. 
 
 ' ' No ! ' ' the young woman answered in surprise. 
 
 "But I say that they have, and what's more, they'll 
 probably come here and ask for lodgin' and food. I'll 
 give it to 'em — food for thought." And Mistress 
 Dorothy bustled around setting breakfast on the table. 
 
 " Well, well," was all that Patty Whitcombe could 
 find to say, but she finally exclaimed: "Mother, if 
 you refuse them admission, they may seize the property 
 and fire the house. ' ' 
 
22 AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 "That's so," the old woman said musingl5^ "I 
 suppose if it comes to the worst we'll hev to let them 
 in. Breakfast is ready ; come, father." 
 
 They had no sooner sat down when a knock was 
 heard at the door. The two women looked at each 
 other, and the old man's lips were just framed to 
 saj^ "Come in," when his wife cried: "No you 
 don't, father ; I'll meet 'em," but the younger woman 
 was even quicker, and the dame sat down on her 
 chair. 
 
 But for all her bravery, Patty felt a sort of faint- 
 heartedness creeping over her ; she threw open the 
 door, and there to confirm her worst fears stood two 
 soldiers in the uniform of the hated redcoats. "Good 
 morning, good mistress," said the older man, stepping 
 forward, " I pray you to give us a bit of breakfast, for 
 we have had a long fast, and my comrade here is all 
 but completely exhausted." 
 
 Conquering her repugnance with a mighty effort 
 she managed to say : - " You and your comrade may 
 enter and partake of our breakfast." 
 
 With a grateful look, both men crossed the thres- 
 hold. Mistress Dorothy sat rigidly in her chair ; she 
 had tightly closed her eyes when the knock was heard, 
 and had kept them shut until the strangers entered 
 the room, and now she glared ferociously at them 
 through her glasses. Her daughter-in-law noticing 
 these glances, stepped behind her and whispered, 
 "Not so fierce, mother, not so fierce, or they will 
 surely suspect something. ' ' 
 
 "Don't fret; perhaps you would like me to go up 
 to them, and shake hands with 'em, and say why 
 didn't they come before, and hope they'll stay ; oh, the 
 wretches," and the old lady shook herself with a grim 
 vehemence. 
 
AJV INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 23 
 
 The two invaders were not so fierce and terrible 
 looking, indeed, for soldiers who had just won a vic- 
 tory ; they looked strangely worn, weary and disheart- 
 ened. Mistress Patty felt a stir of sympathy in her 
 heart, for the younger man reminded her so vividly of 
 her husband, who was so bravety fighting in the true 
 cause ; in fact, little Dorothy went up to him, laid her 
 dimpled hand on his knee, looked trustfully up in the 
 handsome face bent over her, and said, ' ' Papa ! ' ' 
 
 "And where is papa, my dear? " he asked, gently 
 lifting the child on his knee. 
 
 " 'Way, 'way off, fightin' the — " 
 
 " Dorothy," — her grandmother's voice sounded like 
 gravel crunched viciously together — "your mother's 
 goin' to feed the chickens and you'd better help her," 
 and with that she began to busily clear off the table. 
 "I don't suppose you want anything more?" she 
 suddenly said, when the table was almost cleared. 
 
 ' ' No, we have had sufficient, thanks to your kind- 
 ness, ' ' courteously replied the older man. 
 
 " 'Tain't no thanks to me at all," she returned 
 tartly, "you're soldiers, so I had to do it." 
 
 "What an exceedinglj- curious cream cup," ex- 
 claimed the young man, taking the curious piece of 
 workmanship up and examining it with the air of a 
 connoisseur. That was the last drop in Mistress Doro- 
 thy's cup of bitterness which was already overflowing. 
 She had let them enter her house, given them their 
 breakfast, and now, after allowing them all those liber- 
 ties, always under protest, that they should now begin 
 to confiscate her property was too much ; she snatched 
 the cream cup out of the astonished man's hands, and 
 began excitedly : " You'd better go now, you'd better 
 go, you've had your breakfast and a little rest, and at 
 this time o' day, visitors ain't wanted 'round the farm." 
 
24 AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOIUTION. 
 
 " But, my dear madam," the young man broke in, 
 ' ' I assure you I meant no harm, and really my friend 
 and I need a rest so badly, that we are afraid we must 
 trespass on your hospitality" — here a faint smile crossed 
 the speaker's face — " a little longer ; give us but a bed 
 to rest our weary limbs a little while, and then we will 
 depart. ' ' 
 
 Dame Dorothy looked at the young man sternly. 
 "In my days, young man, when folks told us we 
 wern't wanted we got out." 
 
 "But, madam," the older man interposed, "cir- 
 cumstances alter cases. Remember that these are 
 strange days, and strange things happen in them ; but 
 by the way, madam, are you a Tory or a rebel ? ' ' 
 
 " 'Tain't none of your business," was the uncom- 
 promising reply. 
 
 " Well, will you allow us a bed ? " he asked. 
 
 "I> think its time you was a startin'," was the 
 laconic answer. 
 
 ' ' Then since it becomes a necessity I demand it in 
 the name of — " Here something seemed to choke him, 
 and for a moment he was unable to go on. 
 
 "Well, if I must I suppose I must ; but if ever I 
 wished a feather bed was filled with pine needles, I 
 wish that thar one was, ' ' and with that she opened a 
 door disclosing a comfortable bedroom. They silently 
 entered the room, and she, with a bang of the door, 
 fled to the kitchen. "There, I've gone and done it," 
 she said in high wrath, "I've harbored two British 
 soldiers under my roof, and if anybody ought to be 
 taken before Gen. Washington and convicted as a spy 
 I feel like that one. Joel Ashley," she said suddenly, 
 turning to the boy who was the sole occupant of the 
 room and who was gazing at her in bewilderment, 
 "I've got an errand for j^ou." "Yes'm," he said 
 
AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 25 
 
 meekly enough. Joel was always meek when the 
 madam was in such a wrath. 
 
 "You know where the Continentals are stationed 
 about ten miles from here, eh?" Joel nodded. "Well, 
 you just stir yourself and go over there and tell their 
 commander there are two redcoats in this house, and if 
 they want them to come for them right away, right 
 away mind you, now hurry. ' ' And Joel did hurry. 
 
 Madam sat rocking herself violently to and fro. 
 "There you've gone and done another mean thing, " 
 she said to herself angrily. " Doin' a mean thing is jist 
 like tellin' a lie, you do one and you'll surely do an- 
 other; I guess I'll just peek in the room, and see if 
 they've set it afire yet." She tiptoed across the hall 
 and looked through a crack in the door ; then her con- 
 science smote her worse than ever. Carelessly lying on 
 the bed, his fair, handsome face looking so worn and 
 thin even in sleep, he reminded her also of her soldier 
 boy. The older man was wearily writing at a table, rest- 
 ing every once in a while, but soon resuming his task. 
 
 "I'm a mean old woman," she soliloquized, "but 
 — they're Britishers." That settled the question, and 
 she returned to her work. 
 
 Morning entered into afternoon, and afternoon 
 slowly melted into early evening, the shadows were 
 gently creeping over the land, the birds were twitter- 
 ing a good-night, and still the soldiers slept. Softly, 
 cautiously, a band of fifteen men were wending their 
 way towards the Whitcohibe farm house ; nearer and 
 nearer they got, until you could see that they wore the 
 Continental uniform. They reached the house and 
 were met by its mistress ; she pointed to the room 
 where the soldiers were, then sat herself rigidly down 
 in her rocking chair to have an argument with her 
 conscience. 
 
26 AN INCIDENT OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 Suddenly — what is that she hears ? A hearty laugh 
 re-echoed throughout the house. She hurried to the 
 door where the soldiers were. And what did she see ? 
 Her two redcoats shaking hands heartily with the Con- 
 tinentals. And what does she hear? 
 
 "Captain," one of the men says, "we had given 
 you and the Colonel up for lost, and the camp was in 
 sore distress about you." 
 
 And he, the admirer of the cream jug, answers in a 
 full, rich voice : ' ' The Colonel and I were surrounded 
 by the British on every side ; we just escaped capture, 
 stole these uniforms from two dead Tories, and trav- 
 eled, weak and weary, through bogs and swamps to 
 join you, but, overcome by fatigue, stopped here for a 
 few hours' rest. Thinking the people were loyalists 
 we kept up the disguise. But why did you come 
 here?" 
 
 ' ' We came to capture two British soldiers, but in- 
 stead we have found our Colonel and our Captain. 
 Three cheers, men, three cheers. ' ' 
 
 And they did cheer strong and hearty. 
 
 And Mistress Dorothy? She crept back to the 
 kitchen, rocked herself back and forth, and said : 
 " Dorothy Whitcombe, what a fool you've been ! " 
 
THE CONTINENTAL WIFE, 
 
 THE CONTINENTAL WIFE; 
 
 Or, Marv Butler's Ride. 
 
 BY EM>IA LOCKE RIANHARDT. 
 
 (Awarded the prize of I50 for the second best story. ) 
 
 IN a picturesque locality of that beautiful, rural 
 region, almost in the shadow of the White Moun- 
 tains, called Oilman ton, there still stands the old 
 cellar of Ebenezer Eastman's house. The roses have 
 all grown wild now, but they are the same that Mary 
 Butler Eastman planted one hundred years ago. The 
 house was low and plain like most of the houses of 
 that day, and the place was enclosed by a little wicket 
 fence. At the side stood the old well ; at the back 
 were the little garden and the field for plowing. 
 
 In this field, one bright day in June, Ebenezer 
 Eastman was busy plowing for a turnip lot. The sun 
 shone down upon him with its hot rays, making the 
 sweat stand out upon his brow, but he was gay never- 
 theless and whistled merrily. 
 
 All at once a horseman came galloping down the 
 road, in breathless haste. He halted at the gate, his 
 horse snorting and puffing, with foaming white neck, 
 and pawing the ground. 
 
 ' ' Ho, Lieutenant Eastman ! Up with horse and 
 plow ! Turn out, for the redcoats have come. ' ' At 
 the last word he had flashed almost out of sight, 
 lyieutenant Eastman understood ; he looked up and saw 
 
28 THE CONTINENTAL WIFE. 
 
 nothing but a cloud of dust, he heard nothing but a 
 sound of clattering hoofs, which quickly died away. 
 
 He needed no second bidding, for he was a minute 
 man. He entered the cottage where his wife was rock- 
 ing their little baby boy only three weeks old, in his 
 cradle, and told her all. Her face grew ashy pale as 
 she listened, and when he said that he hoped she would 
 aid him in doing his duty by being a brave wife, and 
 allow him to go to war without a murmur, save her 
 blessing, she only closed her teeth firmly and gave a 
 suppressed sob. While her husband was going through 
 his preparations with lightning speed, she sent forth an 
 earnest prayer for strength for him to fight, and for 
 strength for herself to bear the separation. 
 
 In almost another minute he stood beside her, ready 
 to start. She rose and fell into his arms, where he held 
 her passionately for a moment, and after kissing the 
 bab}^ in his cradle, with a last tender farewell, he was 
 gone from her sight. He hurried and mounted the 
 saddled bay, and in a short time the little hamlet was 
 bereft of its bravest, for they had gone to fight for their 
 country. Mau}^ a plow was left in the field that day ; 
 many a furrow remained unseeded. The forge and 
 the grist mill were both silent, and the weeds grew 
 up among the com that had just been planted. 
 
 The minute men marched to Boston and joined 
 Stark's brigade, which history records as having 
 fought with unflinching bravery. It was when the 
 day was nearly lost, and when blood began to flow 
 like water that Stark, waving his sword over his head, 
 cried out : " Rally, boys ! We will win this charge, 
 or Molly Stark wnll be a widow." There were many 
 made widows that day, but not Mary Eastman. 
 
 Two weeks had slowly, oh, how slowly, dragged 
 their existence awaj^ ! What were the wife's thoughts 
 
THE CONTINENTAL WIFE. 29 
 
 during all that time ? They were hardly for an instant 
 taken from her husband, except when she slept. There 
 were no means of communication to her in those times, 
 and she lived in suspense and dread. Sometimes she 
 would think that God had saved him, and then again 
 she would think how small was the chance. Where 
 was he now ? alive or dead ? Had there been a bat- 
 tle ? No one could answer. If there had been a battle, 
 was he slain ? Perhaps he was lying on the field now, 
 wrapped in the sleep of death. To think of his never 
 being able to speak to her again ! Oh, it made her 
 clasp her hands in agony. She would look at the little 
 baby boy lying asleep in his cradle, a bundle of in- 
 nocence, unconscious of the terrible times, and the 
 thoughts that were chasing each other through his 
 mother's brain, and say, " Poor darling ! I wonder if 
 you are fatherless now." Then she would think of 
 her husband's three distinguishing characteristics- 
 strength, fortitude and bravery, and it would calm her 
 and make her think of his parting injunction, " Be a 
 brave wife and allow me to go to war, without a mur- 
 mur, save your blessing." She was firm through all 
 of the gloomy thoughts that her mind was laboring 
 under, and never wearied or pined away, for she knew 
 her husband was doing his duty. Her household work 
 was never neglected, and the large wheel on which she 
 spun her flax was seldom still. Her boy, too, had to 
 have his share of attendance. 
 
 One day as Mary Eastman stood at the back of the 
 house meditating quietly, she all at once fancied she 
 could hear the booming of cannon and the din and 
 roar of a battle. The maples, too, which were waving 
 and rocking in melancholy cadence, seemed to say, 
 " There's been a battle ! There's been a battle ! Your 
 husband is slain ! Your husband is slain ! " It was 
 
30 THE CONTINENTAL WIFE. 
 
 enough ; slie could stand the suspense no .longer, for 
 she felt that there had truly been a battle, and that 
 her husband needed her. She flew to the cottage and 
 made her preparations ; washed up the cottage floor, 
 put ashes on the burning embers, arranged the shining 
 plates in a row along the dresser, and washed and 
 dressed the boy of but six weeks, saying, as she took 
 him from the cradle, " We must find your father, boy, 
 and know whether he's wounded or dead." Then 
 saddling and mounting her horse, with a last glance at 
 the little cabin and the swaying maples, she, with her 
 boy safely strapped on before her, was flying through 
 the pathless forest, on her way to Boston, keeping the 
 track by the spotted trees, which were notched in the 
 shape of triangles, with the notches pointing north. 
 She traveled on, but never gave out. Night came and 
 she could scarcely distinguish the way before her. 
 Once, when she was riding swiftly on she heard a rust- 
 ling and tramping in the bushes behind her, which 
 almost sent her heart into her throat. She cast a swift 
 glance backward and upon seeing the sole cause of 
 her fright exclaimed in a relieved tone, ' ' Thank 
 God, it was only two bears," her great fear being for 
 Indians. She rode on, and the bears simply stared 
 at her, for some reason or other not caring to make an 
 attack. 
 
 On emerging from the forest, she had not far to go 
 before the little roofs of Brentwood stood up before 
 her. It was here that her father lived, and her joy can 
 easily be imagined upon seeing the old cottage, the 
 scene of her childhood, especially after such a long 
 and tedious journey. She received the tenderest care 
 there, and then, after sheltering her noble horse, and 
 giving him food and water, she refreshed herself and 
 child by food and sleep. Upon waking with the first 
 
THE CONTINENTAL WIFE. 31 
 
 break of dawn slie was quickly mounted with her 
 child before her, and bidding good-bye to her dear old 
 father, who stood in the doorway with tears in his 
 eyes, she rode swiftly away. 
 
 Mile after mile was quickly skimmed ; one-half of 
 the distance had been completed, and the thought 
 gave her strength to press on bravely till she had 
 attained the end. The sun beat down upon her in full 
 force, the dust blinded her, but she was spurred on by 
 the' noise of the battle, which at first faint, grew louder 
 and louder. To her whose nerves ^vere strung to the 
 highest pitch, these huge billows of sound, and the 
 distant, sullen booming of cannon, grated on her ears, 
 and almost made her blood run cold. But she kept 
 up, kept up until after seventy miles' ride she halted 
 at Cambridge Green. Her fancied thoughts had been 
 only too true ; she heard the toll of Charlestown's 
 bells, and saw the dead lying strewn around. Is her 
 husband among them ? Her horse crops the grass by 
 the wayside, the boy sleeps in her arms. How her 
 pulses throb when her own husband, alive and well, 
 issues from that bloody field, and, meeting her, clasps 
 her in his arms. Is it true that he is with her, or is it 
 only a vision ? It is no vision ; the battle is over, and 
 although it is not won, yet no more wonderful bravery 
 was ever shown. He lifts her and the child gently 
 from the horse, and then they rest and refresh them- 
 selves, for indeed they both need it. Her husband 
 had fought well and bravely, and the earnest prayers 
 that had issued from her lips so often for his safety 
 were truly answered. 
 
 They rode home to Gilmanton, and no prouder 
 husband was ever seen, as he held her on the horse. 
 The anxious, yet firm and resolute look on Mary's 
 face, as she hurried to the battle-field, was now 
 
32 THE CONTINENTAL WIFE. 
 
 replaced by a holy light, which shone brightly from 
 those soft, gray eyes. 
 
 The boy grew to bless his mother more and more 
 each day ; and when we think of the devotion and the 
 bravery shown among the wives of that time, we won- 
 der when we hear of a degenerate American. 
 
THE HESSIANS. 33, 
 
 THE HESSIANS. 
 
 BY ISAAC MOSS. 
 
 (Awarded a special prize of $25.) 
 
 I. 
 
 GROUPS of viHagers were gathering on the banks 
 of the river that flowed past their quiet little 
 town, which was one of the pleasantest in Hesse 
 Cassel. Children were romping on its banks, lads and 
 lasses strolling along by its side, the older people chat- 
 ting as the^^ watched the children play. 
 
 lyife in that little town rolled on in almost unbroken 
 monotony, simple, quiet, peaceful, like the flowing of 
 that placid river to the sea. But just then the usually 
 drowsy village had aroused itself to do honor to its 
 good Elector, Friedrich, of Hesse Cassel. It was the 
 anniversary of his birthday and the village had taken 
 a holiday. Numbers had gone away early in the 
 morning in their clumsy farm-wagons to spend the day 
 in merry-making in the woods, but still enough re- 
 mained to celebrate the occasion with all the usual 
 accompaniments of a German holiday. The majoritj^ 
 had resorted to the river, on whose banks they carried 
 on their merry sports. 
 
 Many houses were built along the river side, and 
 on the wooden stoop of one of these two village gossips 
 were seated. Suddenly one of them started and turned 
 to her companion. 
 
34 THE HESSIANS. 
 
 ' ' What ails Heir Schmidt and Fred Muller ? ' ' she 
 asked. 
 
 The other looked in the direction indicated but 
 paused in dismay as the two men came striding down 
 the village street. On they came, never heeding the 
 salutations of their neighbors, till they reached the 
 town hall, which they entered. Fred Muller' s honest 
 face was flushed with anger, his hands tightly clenched 
 in an agony of pain, while Herr Schmidt, the worthy 
 burgomaster of the village, was not less disturbed. 
 They had gone away early in the morning in good 
 spirits to attend to some important business and now 
 they had returned, but the news they had to tell had 
 struck terror to the hearts of all. 
 
 Soon the sports were resumed, but with not the 
 same zest as before. And now those who had gone to 
 the woods began to return, till soon all had arrived. 
 They did not disperse to their homes, but hearing the 
 news, stood with the others about the steps of the town 
 hall discussing the affair. A feeling of dread had 
 come over all, and they felt that some terrible calamity 
 was approaching. Suddenly the door of the town hall 
 opened and there stood the burgomaster and Fred 
 Muller. All grew still as death. Then the voice of 
 the burgomaster broke the solemn silence. 
 
 " Elector Friedrich has made an alliance with the 
 English, and is to send them 20,000 soldiers, who will 
 be taken across the ocean, thousands of miles away, to 
 fight for England in a foreign land. We, my friends, 
 must send 100 soldiers, one-fourth of our able-bodied 
 men. The conscription will take place to-morrow." 
 
 Then the burgomaster, leaning on Muller' s strong 
 arm, turned and went into the hall. For a moment all 
 were stupefied with amazement. Then cries of anguish 
 broke from all. Some wept, others cursed the Elector. 
 
THE HESSIANS. 35 
 
 Women fainted, others gave utterance to shrieks of 
 despair. Soon Muller came out. Strong, sturdy, self- 
 reliant, the people turned to him for counsel. 
 
 "My friends, be calm," he said; "disperse quietly 
 to your homes, for hard as it is, we can do nothing." 
 
 They obeyed him, and soon the place was deserted, 
 except by the burgomaster, who was on his knees, 
 praying, fervently to God. The next day the villagers 
 assembled in a body in front of the town hall. Soon 
 the burgomaster came out, holding in his hand a box 
 that contained three hundred green ribbons and one 
 hundred red ones. A small opening had been made in 
 the cover. Each man without looking at the box was 
 to put in his hand and draw out a ribbon. If it were 
 green he was saved, if red, doomed. 
 
 Absolute silence reigned as the first man stepped 
 forward. He plunged his hand into the box. A 
 moment's hesitation, then drew out a ribbon. All 
 pressed forward to see it. It was green, and he uttered 
 a fervent "thank heaven," as his name was struck 
 from the list. The next stepped forward, hopeful, 
 smiling. He drew. It was red ! A shriek was heard, 
 and a woman was carried away insensible. It was his 
 wife. How simple the statement sounds, yet what a 
 world of sorrow it expresses. And so the drawing 
 went on. After a while the burgomaster spoke : 
 
 ' ' There are one red and one green left in the box ; 
 the man that draws the red will be the last to go." 
 
 Fred Muller was one of the remaining two. On 
 his arm leaned his betrothed wife, the burgomaster's 
 daughter. He disengaged his arm and kindly resigned 
 her to her father's care. "God help you, Fred," was 
 all the burgomaster could say. Then he went to the 
 box, put his hand in and drew. It was the fatal red. 
 With a groan he turned to his betrothed ; but she, too, 
 
36 THE HESSIANS. 
 
 had fallen to the ground and was lying there motion- 
 less. 
 
 A week later Fred Muller was marching far away 
 with his comrades, but he carried with him in his heart 
 the image of her he loved. 
 
 II. 
 
 A year had passed. It was now 1777. The Hes- 
 sians had long since been transported to the colonies, 
 where they had done bloody service for England. Un- 
 able to understand the language of the people, brutal, 
 avaricious, they showed no mercy to a fallen foe. They 
 ravaged the country and insulted defenceless women 
 and children. The British not only had not restrained 
 them, but had even incited them to further deeds of 
 violence, which the inhabitants of the country over 
 which they marched viewed with horror. Their deeds 
 stirred the Americans to desperation, and "no quarter 
 to the bloody Hessians" became the watchword of all. 
 
 Meanwhile Howe had entered Philadelphia. He 
 saw that it was necessary for him to hold the country 
 round in complete subjection, and to this end he pro- 
 ceeded to send out expeditions in various directions. 
 One of these, against the forts on the Delaware, was 
 intrusted to Count Donop and his Hessians. Away 
 with this expedition went our friend, Fred Muller. He 
 was still the same simple, honest peasant as of old, 
 though the privations of war had changed him con- 
 siderably. He had picked up sufficient English to 
 know that he and his comrades were heartily detested 
 by the American people. The injustice of the cause he 
 was fighting for rankled deep in his breast, while the 
 barbarities of his comrades filled him with loathing. 
 He thought of desertion, but to him, simple peasant 
 that he was, honor was the abiding principle of life. 
 
THE HESSIANS. 37 
 
 and he would not break the oath of allegiance he had 
 taken to the English government. He kept himself 
 aloof from his comrades and earnestly endeavored to 
 rise from the ranks. And so he inarched on and on, 
 disgusted with his associations, but powerless to better 
 his position. 
 
 Fort Mercer, one of the forts commanding the Dela- 
 ware, la)^ on the edge of a thick forest, General Greene 
 being in command. It was a warm day in October, 
 and the garrison drowsily attended to its duties or 
 sought shady sleeping places under the trees. Sud- 
 denly the sentinel at the gates was startled by an ap- 
 proaching rider. He rushed to the gate, unfastened it 
 and threw it open, and an officer of the garrison dashed 
 hastily in. 
 
 ' ' To arms ! " he cried, ' ' the enemy are at hand. ' ' 
 Soon the Hessians, 1200 strong, emerged from the 
 forest. Count Donop demanded the surrender of the 
 garrison, but it was refused. Then the Hessians made 
 an assault and carried the outworks. Hardly a shot 
 disputed their advance. The fort was as silent as the 
 tomb. Would Greene surrender? On dashed the Hes- 
 sians, flushed with victory. Donop led the attack from 
 the south side in person. Next him stood Muller, pale 
 but determined. The excitement of the struggle was 
 upon him and his nerves were strung to the highest 
 tension. Nearer and nearer came the Hessians, when, 
 like a flash, the garrison sprang into action. From 
 every side the cannon were turned on the advancing 
 foe. Undismayed, Donop dashed on. Over the ditch 
 he went and on to the rampart. Past him sprang Mul- 
 ler, determined to be first at the top. He scales the 
 rampart, he waves the flag aloft in triumph. A cheer 
 broke from the Hessians, but the next moment he was 
 lying dead in the ditch. 
 
38 THE HESSIANS. 
 
 "A brave deed," mutters Donop, and he pressed 
 on, only to fall mortally wounded. And now the fire 
 of the garrison grew fiercer. The enemy wavered, 
 broke and fled. Night came and put an end to the 
 conflict. The moon and stars shed their pale radiance 
 on the scene beneath. Lying in the ditch, his face up- 
 turned to heaven, was Muller, and his breast formed a 
 pillow for his dying commander as his life-blood ebbed 
 slowly awa3^ 
 
 A deserter bore the tidings of Muller' s fate to his 
 native village. One maiden mourned away her life in 
 sorrow for him, and so the story of two lives is finished. 
 
THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA PARTY. 39 
 
 The Great American Tea Party 
 
 BY CHARLES L. POLLARD. 
 
 (Awarded a special prize of $25.) 
 
 THE sixteenth of December, 1773, dawned cold 
 and bleak in the city of Boston. Although the 
 morning light revealed but few persons on the 
 streets, the entire town and its surroundings wore a 
 disturbed appearance, as if some great crisis in the 
 struggle, which most people then believed to be in- 
 evitable, was approaching. This, indeed, was the ca.se. 
 The three tea ships then lying at anchor in the bay had 
 not been allowed to land or to discharge their cargoes, 
 by the Boston citizens, and an appeal to Governor 
 Hutchinson, to grant passes for the return of the ships 
 to England, had been made. On the day in question 
 he was expected to return his final answer, w^hether or 
 no such permission should be given, to a mass-meeting 
 of the townspeople, held in the Old South Church in 
 the afternoon. This explains the anxiety in the minds 
 of patriots, since some decisive step was contemplated 
 should the reply prove to be in the negative. It also 
 explains why a young girl of thirteen, or thereabouts, 
 was walking hurriedly down a side street toward a 
 small antiquated-looking house. Although by no 
 means a large mansion, the building had formerly been 
 a fine old homestead, with grounds and outhouses, but 
 
40 THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA PARTY. 
 
 had now entirely lost its aristocratic appearance and 
 surroundings, and was inhabited only by a widow, 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Fiske, and her two children — Mary, 
 whom we have already seen, and Nathaniel, a young 
 man of twenty-three. 
 
 The young girl entered the house, and passing 
 through the gloomy ' ' best room ' ' and the cosy dining- 
 room, went into the kitchen, where her mother, a 
 sharp-featured woman, small and thin, and correspond- 
 ingly energetic, was at work. 
 
 ' ' Well, child, did you see lyucy ? ' ' was her greeting. 
 
 "Yes, mother, but she was in bed, not able to sit 
 up. I gave her the letter." 
 
 " What did she say about " Mrs. Fiske paused 
 
 and looked around. Although very brave in most re- 
 spects, she had a constant fear lest in some inexplicable 
 way she should lose, not only the old house, which had 
 been in the family ever since it was built, but her chil- 
 dren also. Satisfying herself that there was no lurking 
 spy within hearing, she continued, more composedly : 
 
 ' ' What does she think about the result of the meet- 
 ing?" 
 
 ' ' She said she thought the Boston men might do 
 something desperate, and take matters into their own 
 hands at once, if the answer was what they expected." 
 
 "Do something desperate? I don't understand 
 you, child." 
 
 "Why, I suppose she meant that they might set 
 fire to the ships, or something of that sort, rather than 
 allow them to land in Boston harbor. ' ' 
 
 Mrs. IvUcy Paterson, the lady referred to in the 
 above conversation, had long been regarded as a kind 
 of oracle — an Apollo at Delphi, in fact — in the Fiske 
 family, and the widow, invariably, when in need of 
 advice, as in the present case, either went herself or 
 
THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA PARTY. 41 
 
 sent Mary to report it, generally giving some pretext 
 for her visits. This morning, in spite of her apparent 
 cheerfulness, or "spunk," as a New Englander would 
 call it, she finished her work in great apprehension, 
 "because," as she confided to Mary afterwards, "I 
 knew nothing of the kind would ever be stirring with- 
 out Nathaniel at the head of it, and I knew there was 
 no stopping him." 
 
 L,ate that afternoon the two set out for the "Old 
 South" to attend the great gathering of Boston's patri- 
 otic citizens, assembled there to receive the Governor's 
 reply and to decide upon what course to pursue if it 
 should be the expected refusal' 
 
 Just as they went up the steps Mar}^ heard a low 
 whistle, and, looking around, saw her brother beckon- 
 ing to her. After speaking to her mother, and assuring 
 her that there was no danger, she hurried to meet him. 
 He led her to a small shed behind the church, used to 
 shelter horses during meeting. There she found about 
 fifty men, a few engaged in putting on masks, the 
 others busily blackening their faces. 
 
 "Now Mary," whispered her brother, "see here a 
 moment. We have resolved as soon as the Governor's 
 reply is received to attack the tea ships and throw the 
 tea overboard. Some one must let us know when to 
 come out, and you must be that one. Remember, 
 there is to be perfect secrecy." 
 
 ' ' But if the Governor should be willing to allow 
 the ships to return, what then?" softly answered 
 Mary. 
 
 "There's no danger of that — old red coat — but if 
 he really should, we must give it up. And in that case 
 strict secrecy just the same. Never tell anybody, not 
 even mother, what we intended to do. Now go back 
 as quickly as you can." 
 
42 THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA PARTY. 
 
 Mary hurried back to the church, where she found 
 her mother keeping a seat for her. The proceedings 
 had already begun, and the great crowd of people was 
 listening to different speakers on the situation. A 
 messenger had been sent to Governor Hutchinson, but 
 there was no sign of a reply. Time wore on, and 
 Mary, in her seat, thought with concern of her broth- 
 er's impatience at the length of the meeting ; but she 
 herself was so comfortable, and the speakers were so 
 pros)' that her eyes closed and she was almost fast 
 asleep, when the door opened and a man came in, has- 
 tened up the aisle, and handed a note to the Chairman. 
 Opening it, that officer arose and made the following 
 announcement : 
 
 ' ' Fellow citizens — I might more appropriately say, 
 Fellow sufferers and patriots — I have received the re- 
 ply of Governor Hutchinson to your request, and here 
 it is." 
 
 ' ' ' To the Chairman of the Committee : 
 Sir — I must absolutely refuse to grant any permis- 
 sion whatsoever for the three tea ships, now lying at 
 anchor in Boston Bay, to return without discharging 
 their cargoes. Such an act would be entirely unlawful 
 and uncalled for. 
 
 (Signed) Thomas Hutchinson, Governor.' " " 
 
 " I leave it you, citizens of Boston, to decide what 
 action shall be taken in the matter." 
 
 A storm of hisses and shouts of indignation arose 
 after the reading of the reply, and while Samuel Adams 
 was saying in a voice that resounded through the 
 church, ' ' This meeting can do nothing more to save 
 the country," Mary, now wide awake, was gathering 
 her cloak around her, and in the moment of deep 
 silence which followed that speaker's utterance she 
 hurried out to the shed. 
 
THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA PARTY. 43 
 
 ' ' Has the answer come ? What has been done ? ' * 
 cried her brother. 
 
 ' ' He has refused, and Mr. Adams says the people 
 can do nothing more to save the country." 
 
 "Then we will save it ! Come on, boys ! " And 
 raising a triumphant war-cry, they dashed around to 
 the front of the church. The people thronging out now 
 had an idea of what was to follow, inasmuch as a voice 
 from the gallery had cried out after Mary's departure : 
 "Hurrah for Griffin's wharf!" In fact, this person 
 had been specially instructed beforehand by the lead- 
 ers of the party. 
 
 A multitude of people followed the band down to 
 the shore, among them Mrs. Fiske and Mary, who, 
 upon their arrival at the wharf, drew her mother aside 
 to a small shed from which they could watch the pro- 
 ceedings. The company met with no resistance what- 
 ever on their way to the wharf, and, jumping into 
 boats, they soon arrived at the ships. Here some slight 
 opposition from the captains and crews was encounter- 
 ed, but it was useless ; they were threatened with con- 
 finement in irons if they did not obey and supply every- 
 thing needed for the work. Nathaniel led his party 
 directly to the hold of one of the ships, where, with 
 the aid of hoisting apparatus, they soon had all the 
 tea chests on deck, and the work of opening them and 
 disposing of the contents was begun. 
 
 As fast as one chest was opened, the tea contained 
 in it was thrown overboard, and another taken from the 
 deck. While the men were busily engaged in this 
 work Mary saw one of them come to the side of the 
 ship as if to overturn the chest he was carrying ; but 
 he stealthily took out several handfuls and thrust them 
 into his coat pockets. She rushed out of the shed, to 
 the great dismay of her mother, and called out wildly: 
 
44 THE GREAT AMERICAN TEA PARTY. 
 
 "There's a traitor trying to save some tea ! Oh, tell 
 them to catch him ! ' ' 
 
 A man standing near also observed the faithless act 
 and shouted with all his might to the ship. Some of 
 those on board finally comprehended what had been 
 done and saw the culprit just as he was running for 
 the boat. With a cry of "Traitor!" they chased 
 him, but he was too agile, and eluding them, jumped 
 over the side of the ship. A hearty laugh, in spite of 
 their indignation, went up from all who saw the occur- 
 rence. The man, O'Connor by name, was not seen 
 again. 
 
 It was in the "wee sma' hours of the morning" 
 when the tired participants returned home. The next 
 day Mary found two tea-leaves in her brother's shoes, 
 and these her great-grand-children preserve to this day 
 as a token that their ancestress, with her brother, took 
 an active part in what has since been known as ' ' The 
 Boston Tea Party." 
 
A STORY WITH A PERVERTED MORAL. 45 
 
 A Story with a Perverted Moral 
 
 BY RAYMOND D. THURBER. 
 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 "^ TElyl/ you I am going, Uncle Mose, so there 
 1 now." Tlie speaker, a girl of about ten, pro- 
 ceeded to put her threat into execution, while an 
 aged darkey stood hat in hand looking after her. His 
 countenance expressed a mixture of disapprobation 
 and amusement, and in an incomprehensible manner 
 he would first mutter " disrespeckful chile," and then 
 give a. delighted chuckle. Meanwhile Miss Margaret, 
 or Peggy, as she was generally called, wended her way 
 along so blithely and merrily that one would never 
 have supposed she was doing what she had been ex- 
 pressly forbidden to do. And here we may as well 
 relate the circumstances which led to the above em- 
 phatic remark. 
 
 Margaret Northcote belonged to an intensely patri- 
 otic family, living on the outskirts of Elizabethtown, 
 N. J., and she was going, as she so emphatically 
 announced, to see a friend of about her own age, who 
 lived in the town, half a mile away. The father of 
 this girl was a gentleman named Bent. This Mr. Bent 
 had formerly been an intimate friend of Margaret's 
 father, but, after the breaking out of the war, they 
 had Jaken different sides in the struggle (for Bent was 
 
46 A STORY WITH A PERVERTED MORAL. 
 
 a zealous Tory), and this had created a difference be- 
 tween them, which, increasing with time, had finally- 
 made them bitter enemies. The children, however, 
 still remained good friends, very properly thinking 
 that their fathers' opinions ought not to influence 
 them. But at last Peggy's parents interfered, and for- 
 bade her going to visit any longer at the Bents', de- 
 claring that they didn't want their daughter to get any 
 ' ' British notions." Mr. Northcote, however, was away 
 on business most of the time, and, as this afternoon 
 her mother was too busy to pay much attention to her, 
 she had decided to brave her parent's displeasure and 
 see her friend. Uncle Moses, who was as staunch a 
 patriot as her father, was opposed to her plan, and tried 
 to stop her, but unsuccessfully. To all his expostula- 
 tions she answered as has been stated, and though he 
 attempted to look very grim and disapproving, when 
 her back was turned a grin spread over the old negro's 
 features, and he chuckled to himself: "Hi ! she's her 
 mudder's own gal, shuah." Instead of going in and 
 reporting, as of course he ought. Uncle Moses went on 
 with his work. Perhaps it was her knowledge of the 
 old servant's character that caused Peggy to march on 
 so confidently, with no fear of being called back. 
 
 On reaching the Bents she found that Dorothy was 
 the only one of the family in. The two friends, there- 
 fore, enjoyed each other's society to the full, without 
 any disapproving fathers or mothers to frown upon 
 them. The afternoon rapidly wore away, and when 
 Peggy looked to see the time it was six o'clock. " I 
 wonder," she remarked, "that Uncle Mose hasn't been 
 sent for me long before this time. I supposed I might 
 have an hour or two with you, but I've been here all 
 the afternoon, and I don't believe mother knows it yet, 
 she's so busy." I am sorry to say that this remark 
 
A STORY WITH A PERVERTED MORAL. 47 
 
 and Peggy's previous conduct did not evince sufl&cient 
 regard for her mother's authority. But in her defence, 
 be it said, that in all other respects she showed becom- 
 ing obedience to the parental mandate ; and then, too, 
 some old sage, I believe, has ascertained in a way 
 known to philosophers, that a friend should be more 
 sacred than father or mother. Though I don't believe 
 that the generality of people would acknowledge this, 
 still so weighty an opinion ought to be taken into full 
 account in deciding this momentous question. ' ' Do 
 stay to tea," said Dorothy, " everybody's away and we 
 could have a lovely time." "Well, I believe I will," 
 replied Peggy, "I don't know when I can come 
 again." The statement that they would have a lovely 
 time was fully verified. In fact they had a rather 
 uproarious one, and it was to the decided relief of the 
 servants that Peggy rose to leave. " It's dusk now," 
 she exclaimed, "and I must go," and amid mutual 
 protestations of friendship she stepped out into the 
 open air. 
 
 Ordinarily it would not have been dark for an hour 
 yet, but that night a shower was coming up.' Peggy 
 was hurrying to get home before it should strike her, 
 when, on the outskirts of the town, she saw two men 
 talking. As she approached they stopped, and both, 
 leaning over the wall, seemed engrossed in the beauties 
 of the sunset, which, by the way, were not plainly vis- 
 ible on account of a dark bank of cloud which nearly 
 excluded the last rays of the sun. There seems very- 
 little in all this to excite curiosity, but then it is pro- 
 verbial that a very small thing will accomplish this re- 
 sult with the fair sex. Peggy looked back. At the 
 same moment a ray of light broke through the clouds 
 and lit up the faces of both men. One of them she 
 recognized — it was George Bent. Once or twice she 
 
48 A STORY WITH A PERVERTED MORAL. 
 
 had seen Dorothy's brother, though he was away most 
 of the time. 
 
 At this instant she came to a sharp curve in the 
 road which hid them from view. The moment she 
 turned the corner an irresistible desire took possession 
 of her to know what those men were saying. ' ' Why 
 did they stop talking when I passed ? and why did they 
 both turn away so that I couldn't see them ? " thought 
 Peggy. What she next proceeded to do could not per- 
 haps be considered exactly honorable. But bear in 
 mind the old proverb ; and if either love or war is a 
 sufficient excuse for doing anything whatsoever, why 
 should not curiosity be also, which is more potent than 
 either with some people ? At all events, as soon as 
 Peggy had turned this corner she hesitated for a mo- 
 ment, and then quickly climbed the stone wall by the 
 roadside. On the other side of the wall was an old 
 apple orchard. Along the fence especially there was 
 a continuous line of trees, which by their foliage in 
 spring nearly shut out the view from the road and by 
 their fruit in autumn entirely corrupted the morals of 
 all neighboring small boys. Under cover of these, 
 Peggy slowly retraced her steps on the other side of 
 the wall and at last reached one about fifteen feet away 
 from the two men. Should she try to pass from this 
 tree to the next under which they were standing ? She 
 stopped and listened. The men were still talking, but 
 in so low a tone that she could not understand what 
 they said. Keeping close to the wall, she stealthily 
 crawled along until nearly opposite the objects of her 
 curiosity, fearing each moment that some incautious 
 movement would betraj'- her. And now came the hard- 
 est part of all. The tree was several feet from the wall, 
 and, in order to get behind it, she would be obliged for 
 a moment to expose herself. Hardly daring, however,. 
 
A STORY WITH A PERVERTED MORAL. 
 
 49 
 
 to remain where she was, without stopping to think 
 she crawled out from the wall, and was quickly behind 
 the tree in comparative security. Then she composed 
 herself to listen. 
 
 The first words that greeted her ears were these, 
 from Bent, as she thought : "It was the merest 
 chance that I happened to see him, for I'm away most 
 of the time. But I knew him right away, and where 
 he must have come from. Did you notice the child 
 that passed here a minute ago ? Well, that's his 
 sister." Peggy could hardly believe her ears. Could 
 the}' mean her ? But her brother was in the Southern 
 army, as she had often heard. How could anj^ one 
 have seen him ? " What's he stopping there for," re- 
 turned the other, ' ' if his dispatches are so important ? ' ' 
 " It's not much out of his way," replied Bent. "And 
 then, too, he was sure of getting a good horse there." 
 "Not so very sure, either," was the answer. "Old 
 Northcote happens to be out of town with it, luckily." 
 ' ' When will he be back ? " " Probably early to-mor- 
 row morning." " Do you think he'll wait?" "No, 
 I think he won't." "Wouldn't it be better to make 
 the attempt to-night, then?" "No, for he'll sell his 
 life dearly." "Well, and isn't it worth it? " returned 
 the other with an oath. " Especially with those pa- 
 pers of his ? " "And then," went on Bent, " I've got 
 sure notice the British will be here to-morrow, and then 
 we could hand him over to them. He's safe in the 
 meantime, as the house is watched. Of course, if he 
 tries to get away, we can't wait till to-morrow, but he 
 doesn't know he's watched and won't try to hide what 
 he does." 
 
 Poor Pegg5^ thought all this while that she must be 
 having a dream, and a very unpleasant one. Were 
 her neighbors really such wicked people ? Her father 
 
50 A STORY WITH A PERVERTED MORAL. 
 
 and mother were right. She would never go into their 
 house again. 
 
 It had now grown very dark. The lightning was 
 every moment becoming brighter and the thunder 
 louder, while a high wind, the invariable forerunner of 
 a shower, was waving the grass and shaking the apple 
 tree above her. She could have heard no more had 
 there been more to hear. A vivid flash of lightning 
 showed her the two figures hurrying toward the town, 
 while the crash of thunder which followed completely 
 drowned the sound of their footsteps. The next mo- 
 ment the shower was upon her. Half drenched by the 
 rain and blinded by the incessant glare of the light- 
 ning, Peggy climbed over the wall and started for home 
 on a run. She did not run far, however. The wind 
 took away her breath and the rain soaked her to the 
 skin. Her pace grew slower and slower, till she could 
 hardly drag one foot after the other. That half mile, 
 of which she had always thought so little, seemed now 
 an interminable distance. When at last she reached 
 the house, she dropped into a chair utterly exhausted. 
 Mrs. Northcote had risen, alarmed, to meet her, but 
 seeing that she was only tired and out of breath, waited 
 until the girl had recovered a little, and then gravely 
 asked, "Peggy, where have you been? I sent Uncle 
 Mose for you an hour ago, and he isn' t back yet. " " To 
 
 the Bents', mother, and as I was coming home " 
 
 " But, Peggy," said her mother, " I thought I had for- 
 bidden you to go there. ' ' Poor Peggy ! Subsequent 
 events had completely driven this fact from her mind. 
 ' ' But, mother, ' ' exclaimed she, and her voice trembled, 
 ' ' I must tell you what happened as I came home. ' ' 
 Then, brokenly and incoherently, she told the whole 
 story, and ended by crying : ' ' John is in the Southern 
 army, isn't he, mother? and what does it all mean?" 
 
A STORY WITH A PERVERTED MORAL. 51 
 
 Mrs. Northcote turned very pale, but merely told Peggy 
 to take o£F her wet clothes and go straight to bed. 
 There, excited as she was, she was so tired she soon 
 fell asleep. 
 
 Peggy had hardly mounted the stairs when Mrs. 
 Northcote entered a small chamber adjoining the sit- 
 ting-room, and woke a sleeper stretched at full length 
 on the bed. They held a hurried conversation together 
 in the dark, and then, without a light, both descended 
 to the cellar, the sleeper stopping only to get his hat 
 and coat. " I suppose I'll have to go with the other 
 horse, poor as it is, since father isn't at home," said he. 
 "Yes," was the hurried reply, "you mustn't lose a 
 minute." In that side of the cellar farthest from the 
 road was a small window. Through this the man pro- 
 ceeded to climb, with no regard to dignity or anything 
 but haste and secrecy. ' ' You have the key ? ' ' whis- 
 pered she. "Yes," returned he, and stooping to kiss 
 her, a difficult performance, which nearly caused his 
 precipitation from the narrow window, he flopped — I 
 would prefer to say dashed, but a historian must sacri- 
 fice everything to truth — out into the rain,., which was 
 coming down in torrents, and by as guarded a way as 
 possible directed his steps toward the bam. Mrs. 
 Northcote stood looking out for several moments, and 
 then slowly groped her way upstairs, and dropped into 
 a chair. For awhile she sat with every nerve at the 
 highest tension, expecting each second to hear the re- 
 port of a musket ; but as minute after minute passed, 
 and nothing happened, she grew gradually calmer, and 
 finally retired to rest, having first relieved Uncle Moses, 
 who came in much excited, by telling him of Peggy's 
 return. 
 
 The next day the British made Blizabethtown a 
 call. If you consult a history of this war you will 
 
52 A STORY WITH A TERVERTED MORAL. 
 
 find that in the year 1780, on June 6, an incursion was 
 made into the Jerseys ; that in the course of it the 
 British entered Elizabeth town ; that they pillaged and 
 burnt several houses there, and that, all things consid- 
 ered, the expedition reflected no glory upon the British 
 arms. Among these houses was the Northcotes' . It 
 was first rummaged firom top to bottom with a thor- 
 oughness which nothing could escape, and while it was 
 being thus examined a band of men surrounded it with 
 their guns cocked. Then, after the search, all the 
 inhabitants being removed, it was set on fire, and, 
 strange to say, the men still surrounded it, seeming to 
 take a grim interest in the blaze, as if they did not see 
 enough of it in their savage trade. After all, however, 
 they appeared to go away dissatisfied with the havoc 
 they had wrought. 
 
 Mr. Northcote, being detained out of town, return- 
 ed in the afternoon to find his house in ashes ; but after 
 he had been informed of the safety of his wife and 
 child, and still more after a long talk with the former, 
 he did not seem to feel his loss at all keenly. His 
 cheerfulness was still further increased in a few days 
 by the news of his son's safety in Washington's camp 
 at Morristown. Before this time he had always tried 
 to discourage his wife (for women were curious then as 
 they are now, and probably ever will be) from prying 
 into the affairs of her neighbors. But ever after, strange 
 to say, his ideas seemed to change completel}^ and he 
 was often heard to remark that he knew of a great 
 many vices worse than curiosity. And, in truth, if 
 we ' ' give the devil his due, ' ' why should we not ren- 
 der full justice to disobedience and curiosity whenever 
 there is an opportunity, so much the more because the 
 opportunity comes so seldom ? 
 
A ROMAA'CE OF THE REVOLUTION, 53 
 
 A Romance of the Revolution. 
 
 BY EDITH HOBART. 
 
 ( ANNETJE'S GREAT-GRAND-DAUGHTER. ) 
 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 IN the year 1780 there stood in the midst of a great 
 farm, whose green banks sloped down to the noble 
 Hudson, a spacious stone house, the surroundings 
 of which were of unsurpassed beauty. In front of the 
 mansion ran the high-road which led to the city of 
 New York. Between this and the river and back of 
 the house, dotting the mountain side, were the slaves' 
 quarters, all looking the picture of neatness and com- 
 fort, for the owner of the place was not only a man of 
 great possessions, but kind and considerate to those 
 who were under him. 
 
 The family was an old and honored one, having 
 lived in that spot for many years, and was noted all 
 through the region for the valor of its men and the 
 beauty of its women. The present inhabitants of the 
 mansion were no unworthy members of their race, for 
 the father had gone to serve his country when first it 
 called for defence, while his comel}^ trusting wife had 
 not murmured at what she considered a call from duty, 
 but abl}^ addressed herself to the task of directing 
 affairs in his absence. He had been ordered to the 
 South with General Gates, and the family had heard 
 nothing: from or of him since. 
 
54 A ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 But his lovely daughter, a bright girl of 19, could 
 not bring herself to submit to the inevitable as cheer- 
 fully as did her bustling mother, and she spent many 
 unhappy hours grieving over the suspense as to her 
 father and the separation from her lover, whom she 
 had not seen for three years, the weary time having 
 been made still longer by the fact that she had not 
 heard one word from him since he had marched away 
 full of excitement at the thought of going to war, 
 which was hardly tempered by the sorrow he felt at 
 leaving her. 
 
 Early in July word had been brought of the pres- 
 ence of a detachment of British troops at Tarr3^town, 
 on the opposite shore of the river, and the news caused 
 great anxiety. Reports of the ravages of the enemy 
 had come to the peaceful homes by the river side, but, 
 as yet, the real significance of the horrors of war had 
 not been brought home to them. Now, however, they 
 felt themselves to be in real danger, for the enemy were 
 well provided with boats and it would be an easy thing 
 for them to cross the river, while the people in the im- 
 mediate vicinity of the Von Warten homestead were 
 almost unprotected, only a few men too old for 
 active service, some boys and the blacks being avail- 
 able in case of need. So all quickly busied them- 
 selves, preparing as best they could for a possible 
 contingency. 
 
 All the massive silver and the old-fashioned but 
 valuable jewelry — heirlooms in the family, most of it 
 having been brought over from Holland by their sturdy 
 Dutch ancestors — were placed in a strong iron box and 
 securely buried at the dead of a sultry July night, by 
 two of the most trusted blacks, under a great oak which 
 towered above its fellows half-way up the hillside. For 
 some weeks, however, the summer quiet was unbroken 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 55 
 
 by tread of martial feet, and the timid matrons and 
 trembling girls had almost forgotten their fears. 
 
 One intensel}^ warm afternoon in August, Madame 
 Von Warten was nodding over her knitting by the open 
 window, the heat and the stilltiess, which was only 
 broken by the soft, regular lapping of the water on the 
 shore, being very conducive to repose, when she was 
 rudely awakened by the hurried entrance of a little 
 slave-boy whom fright and running had combined to 
 deprive of the power of speech for a moment. ' ' Speak, 
 Tom ! what has happened ? " exclaimed the good lady, 
 all her smouldering fears alive in a moment. ' ' Oh ! ' ' 
 gasped the boy, ' ' three Britishers stop me in de road 
 and ask for a drink from de well, and I tol' 'em wait, 
 and run to you." "Only three?" asked Madame Von 
 Warten anxiously. " Dat's all, missus." " Then tell 
 them I shall never minister to the enemies of my coun- 
 try. Let them obtain their drink elsewhere ; not at my 
 well," Listening, she heard Tom deliver the defiant 
 message in trembling tones ; a laugh followed, and the 
 men were apparently departing. Hastening to an up- 
 per window, she looked after the retreating forms and 
 saw — three American officers, evidently of high rank, 
 one especially, who sat his horse so well and had such 
 an air of command, inducing her admiration, until sud- 
 denly the enormity of what she had done dawned upon 
 her, and in an agony of remorse and of anger against 
 both Tom and herself, she ran down to old Tom's 
 cabin with tears in her eyes. The culprit came to meet 
 her, wondering at the agitated manner of his usually 
 stately mistress. " Tom, oh, Tom ! those were Ameri- 
 cans — not Britishers. How could you make such a 
 mistake ? ' ' she exclaimed, looking the picture of dis- 
 tress. The frightened boy tried to explain that, being 
 in daily expectation of a raid from the enemy, he 
 
56 A ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 supposed of course the three men represented the foe, 
 being too badly frightened to notice the uniform. But 
 the good, woman was sorely distressed, for she was a 
 loyal patriot, and it was a bitter thought to her that 
 she should have refused so small a thing as a cup of 
 water to those whom she was so anxious to help. 
 
 Soon, her fair daughter, accompanied by two blacks, 
 returned from a visit to the next farm with such flush- 
 ed cheeks and so excited an air, that her mother 
 knew something unusual must have occurred. "Oh, 
 mother ! " she cried, as she reached the window where 
 the good dame sat, ' ' I have seen General Washington. ' ' 
 "What," cried her mother, "where?" "At Mme. 
 van Tassel's," Annetje answered. "We were on the 
 porch and three soldiers rode up and asked for water. 
 We gave them some milk, which they seemed to enjoy, 
 and the tallest one gave me back the glass with a bow 
 and said, ' With General Washington's best thanks, 
 my dear.' " " Oh," interrupted her mother, " then it 
 was to him I refused a drink." And she told her 
 storj^ to the girl's astonishment. Annetje managed to 
 comfort her mother, who, after a time, regained her 
 usual spirits. 
 
 It was in the early part of September, on a golden 
 afternoon, when the whole landscape looked as if asleep 
 in the sunshine, and the only wide-awake thing in 
 sight was Annetje, leaning across the lower half of the 
 great door, that a handsome young soldier riding up 
 the dusty road suddenly checked his horse and paused 
 to observe the beauty of the picture spread out before 
 him. That the scene was a familiar one only added to 
 its beauty for him, and he gazed upon it with fascinated 
 eyes. The old stone house, the gay flowers which 
 bordered the path nodding their heads sleepily, the 
 well with its great sweep, with which he had so often 
 
A ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 57 
 
 drawn such refreshing draughts, the silver}^ river curv- 
 ing in at that spot until it almost reached the highway, 
 and the great, green mountain forming a background 
 to the whole were lovely to look upon, but the chief 
 object of interest to the spectator appeared to be the 
 slender figure in white that stood in the doorway ; and 
 then — it would take far too long to relate all that hap- 
 pened then. By-and-by he was ushered into the sitting- 
 room, where the madam awaited him. There, the 
 overhanging rafters, the old Dutch clock, the diamond- 
 paned windows, the great fire-place, now filled with 
 grasses and guarded in front by the beautifully polish- 
 ed andirons, the stiff, high-backed chairs and all the 
 other furnishings of the room were just as when he 
 last looked on them, three years before. Jacob had 
 many adventures and thrilling tales to tell, and made 
 himself so entertaining that it was with reluctance 
 Annetje and her mother allowed him to depart. They 
 were comforted by the intelligence that he was on 
 General Washington's staff, then at Tappah, only 
 about eight miles from the homestead, and that he 
 could often ride over to see them while he remained in 
 the vicinity. 
 
 Shortly after this occurrence the whole country' was 
 thrown into a fever of indignation and anxiety by the 
 news of Arnold's treason. Our friends were greatly ex- 
 cited, as the affair, that was so important in its results, 
 occurred partly so near them. The good people's wrath 
 and contempt for the traitor knew no bounds, and it 
 was a source of wonder to them, as it has been to man}- 
 since, that a man could be so base as to betray his, 
 country and his commander, who put such confidence 
 in him, for the paltry sum of ^10,000. He had his re- 
 ward, however, for to the end of his life he suffered the 
 consequences of his ignoble act. Even the English 
 
58 A ROMANCE OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 despised him, and the remorse he felt only added to his 
 unhappiness. 
 
 On the afternoon of the second of October, Jacob 
 again rode up to the Von Warten mansion, but notwith- 
 standing the pleasure of meeting Annetje, his face still 
 wore a look of sadness as he told her of the scene he had 
 witnessed that day — how the young Andre, brought 
 from Tarry town to Washington's headquarters, had 
 been tried by court-martial and sentenced to be hung as 
 a spy ; how, throughout the trial, his manly bearing 
 and his frank confession of the whole plan had touch- 
 ed every heart. He was only acting under orders, but 
 he zvas a spy, and the unavoidable penalty was — death. 
 He knew it, and went bravely to his end while the sol- 
 diers looked on with moist eyes ; and Annetje, when 
 she heard the story, shed a few tears as she looked at 
 her noble soldier boy, and prayed that he might be 
 spared to her. And spared he was, for after the war 
 was over there was a happy wedding, and the young 
 couple Settled down in the old stone house, in which 
 their descendants live to this day. 
 
THE END OF THE STRIFE. • 59 
 
 THE END OF THE STRIFE. 
 
 BY RUTH IvUDLOW SEARING. 
 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 THE last rays of the setting sun were falling on the 
 quiet town of New lyondon. A solemn stillness 
 reigned throughout the deserted streets, and 
 only the faint breeze that wafted the withered leaves to 
 the ground gave any evidence of life. 
 
 But, look ! what strange, lurid light is that which 
 shines so brightly behind the trees ? Is it the light of 
 the setting sun ? No ; for through the stillness is heard 
 the sound of mad galloping, and a hatless, half-breath- 
 less rider dashes in sight, " lyondon's burning ! L,on- 
 don's burning ! fly for your lives ! " he cries, and with 
 clattering hoofs the horse and his rider are gone down 
 the village road. Out rush the people, young and old, 
 each heart beating wildly, every eye fixed upon the in- 
 creasing glow as it rises up behind the trees that stand 
 robed in their gorgeous September hues. 
 
 At the door of one cottage stands a young mother 
 with a tiny infant in her arms. She, too, looks, and 
 the light dies out of her blue eyes at the sight. Clasp- 
 ing the child tightly to her breast, she turns and enters 
 the house. What shall she do? Whither shall she 
 flee from the awful doom awaiting her? She walks 
 the room in anguish. " O baby ! " she cries, "how can 
 
6o THE END OF THE STRIFE. 
 
 I save you ? ' ' Suddenly a thought comes to her ; the 
 light returns to her e3^es, and calling the dog Hero, she 
 runs through the back door, down the garden path, un- 
 til she reaches the bottom of a small hill ; then, put- 
 ting the baby down on the grass, she feels with her 
 hands for something, and at last finds it. In the side 
 of this hill is built an underground room, in which 
 winter vegetables and provisions are stored, and if she 
 can only gain an entrance she and her child may be 
 saved. After finding the handle, she pulls and pulls 
 again with all her might. "O God," she cries, "it 
 will not move. ' ' Then setting her lips firmly together, 
 she pulls again. Ah ! it moves, it opens, and she 
 laughs with wild excitement. Then, snatching the 
 baby up, she starts to descend the slippery, moss-cov- 
 ered steps. Slowly, slowly she picks her way, and at 
 last reaches the earthen floor, and pulling out a board 
 from one of the corners, and folding her shawl upon 
 it, she lays the baby down. Then she goes up for 
 the dog. But the food and clothing have yet to be 
 brought, so, leaving the faithful dog by the child's 
 side, she climbs for the second time the dangerous 
 steps. 
 
 Running swiftly along the garden path, she at last 
 reaches the house. In a few moments a number of 
 articles are gathered together in a basket, and she 
 starts to get more, but a bright light attracts her and 
 she hears a low, coarse laugh. Oh ! horrors, they are 
 upon her, at the very door. She snatches up the basket, 
 and, after carefully looking around her, starts to run 
 through the garden. Stooping low behind the hedge 
 she walks, half creeps, to the vault. Her limbs tremble 
 violently as she descends into the gloom and after 
 putting the basket down she climbs up to shut the 
 door, that will escape notice, as it is covered with long 
 
THE END OF THE STRIFE. 6r 
 
 grass and moss. She is not a moment too soon, for a 
 redcoat suddenly appears in sight. 
 
 "Safe, safe," she cries, as the door falls into its 
 accustomed place. All night long, while pacing the 
 room in the darkness, she hears the footsteps of the 
 men, and her heart grows faint lest they find her place 
 of shelter. Gradually the sounds grow fainter and 
 fainter and at last die away in silence. The child 
 sleeps through it all and for that the mother is 
 thankful. 
 
 This lonely woman is Vera Allan, the wife of Ray- 
 mond Allan, a brave soldier under General Washing- 
 ton, fighting for liberty. He was loth to leave her, but 
 the noble wife urged him to serve his country, and with 
 a sad heart he left her. For months no word of him 
 had reached her, and she waited with a sickening dread 
 for news, good or bad. And now, as she waits and 
 watches, no rising sun tells Vera that another day has 
 dawned. But she longs to see the sunlight, longs to 
 feel the fresh air on her fevered face. Dare she look ? 
 Yes, she must. But when the steps are climbed and 
 the door reached, she finds to her horror that it will 
 not move. Then it dawns upon her that she has for- 
 gotten the inside key that hung in the old kitchen. 
 Starvation, yes, and death, stare her in the face. Ah ! 
 what horrible fate is hers? A faintness overwhelms 
 her and she falls in a swoon to the ground. For hours 
 she lies there unconscious, then revives, and at the 
 sound of her baby's voice all comes back to her 
 troubled mind. Day after day passes ; by careful 
 management her food is sufficient for her absolute 
 needs, and there a part of the time, by the light of a 
 candle, but mostly in darkness, she passes a living 
 death. At times, when her child seems almost gone, 
 she presses the little form close to her bosom and paces 
 
62 THE END OF THE STRIFE. 
 
 the hard floor. Poor old Hero is weak and thin, but 
 faithful to the last. 
 
 A sad change has come over Vera ; her cheeks are 
 wan and pale, great black rings are under the eyes, 
 into which has come a wild, hungry look, and it seems 
 as if reason would leave her, though she strives in her 
 weakness to overcome it. She knows not that at last 
 the morning of October 17, 1781, has dawned, and that 
 with its dawning the cannon balls have begun to plow 
 their way through General Nelson's house, Com- 
 wallis's headquarters, forcing the commander to leave 
 it. All the morning the uproar goes on. Comwallis 
 can send but few shots in return, for the American 
 riflemen are picking ofi" his gunners, his troops are 
 exposed, and everywhere the terrible havoc of human 
 lives goes on. At last the cannonade ceases, a white 
 flag is raised on the British works, and an officer ap- 
 pears. General Cornwallis proposes a suspension of 
 hostilities for twenty-four hours, and the appointment 
 of commissioners to agree upon terms of surrender. 
 Twenty-four hours ! Hope springs up in Comwallis's 
 breast ; by that time General Clinton may appear ; but 
 his hopes are dashed to the ground. General Wash- 
 ington refuses to give so long a time ; he desires the 
 British General to send his propositions in writing, be- 
 fore the commissioners meet or are appointed, and 
 fighting will be suspended for two hours. The com- 
 missioners meet and terms are agreed upon, and at two 
 o'clock in the afternoon of October 19 Cornwallis 
 surrenders. 
 
 The oflficers of both armies have put on their best 
 uniforms, the glorious stars and stripes float above the 
 Americans, while above the French troops are the 
 lilies of France. Out from Yorktown march the British 
 in silence and sadness, and tears glisten upon many a 
 
THE END OF THE STRIFE. 63 
 
 bronzed cheek, for it is humiliating to surrender. 
 Solemnly they march between the lines and lay down 
 their arms. Cornwallis is not there, for he is heart- 
 sick. At last it is over. Eleven thousand men, includ- 
 ing soldiers, sailors and Tories, are surrendered. 
 Seventy-five horses, 169 iron cannon, all the supplies 
 and ammunition, tents, camp equipages, and $10,000 
 in money are among the spoils. Joy is everywhere 
 filling the hearts of the people with wild exultation. 
 "Washington has sent one of his aids to the Congress at 
 Philadelphia. It is midnight when he arrives and the 
 slumbering people are awakened by the watchmen 
 crying out the hour of midnight, louder, more joyfully 
 than ever before. "Twelve o'clock, and Cornwallis 
 is taken ! ' ' Out from their beds the people spring, 
 women in night caps appear at the windows, people 
 rush out of the houses into the streets to congratulate 
 each other. ' ' Cornwallis is taken ! ' ' springs from 
 every throat. It seems as if they would go wild with 
 joy, for at last they are free from England's yoke of 
 dependence. 
 
 Ah, glad people, well may ye rejoice for your coun- 
 try's victory ; but death, too, has his victory, and he 
 seems to have stamped his seal upon Vera Allan and 
 her child. They are gradually dying of starvation. 
 The provisions have at last given out. The air is 
 suffocating, the darkness maddening. "Oh, God," 
 she cries in her anguish, ' ' save my child, or bring me 
 help, ' ' and the prayer dies away in a husky whisper. 
 If help does not come soon two souls will enter God's 
 fair kingdom, before another setting sun. But help is 
 coming. God has heard the prayer. 
 
 The war is now over and the soldiers have been 
 dismissed, each seeking the loved ones at home. 
 Through the town of New lyondon walks a solitary 
 
64 THE END OF THE STRIFE. 
 
 figure. Ruin and desolation meet him on every side ; 
 his home is a black mass of ruins. At the sight his 
 cheek grows pale and the cry, " Where is my wife? " 
 rises to his trembling lips. ' ' Is she a victim to that 
 brutal Arnold ? ' ' and he clenches his fist in an agony 
 of despair. Vera's guardian angel must have whisper-' 
 ed in his ear, for just then he rushes to the vault and 
 strains his ear to catch a faint sound of life. A low 
 moan reaches him. Then, with a firm grasp, he pulls 
 the door and opens it. "Vera! Vera!" he cries, 
 gazing into the deep gloom beneath, and descending 
 the steps. Is that thin, sad-faced woman his bright, 
 beautiful wife? "Ray! Ray!" she gasps, and in a 
 moment she is in his arms. 
 
 After many days and nights Vera and her child 
 recover from a severe illness. At last, when Ray takes 
 them to a pretty new home, her cup of happiness is 
 full, though old Hero dies. And when Vera tells her 
 husband of those awful hours in the vault, he thanks 
 God that he was destined to reach her before it was 
 too late. 
 
How Dorothea Hathaway Averted a National Catastrophe. 65 
 
 How Dorothea Hathaway Averted a 
 National Catastrophe. 
 
 BY ALICE H. MEIGS. 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 ALONG, dark hall. The portraits of two old 
 persons that frowned down from the walls as 
 though resenting the modem innovations below ; 
 a soft, thick carpet under foot, so old that its colors 
 had faded to a dull, uniform red ; a low window with 
 tiny, diamond-shaped panes, letting in more gloom than 
 light ; a small iron-bound chest in a dark comer ; heavy, 
 smothering hangings — these were the belongings of 
 this long, dark hall. 
 
 A door opened softly and a modern innovation 
 entered in the shape of a girl about seventeen years 
 old. A soft light seemed to dispel the gloom. It 
 could not have been her dress — that was dark gray. 
 Her brown hair curled waywardly around a sweet, 
 roguish-looking face. Her straight eyebrows were 
 drawn down into a dark frown. She seemed -rather 
 ashamed of what she was going to do. 
 
 She moved towards a door, hesitated a moment, 
 
 and bending her head looked in at the key-hole. She 
 
 sees a librar}^ with books, and more books piled up to 
 
 the ceiling. At a table sits an old man energetically 
 
 pointing out some spot on a map before him to another 
 
 man who is bending over it. 
 5 
 
66 Hoiu Dorothea Hathaway Averted a National Catastrophe. 
 
 " You have two courses before you," said Master 
 Hathaway. "You may go to Concord, capture our 
 stores, confound us — we are bright men, bu,t a little set- 
 back like that takes the wit out of our heads — then, 
 while we are in dire confusion, you can fall upon us 
 and win the day. Or you can act like gentlemen and 
 fight us face to face like men. Take your choice." 
 
 " I will see what General Gage says," returned the 
 visitor. " By night, of course." 
 
 ' ' You ass ! ' ' returned Master Hathaway contempt- 
 uously. " I should like to see you get out of Boston 
 without a row by daylight ! ' ' and he began rolling up 
 the maps. 
 
 Mistress Dorothea promptly fled to her own room 
 and locked herself in. 
 
 ' ' What shall I do ? " she asked of the pretty 
 maiden she saw in the mirror. "Are you going to 
 stand up and scream ' My Uncle Gaspar is a British 
 spy ? ' Well, my dear, that is all the sense I gave you 
 credit for. What would Priscilla say ? Why need I 
 say anything about Uncle Gaspar? Why can't I go 
 and tell John Farden to tell Joseph Warren ? Ah ! I've 
 got it now, ' ' and she proceeded to act upon it. 
 
 First she opened her door. Then she drew down 
 the curtains. Then she groaned. Then she flung 
 herself on her bed with more groans. Then she tossed 
 from side to side and groaned again. 
 
 ' ' Dorothea, ' ' said a quiet voice at the door, ' ' is thee 
 in pain ? ' ' 
 
 A groan. 
 
 Master Hathaway came in and laid his cool hand 
 upon his niece's forehead. 
 
 "Poor child," he said, tenderly, "thee has one of 
 thy headaches. I will go away and let thee sleep," and 
 he went away, closing the door softh^ after him. 
 
How Dorothea Hathaway Averted a National Catastrophe. 67 
 
 No sooner had his soft steps died away than Doro- 
 thea sprang off the bed, slipped off her shoes and shot 
 the bolt in the door. She listened and then pulled up 
 her curtains and looked out. It was towards dusk, 
 and in a quarter of an hour she could leave the house 
 in safety to see John Farden. Dorothea's bosom friend 
 was a red-hot rebel who had inspired Dorothea with 
 a love for everything that was not British. As Master 
 Hathaway never expressed an opinion upon the war, 
 his niece supposed he was neutral, or too much en- 
 grossed in his beloved library to trouble himself con- 
 cerning it. But Hannah, her old nurse and Master 
 Hathaway's housekeeper, had confided to our heroine 
 that the gentleman upstairs was a Briton. Dorothea 
 had indignantly denied it and gone to see. 
 
 When it was sufl&ciently dark. Mistress Hathaway 
 opened her window and looked out. A large cherry- 
 tree grew close by it, and often had she climbed up and 
 down with Priscilla. She could descend with her eyes 
 shut, she knew, j^et a feeling of some sort deterred her. 
 She felt that she was betraying her uncle, and the 
 thought was odious. But she strengthened her mind 
 with the remembrance of other Hathaways, dead and 
 gone, who had sacrificed their homes and everything 
 held dear to their king, who afterward hung them for 
 treason. 
 
 This seemed to give her great courage, for she sat 
 upon the window-sill with her feet outside, seized hold 
 of a branch with both hands, gave a little spring, and 
 immediately she was standing in a crotch of the tree. 
 Getting down was an easy matter, and she was on the 
 ground in a twinkling and off at a run for Priscilla 
 Farden's. She would see John Farden in the garden 
 and tell him that she had heard that the British were 
 coming to seize the stores. 
 
68 How Dorothea Hathaway Averted a National Catastrophe. 
 
 As she slowly skirted the house she saw, to her 
 great delight, a light in Priscilla's room. So she flung 
 a pebble against the window and waited. A shadow 
 crossed the white curtain and a short interval passed, 
 during which Dorothea danced with impatience. Then 
 the front door opened silently and a girl rushed out. 
 
 " I knew it was you, you dear old thing," she cried, 
 as she kissed our heroine. ' ' What does possess you to 
 come here at this time of the night ? " 
 
 ' ' I want to see I^ieutenant Farden, ' ' said Dorothea, 
 quietly. 
 
 ' ' He has gone out to dinner, ' ' replied Priscilla with 
 kindly impetuosity. "Come in and see me, there's a 
 dear. He will be back in an hour or tw^o. ' ' 
 
 But Dorothea had been making her plans ; she must 
 disguise herself and go to see Joseph Warren. 
 
 " Has John worn his uniform ? " she asked, quietly. 
 
 Priscilla looked at her with surprise. 
 
 " No, it is upstairs. Dorothea, you aren't going to 
 dressing? What for? Oh, do tell me! Where are 
 you going ? ' ' 
 
 " I can't tell you," said Dorothea, calmly. "It is 
 a secret. Yes, I will dress up in John's uniform." 
 
 Priscilla was too much astonished to speak, so she 
 led the way upstairs without a word. Silentlj' she laid 
 the uniform out upon the bed. Silentl)' she tied her 
 friend's hair as a queue and showered powder upon it. 
 And then her admiration broke out, as Dorothea stood 
 before the glass outlining a shadowy mustache upon 
 her pretty lip with burnt cork. 
 
 "Dorothea Hathaway! " exclaimed Priscilla, "you 
 are perfectly superb. Won't you tell me where you 
 are going ? ' ' 
 
 "No," said the young soldier, with a stiff bow. 
 " Good night. Mistress Farden." 
 
JIoiv Dorothea Hathaway Averted a National Catastrophe. 69 
 
 When Dorothea arrived at Joseph Warren's house 
 she was horrified at beholding it brilliantly lighted. 
 She remembered Priscilla's remark that her brother 
 had gone out to dine. Oh, what an idiot she had been 
 not to know that he had come here, for Warren was 
 his best friend. Why didn't she write him? Why 
 didn't she, with ordinarj^ sense, leave a letter for him 
 with Priscilla ? 
 
 All that was too late now, and she desperatel}^ went 
 up the steps and knocked. The door was thrown open 
 and a servant appeared. 
 
 " Tell Mr. Warren that I should like to speak with 
 him," said Dorothea, and the servant vanished, voxy 
 much impressed, only to return with the dread an- 
 nouncement : 
 
 ' ' Mr. Warren says will you please step into the 
 dining-room ? ' ' 
 
 Poor Dorothea ! 
 
 What pen can describe her sensations at being sud- 
 denly conducted into a large room, with twenty gen- 
 tlemen, some drinking wine, and all looking at her. 
 She knew almost every one by sight and many of them 
 intimately. 
 
 ' ' Well ? ' ' said Warren inquiringly, 
 
 ' ' I would like to see you alone, ' ' she replied. 
 
 ' ' Speak out. We are all friends here, ' ' said John 
 Farden. 
 
 So the girl spoke. "The British are going to Con- 
 cord to capture our stores. I don't know when, but 
 they are going." 
 
 A torrent of questions poured out upon her, in the 
 midst of which she made her escape. The result of 
 her work was soon evident. The Americans began re- 
 moving their stores, and the battle of I^exington was 
 fought on April 19, 1775. 
 
70 How Dorothea Hathaway Averted a National Catastrophe. 
 
 If John Farden recognized Dorothea in her disguise 
 he kept his own counsel. After the war was over and 
 he had a wife of his own, he said to her one day : 
 
 " Dorothea, do you remember that soldier who came 
 to us one night at Joseph Warren's ? " 
 
 And sweet Mistress Farden looked up and then 
 down, turned red and then white, and murmured : 
 
 ' ' Oh, John ! Who told you ? ' ' 
 
MAD ANTHONY'S CHARGE. 71 
 
 MAD ANTHONY'S CHARGE. 
 
 BY ALEXANDER NELSON EASTON. 
 (Awarded the first prize of $35 for the best poem.) 
 
 CLOSE beside the River Hudson, stood a fortress large and 
 strong ; 
 But the foemen — the dread British, held that fort and held 
 it long : 
 Patriots in vain might storm it — there it stood so grim and tall : 
 Piled behind the sullen breastworks, lay the powder and the ball. 
 
 It was in a time of trouble, and our nation was pressed sore ; 
 Clothed in bloodshed, through the country, stalked the cruel 
 
 tyrant War, 
 Leaving many a mark of anguish, leaving many a bitter trace. 
 In the pain and in the sorrow, seen on every anxious face. 
 
 Husbands, fathers, sons and brothers — these had perished in the 
 
 fight, 
 Battling for their God and country, for our freedom and the right ! 
 But there still were trusty patriots, who were yet within the field. 
 They had shed their blood already, they would rather die than 
 
 yield. 
 
 There was one among the soldiers, who had longed the fort to 
 
 gain. 
 He had never yet been vanquished — brave, headstrong Anthony 
 
 Wayne ; 
 Washington, his chieftain, questioned, whether he the fort could 
 
 take, 
 And he answered : " General, listen, Pd storm Hell for freedom's 
 
 sake !" 
 
72 MAD ANTHONY'S CHARGE. 
 
 'Twas in summer, and the broiling sun was beating fiercely down 
 On the tents pitched in the meadow, on the breastwork huge and 
 
 brown ; 
 By the ramparts of the fortress, with his rifle at his side, 
 Stood the watchful English picket, and the distant tents he eyed. 
 
 With his pistols in the holster, and his sword clasped in his hand. 
 Seated on his veteran charger. Gen. Wayne rang out command. 
 From the huts and tents surrounding, with the rifle, pistol, sword, 
 Clust'ring 'round their dauntless leader, came the ready, anxious 
 horde. 
 
 " Fix your bayonets — empty rifles ! Fire not a shot to-day ; 
 By the steel upon our muskets we must conquer in this fray ! " 
 With their bayonets fixed and steady, swords and barrels gleam- 
 ing bright, 
 Stood they waiting for the signal — eager to commence the fight. 
 
 Some were veterans of the army, they for years had followed war ; 
 Others were but just recruited, they had never fought before. 
 Looking at the upturned faces, Wayne cried, "Let our motto be, 
 To the one who fights for freedom God will give the victory ! " 
 
 Belched the cannons fire and thunder, burst the shells to left and 
 
 right ; 
 Through the smoke and din of battle, charged the heroes in their 
 
 might ; 
 And the groans of dying comrades heard they, yet they passed 
 
 them by, 
 Though their hearts grew faint within them, as they left them 
 
 there to die ! 
 
 Suddenly a rifle bullet, whistling from the British hold, 
 Struck the General in the forehead, headlong fell the leader bold; 
 From the lips grown pale so quickly, issued forth a feeble moan. 
 On the hill the deadly cannons boomed their answer to his groan. 
 
 With their faces stern and anxious, gathered round his trusty 
 
 men — 
 He, by sturdy arms supported, staggered to his feet again : 
 " It is nothing but a flesh wound, 'tis no time to falter now — 
 Stony Point must yet be taken, or I die to keep my vow." 
 
MAD ANTHONY'S CHARGE. 73 
 
 Forward through the din of battle, on their shoulders bore they 
 
 him, 
 Each man grasping tight his musket, charging still with glorious 
 
 vim ! 
 Though the cannons roared the louder, and the bullets rattled 
 
 fast, 
 Not one ever stopped or faltered, while their life and strength 
 
 might last. 
 
 Ah ! what scenes of death and'suflF'ring, and of agonizing pain. 
 
 Ah ! what lives to Freedom given, for they died that she might 
 reign. 
 
 Patriots, falling from the bullets, left their life blood, warm and 
 red, 
 
 On the, soil which they had fought for, while their comrades on- 
 ward sped. 
 
 British cheeks grew pale with terror, as their foemen nearer came ; 
 They had raised a demon in them, those were wild who once were 
 
 tame. 
 Right before the fearful cannon, in their fury charged our men, 
 Sprung they bravely on the ramparts — backward fell the tyrants 
 
 then. 
 
 Over all the fallen corpses brave old Anthony was borne, 
 
 With his blood still downward trickling, and his clothing pierced 
 
 and torn. 
 High upon the trampled breastwork were the mangled bodies 
 
 piled ; 
 Now our men were on the redcoats, for despair had made them 
 
 wild. • 
 
 A few moments' fiercest fighting, and the bloody deed was done ; 
 
 Many patriots were dying, but the victory was won. 
 
 Though their wounds were gaping, bleeding, 3'et the}' showed 
 
 they could be free — 
 "To the one who fights for freedom God will give the victory ! " 
 
74 MAD ANTHONY'S CHARGE. 
 
 Yes, beside the River Hudson, stands that fortress there to-day 
 And its walls are as defiant as when captured in that fray. 
 Since the day that it was taken, we have held it as our own, 
 Though old Anthony, who took it, lies beneath the sod alone. 
 
 Honor be to those brave soldiers, who gave up their lives so true. 
 That the blessed light of freedom might shine all our country 
 
 through. 
 Honor be to that brave general, who through valor won the fray. 
 At the capture of the fortress, which I tell you of to-day. 
 
THE BATTLE OF TRENTON. 75 
 
 THE BATTLE OF TRENTON, 
 
 BY MARGARET RIDGELY SCHOTT. 
 
 (Awarded the prize of $15 for the second best poem.) 
 
 THE night is cold, the sparkling snow 
 Has shrouded all the earth below ; 
 Low hang the lamps of heaven on high 
 The depths of blue that dye the sky 
 Grow deeper at the zenith's belt, 
 And where the earth begins to melt 
 Into the distance, and the sky, 
 The fainting blue, begins to die 
 And vanish, like a broken prayer. 
 Across the hazy mists of air. 
 And where the river windeth slow, 
 The rocks of ice and drifts of snow 
 Impede the motion of a boat. 
 As if some madman at her throat 
 In vain did try to drag her down. 
 But perseverance was the crown 
 That made the noble ship the queen 
 Of all the seas that she had seen, 
 And all the islands, sun-caressed, 
 That lay upon the water's breast. 
 
 A soldier standing on her prow 
 
 With eyes down bent and knitted brow, 
 
 Is wrapped in meditation deep ; 
 
 His thoughts are those that will not reap 
 
 A goodly harvest in his heart. 
 
 For lo ! he sees the waters start 
 
 And tremble, and, as if long pent. 
 
 An earthquake through the waters sent 
 
 A shock, to ravage there and rave. 
 
 Clear mirrored on a loosened wave. 
 
 He sees a maiden, wondrous fair, 
 
 Who knots a lock of golden hair 
 
 And ties it round a floweret blue, 
 
76 THE BATTLE OF TRENTON. 
 
 Fresh plucked from out its shade of dew. 
 "Take this," she cries to him who stands 
 Beside her on the sounding sands ; 
 " This flower, an emblem of the peace 
 That here shall reign when feuds release 
 Their claims upon the lives of men. 
 This lock, a summer's token when. 
 Beneath the beating of the stars, 
 Be}'ond the sobbing of the bars, 
 Our love and pledges first were told ; 
 But when the leaves to red and gold 
 Were changed by Autumn's brilliant brush. 
 O'er woods and dales there came a hush ; 
 There rang a bugle on the shore 
 That echoed back the name of War ! " 
 The soldier started, glanced around. 
 The ship its destined place had found. 
 " To land ! to land ! " the soldiers cry, 
 " To win the fight, or fighting die ! " 
 The Hessian revels had not stilled 
 The night, when camp and tents were filled 
 With sounds of distant marching feet, 
 Hurrying down the torch-lit street, 
 They heard the drunken leader's call : 
 " To arms ! to arms ! ye warriors all ! " 
 In mockery the trumpets blew. 
 As down the ranks he hastened through 
 Each group of soldiers standing there. 
 Stunned by the torches' blaze and glare. 
 
 The battle raged, the cannon roared. 
 Bright flashed the sabre and the sword, 
 The smoke in columns upward wreathed, 
 Bearing the prayers the soldiers breathed. 
 A hundred hands upheld in fight. 
 That perished ere the dawning light 
 Had streaked the heaven's vault with gray, 
 And darksome night had changed to day. 
 Among the slain a youth did lie. 
 One hand his flag and banner by ; 
 The other clasped a flower fair, 
 Tied to a tress of golden hair. 
 
NA THAN HALE. 77 
 
 NATHAN HALE. 
 
 BY MARY ELDER. 
 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 D 
 
 ISASTER and gloom o'er the army hung- 
 
 Just fourteen thousand men ; 
 The leader's voice like a clarion rung, 
 And his words were earnest then ; 
 
 " Is there one in all the ranks to-day 
 Who will take his life in his hand — 
 
 Through the British lines to force his way 
 For the sake of the suffering land? 
 
 " He must find what Lord Howe intends to do, 
 
 He must hang upon his track ; 
 Find out the enemy's numbers, too. 
 
 And the plan of the next attack." 
 
 No one spoke ; no answer came 
 
 From that tired and suff'ring band — 
 
 None dared to assume a dishonored name 
 For the love of their bleeding land. 
 
 Then each head drooped in silent grief, 
 
 And each man held his breath ; 
 For the trial of a spy is short, and brief 
 
 Is the way from life to death. 
 
 Like the first loud crack of the thunder peal, 
 
 So startling was the tone — 
 " My country's woes in my soul I feel, 
 
 Her cause shall be my own. 
 
 " I have tried for a year to serve that cause, 
 But my efforts have been in vain ; 
 
 In the face of danger I may not pause, 
 Though I never stand here again." 
 
78 NATHAN HALE. 
 
 And the hero's spirit lit his eye 
 
 With a fire that would never quail. 
 " In freedom's name, though I faint or die, 
 
 I will go," said Nathan Hale. 
 
 " Oh, do not go ! " each brave man said. 
 As they pressed the soldier's hands ; 
 
 But with flashing eye and uplifted head — 
 " I go where duty commands ! 
 
 " In the garb of a teacher I'll pass their line — 
 
 A dress becoming and fit ; 
 Their plans and manoeuvres will soon be mine, 
 
 I will help my country yet." 
 
 And he left his comrades that autumn morn 
 
 In the camp on Harlem Heights ; 
 O'er the dancing waves of the sound he was borne. 
 
 With their exquisite delights. 
 
 For his years were few, and his heart was gay 
 
 And with joy was brimming o'er ; 
 And he gazed on the white tents far away, 
 
 On fatal Long Island shore. 
 
 He thought of those he might never more see, 
 
 And of all that makes home dear: 
 There fell a gem, for sympathy 
 
 A consecrated tear. 
 
 He entered their lines and peered in each tent 
 
 And sat at the officers' mess, 
 And every hour of two weeks was spent 
 
 'Mong their works in his teacher's dress. 
 
 He learned their strength, and each move they planned. 
 
 And his soul with hope did burn ; 
 On the breezy shore I see him stand, 
 
 Awaiting the boat's return 
 
 To convey him back to his comrades true ; 
 
 But that would never be, 
 For a traitor base, the teacher knew. 
 
 Had sealed his destiny. 
 
NA THAN HALE. 79 
 
 An officer from ambush leapt 
 
 And called him to surrender. 
 Now every hope was quickly swept 
 
 From the country's young defender. 
 
 A British ship lay in the sound ; 
 
 They carried him aboard, 
 And manacled and strongly bound 
 
 His form with hempen cord. 
 
 They carried him before Lord Howe — 
 
 To his house on Beekman Hill ; 
 He listened with a haughty brow — 
 
 " Take him away, it is my will ! 
 
 " Yes, take him ere the morning sun 
 
 Shall gild the eastern sky; 
 Go hang him ! Let the work be done 
 
 On this rebel captive spy." 
 
 At break of day they brought him out 
 
 From his cold and gloomy cell, 
 And marched him 'mid the brutal shout. 
 
 The insulting taunt and 3^ell. 
 
 With head erect and mien so grand, 
 
 He looked from earth to sky. 
 As if he felt that for his land 
 
 'Twas glory, thus to die. 
 
 He gave them letters to his friends ; 
 
 They rudely read them there, 
 Then tore them up and flung the ends 
 
 Into the morning air. 
 
 " Ho ! swing him off! " the rabble cried, 
 
 " Your last confession make." 
 " I regret that only one life," he replied, 
 
 " I lose for my country's sake." 
 
 He died, but on the roll of fame 
 
 His words shall through all time 
 Still point to the young hero's name 
 
 In characters sublime. 
 
8o GAVIN JAMES'S STAND. 
 
 GAVIN JAMES'S STAND. 
 
 BY WALTERINA FRANK. 
 
 [The incident upon which these verses are based may be found in Head- 
 ley's " Washington and His Generals," vol. II., pp. 247-8.] 
 
 BY the fires' light and the torches' glare, 
 And the swinging shadow of tree and bush, 
 And the dying embers' lurid stare 
 Made bright by the night wind's whispered hush. 
 Down the thick dark of the forest-glade, 
 
 Over the river, rushing and strong, 
 A sudden abatement by hoof treads made 
 In its rhythmic, turbulent song — 
 
 And now they are out on the open way, 
 
 Where the moonlight comes sifting down. 
 Dropping a glance which shall always stay 
 
 On the crescent in Marion's leather crown. 
 For, cut in the crescent, firm and deep down. 
 
 Were the words that to us are life and breath, 
 The theme of our countr)''s cradle song — 
 
 They are simply " Liberty or Death." 
 
 And James and Marion, side by side. 
 
 Fly on in silent avenging night : 
 For Watson waits at the end of their ride 
 
 To be met and conquered and put to flight. 
 At the head of the cavalry's scurrying force 
 
 Is Horry, whose eyes gleam with impudent daring. 
 Who, first in the battle, a captain of horse, 
 
 Would attempt for the others a foothold and clearing. 
 
GAVIN JAMES'S STAND. 8i 
 
 And now, in their never-slackening stride, 
 
 They have reached the Wiboo swamp. 
 With the sedge and sassafras close beside, 
 
 Perfuming the heavy damp. 
 The moon is gone with the shadowy dark. 
 
 And the clouds on the edge of the sky 
 Are rolling away to some other part, 
 
 Disclosing the sun's red e3'e. 
 
 They see, by the gleam of the early light. 
 
 They are face to face with the foe. 
 And Horry, dashing away to the right. 
 
 Has but a few paces to go. 
 Watson's men stand firm as a reef 
 
 Beyond which no vessel may. 
 As though they were sure it would come to grief 
 
 In trying to cut its way. 
 
 And Horry's men cannot get through. 
 
 Hack and slash as they will — 
 What can their swords from the sawmill do 
 
 Against well-tempered steel ? 
 Marion, seeing their sore distress, 
 
 Shrieks, in a voice like a bugle call — 
 " Charge, my men ! to the thick of the press ! 
 
 Charge, my valiant men all !" 
 
 Like a shot that is sped with a giant's strength, 
 
 They rushed down the trampled green, 
 Covering quickly the little length 
 
 That lay between Horry and them. 
 The regular troops, with practised step, 
 
 Were winning the waning fight, 
 When beneath their raised arms the Tories crept, 
 
 Sneaking out to slake their spite. 
 
 They break to a run — straight on they come 
 
 To hang on Marion's flank. 
 When, clear from the rest of the battle's hum. 
 
 Sounds a voice from our last flying rank ; 
 
82 GAVIN JAMES'S STAND. 
 
 A hurling jump and a turning swing, 
 
 James fronts the Tory van, 
 And a host of stuttering curses ring. 
 
 From the horde opposed b}' one man. 
 
 His gray horse stops, and alone they stand. 
 
 Backed only by flying men ; 
 Yet well they know that the trusty band 
 
 Will turn to their rescue again. 
 James' mighty knees grasp the gray's broad girth, 
 
 He drops his guiding rein, 
 Knowing he'll not move a grain of earth 
 
 Until he has taken his aim. 
 
 His brows in their purpose are firmly knit. 
 
 The glow is red in his velvet eye, 
 His curling lips look thoroughly set 
 
 In scorn of his enemy ; 
 His musket's aim was steady and true — 
 
 He has shot the first man dead ! 
 A volley of lead the whole ranks through 
 
 Is harmlessly sped at his face and head. 
 
 The next — a dragoon — he has sent away 
 
 Beyond the boundary of thought ; 
 A bayonet thrust has enforced Death's sway. 
 
 And the end of Life's battles brought. 
 And Marion's men have rallied again. 
 
 In the strength of a regained might, 
 And are sending the Tories fiying in pain, 
 
 Defeat, and the reign of Death's might. 
 
A MARTYR OF THE REVOLUTION. 83 
 
 A Martyr of the Revolution. 
 
 BY DOROTHEA DEAN. 
 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 IT was a bright day in June of 1775, when a young 
 man, about one-and-twenty years of age, walked 
 hurriedly down the broad steps of one of the old- 
 est houses in the town of Coventry, Conn, A hand- 
 some man, with a face full of manly beauty and char- 
 acter, gracefully shaped, with wavy brown hair and 
 large, expressive blue eyes ; a graduate of Yale and a 
 man of rare intelligence, he was beloved by all. 
 
 Before reaching the gate he paused, and hastily 
 gathered a few forget-me-nots to carry to the one 
 woman he loved, and to whom he was about to say 
 farewell — Alice Adams, the playmate of his youth and 
 love of his manhood, a woman noted for her wit and 
 beauty. 
 
 As he neared her home he saw her graceful form 
 seated on the garden bench, her head bowed in thought 
 — a tall, graceful girl, with dark-brown eyes and golden 
 hair, worn according to the fashion over a low, white 
 forehead. She was dressed in a gray clinging go'^vn, 
 confined at the waist by a wide ribbon, a large gray 
 hat with nodding plumes, and long gloves reaching to 
 the elbow. 
 
 She was wondering that he, the favorite of many 
 beautiful and accomplished women, should have chosen 
 
84 A MARTYR OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 her to be his wife, Bending over her and handing her 
 the flowers, he murmured softly, " Alice, of what are 
 you thinking ? ' ' 
 
 "Of you, Nathan," she replied, rising and giving 
 him her little hand, which he kissed ; " of you, and 
 wondering how long you would have watched me had 
 I not moved. ' ' 
 
 Sadly he replied, ' ' I could watch you forever, dear ; 
 but now, be a brave little woman, as I bring you bad 
 news," and taking her pale face in his hands, and 
 smoothing her hair as he would have soothed some 
 frightened bird, he told her what she most dreaded — 
 that on the morrow he must leave for the war. ' ' Be 
 true to me," he said, " until I return ; but," he added, 
 slowly, " should I never return, I cannot ask so great 
 a sacrifice — you are too young. If a worthy man seeks 
 your love, give it, but sometimes think of the dead 
 soldier who loved you so well. " 
 
 Pale and statue-like she stood awhile, until, realiz- 
 ing the meaning of his words, she clung to him, while 
 convulsive sobs shook her frame as she cried, "No, 
 Nathan, no ! I am not worthy to be your wife, the 
 wife of a soldier, if I cannot be brave enough to send 
 you from me with a smile," and making a pitiful 
 attempt at one, the poor broken-hearted girl bade 
 him go. 
 
 During his career his letters to her were always 
 hopeful and encouraging. He distinguished himself in 
 no great victory. The nearest approach to fame oc- 
 curred when, after defeating one of the British pro- 
 vision ships, he was appointed a captain. 
 
 The rebel army was on the verge of despair. After 
 the battle of Long Island, one-third of its forces were 
 sick and starving, and others became rebellious and 
 demanded their immediate discharge. Not half the 
 
A MARTYR OF THE REVOLUTION. 85 
 
 army was fit for duty. General Washington, desirous 
 of news concerning the enemy, sent one of his officers 
 in quest of a man who could be trusted on so perilous 
 an expedition. Soldier after soldier declined. In his 
 distress he appealed to an old sergeant who had fought 
 bravely in the French and Indian War. Even he re- 
 fused. In despair the officer turned to go, when our 
 hero entered the room. Hearing the conversation, he 
 bravely offered his services. He was the only man 
 among them who was willing to take this risk. Wash- 
 ington, with whom he was a great favorite, at first re- 
 fused pointedl}^ to allow him to endanger his life. 
 
 Earnestly his comrades tried to dissuade him from 
 this fatal step. Why should he, one of the most pop- 
 ular men in the army, thus hazard his fair reputation 
 and promising prospects ! But in vain, he was firmly 
 determined. 
 
 Early the next morning he heard from General 
 Washington the course to pursue. He was to enter 
 the British camp disguised as a schoolmaster ; this was 
 not difficult, as his earlier life had been devoted to 
 teaching. With the help of a brother officer he suc- 
 ceeded after great difficulty in securing a boat, and 
 landed safely at a point on Long Island called the 
 ' ' Cedars. ' ' Before leaving the boat, he instructed his 
 companion to meet him there at that very place, 
 ' ' Thursday after next ; now remember. Jack, and good- 
 bye until then," were his words. With a hearty hand- 
 shake they parted. He, courageous ; his friend, cast 
 down by doubts and fears. How little they realized 
 that it was to be their last parting. 
 
 The first house the young soldier entered was that 
 of a prominent Tory, a woman called "Old Mother 
 Clutch." It was a kind of tavern where all lyoyalists 
 were welcomed and feasted. Nathan told a plausible 
 
86 A MARTYR OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 story, and was heartily received by her without sus- 
 picion. 
 
 It would be difi&cult to follow our hero through all 
 of his hazardous journeys. We can imagine him 
 listening to the boisterous laughter and conversation. 
 Becoming bolder and learning the watchword, he enter- 
 ed the enemy's camp, on the outskirts of what is now 
 the city of Brooklyn ; always telling the same story, 
 and leaving behind him the impression of a quiet, 
 peaceful school-master. 
 
 One thing alone troubled him. He suspected he 
 was recognized by one Horace Fields, a Tory kinsman 
 of little honor, who had proposed to Alice, knowing 
 her love was given to Nathan. "Suppose he could 
 prove me a spy," Nathan thought, "it would be to 
 his advantage in every way to betray me and thus put 
 me out of his path, for then Alice would be free to be 
 asked again." 
 
 But to-morrow Nathan's safety would be assured. 
 The next day came — every moment brought his escape 
 nearer. 
 
 He was anxiously waiting, when Horace Fields 
 entered the room, announcing the arrival of a strange 
 boat. 
 
 Believing it to be the one by which he was to escape, 
 Nathan hurried down to the " Cedars." What was 
 his consternation on beholding, not the friendly face of 
 Jack, but that of the enemy, ready to fire, should he 
 attempt to escape. 
 
 " Surrender or die," they said. 
 
 Betrayed by one of his own blood, and seeing no 
 way of escape, he removed his hat and proudly replied, 
 " I am Nathan Hale, a spy." 
 
 That was sufficient ; he was seized without further 
 ceremony. Upon him were found full particulars 
 
A MARTYR OF THE REVOLUTION. 87 
 
 concerning the Britisli. These important letters were 
 handed to the General. 
 
 During his journey to General Howe, he uttered no 
 word, though well he knew his fate. When ushered 
 into his presence, however, his heart failed him for the 
 first time. Yet proudly but respectfully he related his 
 experience, stating at the end of his story that he 
 ' ' only regretted that the news he had obtained could 
 be of no benefit to his country. ' ' 
 
 With his gaze fastened on the General, the brave 
 soldier stood fearlessly awaiting the decision. It came ! 
 A piece of paper — pen and ink — a few lines — a signa- 
 ture only were needed to allow Nathan Hale but few 
 hours more on earth, and to tell Cunningham, the 
 keeper of the Provost prison, that the next morning, 
 September 22d, before daybreak, Nathan Hale, a cap- 
 tain in the Rebel Army, was to be "hanged by the 
 neck until he was dead. ' ' 
 
 Slowly he entered his cell. His request for writing 
 materials and a lamp was refused with an oath by the 
 brutal Cunningham, but granted afterward by another 
 officer. 
 
 He wrote touching letters to his friends and his 
 betrothed, telling them of his sad fate. When these 
 were finished he entreated Cunningham to see that 
 they were safely delivered. But the jailor, with his 
 accustomed cruelty that has blackened his name with 
 infamy, becoming infuriated as he read, tore the letters 
 in pieces before his prisoner's eyes. ' ' That the rebels ' ' 
 (as he afterwards said) ' ' should never know they had 
 a man who could die so bravely." 
 
 Few can appreciate the agony endured by Nathan 
 Hale during that last dreadful night. His last thoughts 
 were of the woman he loved, for on his table lay a 
 pen-and-ink sketch of a beautiful woman, beneath 
 
88 A MARTYR OF THE REVOLUTION. 
 
 whose fair face two words were written : ' ' Farewell ! ' ' 
 ' ' Remember ! ' ' This was found and taken by the 
 friendly officer who had furnished the paper, and who, 
 according to the dead man's request, delivered it to the 
 broken-hearted Alice, after gently breaking the news 
 to her. 
 
 Before the sun had risen on the morning of Septem- 
 ber 22d, the great soul of Nathan Hale had gone to 
 meet his Maker. Fearlessly he met his doom, and 
 heroically paid the penalty of his bravery. With a 
 slight curl of the manly lip, his last words — when the 
 brutal Cunningham shouted, ' ' Hear what the dog has 
 to sa}^ and then let him swing ! " — were : "I only re- 
 gret that I have but one life to lose for my country." 
 
 He died as he had lived — a true gentlemen and a 
 brave soldier. Had his mission been successful what 
 honors would have been his ! Therefore, let us silently 
 draw the veil over history's verdict, which designates 
 him as a spy, and remember him only as a martyr of 
 the Revolution. 
 
 It is needless to describe the effect that the news of 
 his death produced upon Alice Adams. For a while 
 they despaired of her reason and even of her life ; but 
 time is a great healer, and there came an hour when 
 she could talk calmly of her lover to her friends. 
 
 Among the first to pay his respects was Horace 
 Fields, and, relying upon her ignorance of his treach- 
 ery, he came to propose once more for her hand. Hav- 
 ing received the news of his infamy, through the bearer 
 of Nathan's farewell message, she waited until he had 
 finished speaking, and then, slowly rising and looking 
 him steadfastly in the eye, she replied, with scorn 
 plainly written on every feature : ' ' Traitor ! the 
 woman whom Nathan Hale honored by his love 
 could never stoop so low as to wed his assassin. In 
 
A MARTYR OF THE REVOLUTION. 89 
 
 proportion to the love I bore him, thus do I pit}^ and 
 despise you. May God forgive j^our sin ; I cannot ! ' ' 
 
 Slowly, with averted countenance, he left her. Up 
 to the time of her death she never again beheld the 
 face of Horace Fields. 
 
 She lived to the age of eighty-eight, respected and 
 beloved by all. It is said by some that her husband 
 was the friendly ofl&cer, the deliverer of Nathan's final 
 good-bye. 
 
 During her last illness, when her mind wandered, 
 she seemed once more to live over again her great sor- 
 row. Appealing to the friends around her deathbed, 
 and saying, "Write to Nathan," she closed her eyes 
 forever. 
 
90 AN EVENT IN THE BATTLE OF STONY POINT. 
 
 An Event in the Battle of Stony 
 Point. 
 
 BY EDITH G. SHAFER. 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 ON the banks of the Hudson River, about two 
 miles above Stony Point, there stood, in the 
 year 1779, a beautiful, old-fashioned stone house, 
 full of quaint nooks and corners. It was an old Eng- 
 lish mansion, which had been used by a Tory family 
 before the war, and was, at the time of this story, 
 occupied by a family named lyane. 
 
 The mother, a sweet voiced, silvery haired lady, a 
 good Christian and an earnest patriot, ruled her home 
 wisely and well, and had given for the cause of liberty 
 a kind husband and two loving sons. It was the close 
 of a sultry July day; the leaves hung motionless on 
 the trees, the grass looked dry, and the busy hum of 
 insects was all that disturbed the quiet. Far off in the 
 west the sun had silently sunk to rest on the broad 
 bosom of the Hudson, and now the clouds reflected the 
 glorious rays of crimson, gold and purple in its clear 
 water. The mother and her two daughters, one a 
 little girl, and the other apparently about eighteen 
 years of age, sat on the veranda watching the sunset, 
 each of the older ones with a piece of knitting in her 
 hand. Their hearts were full of thoughts of the 
 
AN EVENT IN THE BATTLE OF STONY POINT. 91 
 
 absent ones, of the great war and the demand for men, 
 of the perils of the march, and the scanty supply of 
 necessaries, which were to maintain the soldiers' feeble 
 bodies till God should bring them safely home again. 
 
 "Mother," said the elder daughter, Florence, "I 
 wish I could do something great and noble for the good 
 men who are risking their lives for us." 
 
 " Perhaps the opportunity will offer, my child," re- 
 plied her mother, but she sighed as she said it, for did 
 not her heart go out in longing for the three members 
 of her home so far away ? 
 
 The reflection had faded from the water, and dark- 
 ness was settling down upon the land, when they heard 
 the quick clatter of a horse's hoofs along the road, and 
 looking up, they saw a horseman come dashing toward 
 them, his horse flecked with foam, and bespattered 
 with mud. 
 
 As he neared the porch, the mother, with a quick 
 exclamation, rose and rushed toward the steps, while 
 the girls, with the cry of " Henr>' ! my brother," fol- 
 lowed their mother. 
 
 The rider swayed slightly in the saddle, and when 
 an old servant who had seen him, came forward to take 
 the young master's horse, he found him so weak as to 
 be unable to alight. They bore him into the house 
 and laid him on the sofa, where at length, in broken 
 sentences, he told how he had gone to the enemy's line 
 for information, had been seen, followed, and that a 
 force of the British were after him, and that by a short 
 cut he had reached there before them. 
 
 "My son," cried the stricken mother, "we must 
 hide you ; you will be killed — hung as a spy," and she 
 looked anxiously around. 
 
 " Mother," cried Florence, "you remember the old 
 vault in the cellar ? It is just the place for him, and 
 
92 AjV event in the BATTLE OF STONY POINT. 
 
 we have not a minute to lose." So saying, she ran up- 
 stairs, found blankets and pillows, and before many 
 minutes had elapsed he was safely secured in a deep 
 closet in the cellar, the entrance to which was a secret 
 door. 
 
 This vault had formerly been used for a wine closet 
 and depository for valuables, and was about six feet in 
 width and nine in length, the window being a narrow 
 slit in the wall. I^ocking him securely in, the mother 
 and her daughters went to see that the horse was taken 
 away, so that he might not betray his master's hiding- 
 place, and then made all neat within the house. 
 
 The British had been led off the track, and it was 
 nearly half an hour afterward when they dashed up 
 to the house and found the mother and daughters in- 
 side. When they demanded her son, Mrs. Lane showed 
 no fear, but said quietly, ' ' If you can find my son you 
 can have him, but otherwise, never." The men 
 searched from garret to cellar and back again, but no 
 trace of the young man could be found, and though 
 exceedingly anxious to capture him they feared an 
 attack from the Provincials, and so hastened back to 
 their headquarters at Stony Point. 
 
 An attack on Stony Point, which place as we have 
 said was held by the British, was secretly planned by 
 the Provincials for the night of the fifteenth of July. 
 Young Lane was captain of a small regiment, and this 
 was the night chosen for the attack. He had been 
 scouting and was discovered by the British, who gave 
 chase and wounded him in the shoulder and leg. Dur- 
 ing this attack his brother had been killed, while his 
 father, who was also with them, had escaped unhurt. 
 After a sufficient time had elapsed, Mrs. Lane and the 
 girls went below and unfastened the door. The young 
 man lay on the couch thej^ had prepared, in a burning 
 
AN EVENT IN THE BATTLE OF STONY POINT. 93 
 
 fever. The family physician was called, who bound up 
 the poor fellow's wounds and made him as comfortable 
 as possible. He raved in his delirium, and, when 
 rational, cried piteously when they told him he could 
 not go to Stony Point that night. 
 
 ' ' I shall be branded as a coward and a traitor, ' ' he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 As Florence heard these words her resolve was 
 quickly taken. Had she not wished to do something 
 noble and great, and was not her Heavenly Father able 
 to care for her ? She had no time to lose, and telling 
 her mother of her patriotic resolve, she dressed herself 
 in her brother's clothing. Kissing them all around she 
 knelt by her brother's bed, and prayed that all their 
 lives might be spared ; and then, pinning her long hair 
 up under the soldier's cap, she mounted her horse and 
 rode off to meet the party that was to attempt the cap- 
 ture of Stony Point. 
 
 Stony Point is a commanding hill projecting into 
 the Hudson, which washes three sides of its base. The 
 other side, covered by a deep marsh commencing near 
 the base of the hill and continuing into the river, had 
 but one crossing-place, but near the river was a sandy 
 beach which could be passed at low tide. The fort was 
 on the summit of the hill, furnished with heavy guns, 
 and with several small breastworks in front of the main 
 one. The whole was protected by two lines of abbatis, 
 and ships of war were stationed in the river. About 
 600 men manned the fort, and the attack was unex- 
 pected and unprepared for. 
 
 When Florence reached the party she assumed her 
 brother's voice, and upon being chided for her lateness, 
 she answered with a laugh : ' ' The red coats did me up 
 pretty well, and came very near finishing me for good." 
 The men, who were drawn up in line, moved cautiously 
 
94 AN EVENT IN THE BATTLE OF STONY POINT. 
 
 along, and at twenty minutes past twelve reached the 
 marsh. General Wayne, who was in command, gave 
 prompt, decisive orders, which the men readily obeyed. 
 
 "Right column advance," shouted the General. 
 ' ' Keep the line in perfect order, ever>^ man in his 
 place. ' ' 
 
 Shot and shell poured down heavily from the fort, 
 for the British began to see what was going on. Flor- 
 ence went immediately into the midst of the battle, 
 fighting her way slowly up the hill and calling to her 
 men to follow. One man had kept by her all through 
 the march supposing her to be her brother, and when, 
 becoming fired with enthusiasm, she looked behind 
 and cried, " Charge ! charge ! straight up and the fort 
 is won ! " he followed close by her side. 
 
 Suddenly the General, noting her excitement, called : 
 ' ' Lane, follow me. Bring the men round to the right 
 wing ; it is weakest there." 
 
 A moment of intense excitement follows, for they 
 have reached the walls and are preparing to scale them. 
 
 Wayne climbs up ; the rest follow. " Don't fire ! " 
 he shouts. " Capture, but don't fire." 
 
 In a minute the surrender is made without one life 
 being lost, and the men not captured make good their 
 escape to the main force of the British, leaving the Pro- 
 vincials in command of the fort. 
 
 Florence retires with some of her men, and leaves 
 Wayne in an apartment ; but, looking up from his 
 writing, the General inquires, ' ' Where is that brave 
 young Lane ? ' ' Some one goes in search of Florence, 
 and soon returns escorting the gallant girl, who has 
 not yet betrayed her identity. 
 
 " A promotion, my brave man, and give me your 
 hand ; I like your spirit," says Wayne, extending his 
 hand which holds the paper containing the promotion. 
 
AN EVENT IN THE BATTLE OF STONY POINT. 95 
 
 Florence grasps the paper and the hand, muttering 
 a few words of thanks, and then retires, covered with 
 confusion. The next day she obtains leave of absence, 
 and the young man who had befriended her in the cap- 
 ture goes with her. Even then he thinks that she is 
 her brother, till she tells him, on the way home, her 
 reasons for the disguise. 
 
 For many weeks her brother lay at the point of 
 death, and all the while she took his place, doing his 
 work. When he recovered he was told of the heroism 
 of his sister, and taking her in his arms he exclaimed, 
 ' ' Thank God for the day when you were bom ! ' ' 
 
 Years have passed ; the war is over, and America 
 rears her head among the proud nations of the earth. 
 The Hudson still ripples against its green banks, and 
 the old house still stands upon the shore. Inside, on 
 the sofa, sit the father and mother, living over the old 
 days of their courtship. The brother and his little sis- 
 ter are enjoying a book in the comer together. Out 
 on the bank of the river stands Florence, watching the 
 sunset, but not alone : her unknown protector in the 
 battle of Stony Point stands beside her, her tme and 
 loving husband. 
 
 "Just eight years ago to-night, dear, I rode by 
 your side in the battle of Stony Point. Do you remem- 
 ber? " he asks. 
 
 "As plainly as though it were yesterday," replies 
 his wife. "C remember how kind you were to me, 
 and how first I respected and then loved you. No, I 
 shall never forget. ' ' 
 
 Together they watch the departing rays of the sun, 
 and then they walk together until darkness comes on. 
 
 " How thankful I am for you, Florence. But come, 
 dear, it is getting late ; we must go in, for see, the 
 stars are coming out," 
 
g6 AJV EVENT IN THE BATTLE OF STONY POINT. 
 
 And as silently they wend their way together the 
 stars shine down upon them, and the darkness, like a 
 benediction, encloses them in its embrace and hides 
 them from view. 
 
ffOW IT HAPPENED. 97 
 
 HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 BY SARAH T. BENJAMIN. 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 THE day is gradually coming to a close, the shad- 
 ows are noiselessly stealing along ; and finally, 
 one by one, the stars take their usual places in 
 the heavens. • It is now drawing on very fast toward 
 midnight, and as the clock in the village of West Point 
 strikes half-past eleven, my eye is attracted toward the 
 face of a stranger, so tired, but slowly making his way 
 up the Hudson to Albany. 
 
 He, to obtain troops from General Gates, has been 
 sent by Washington, who has but a few days before 
 received the news of Burgoyne's surrender at Saratoga. 
 These tidings brighten and cheer the hearts of Wash- 
 ington, his soldiers, and many others very much, after 
 the terrible winter spent at Valley Forge, in which he 
 and his men suffered almost everything. Money had 
 depreciated in value, so that a soldier's pay could not 
 provide for him the necessities of life. Many of the 
 soldiers, having spent what fortunes they had in the 
 war, were compelled to resign in order to obtain a liv- 
 ing. And now this new trouble was coming upon 
 Washington. It was just the time they needed more 
 soldiers, many of them having died. Being compelled 
 to sleep on the snow-covered grovmd, with no shelter 
 
98 HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 from the cold, for straw could not be obtained ; shoe- 
 less, leaving tracks on the snow from their bleeding 
 feet ; and with no other covering for their backs but 
 their blankets, even when on parade, sickness followed ; 
 and with no change of clothing, no suitable food and 
 no medicine, death came as a relief to those brave 
 great-grandfathers of ours, who fought so heroically to 
 obtain our liberty for us. 
 
 They, the citizens of America, having been over- 
 taxed by the heavy burdens laid on by the motherland, 
 were bound to gain their independence, and how could 
 they fail under such a noble commander-in-chief as 
 Washington, who felt that his cause was just, and dur- 
 ing all this terrible winter encouraged his soldiers with 
 his sublime. faith? 
 
 During this time Washington made his home at the 
 house of Isaac Potts, and one day while Potts was 
 going up the creek he heard a voice of prayer not far 
 distant. Following in the direction from which the 
 voice came, he beheld the General himself upon his 
 knees, his cheeks wet with tears. Upon relating the 
 incident to his wife, he said : "If there is an^^ one to 
 whom the Lord will listen, it is George Washington ; 
 and under such a commander our independence is cer- 
 tain." 
 
 And thus, is it any wonder that this stranger, whom 
 we met at West Point, now going on the most import- 
 ant journey he had ever undertaken, should look so 
 tired after this terrible winter, of which he had also 
 been a partaker ? 
 
 At last, one bright morning, he enters Albany on 
 his sacred mission, for sacred indeed it is to him and 
 all others concerned. 
 
 While at Albany, Washington's aid-de-camp, Wil- 
 liam Putman (for he it is) has the best food and bed 
 
HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 99 
 
 he has seen in many a long month. One evening he 
 slowly makes his way to General White's house, and 
 as he looks at it — a square, wood structure of two stories, 
 with ornamental balustrades and large chimney-stacks 
 — he thinks, here is where Baron Dieskau recovered 
 from his illness after his capture, and the remains of 
 General Howe were taken after his sudden death at 
 Ticonderoga ; here Benjamin Franklin, Samuel Chase 
 and Charles Carroll, the Congressional Commissioners 
 to Canada, were received ; and here, again, General 
 Burgoyne and his army had made it their headquar- 
 ters while they were in Albany ; he also learns that 
 Lafayette was among the many guests who partook 
 of its hospitality ; now he sees a grove of thirteen 
 stately gum-trees, representing the number of the col- 
 onies. And so, having taken a general surv^ey, he 
 lifts the knocker and knocks. 
 
 Finding himself inside General White's attractive 
 mansion, talking to General White, his wife, and charm- 
 ing daughter Alice, with whose beauty he is enrap- 
 tured, and seeing her busy fingers fly, as she sits spin- 
 ning at her wheel, he is completely lost. But as all 
 pleasant evenings must come to an end, this one does ; 
 and as he bids them farewell he takes one sly look at 
 Alice's shy face ; she blushes, but quickly recovers 
 herself, and bids him good evening. 
 
 He now returns to his quiet camp, and sitting by a 
 brighter fire than he has seen in months, thinks over 
 the journey he is about to take, for to-morrow morning 
 he must return with the troops to Washington. But 
 the image of this lovely girl with whom he has been 
 spending the evening takes full possession of his 
 thoughts and heart. She, so sweet, beautiful and gen- 
 tle ; she, working so hard for the soldiers fighting to 
 obtain for her liberty. Ah ! how much more worthy 
 
loo HOW IT HAPPENED. 
 
 of their efforts is she than they of her work ! Then 
 his thoughts wander on to a beautiful home, of which 
 she is the centre and sunlight, surrounded with sons 
 and daughters. But it is not so to be. Anon, he 
 thinks of his task to-morrow. He can do no more to- 
 night, so he rises from his seat and goes to bed, and 
 dreams of her — loveliest and sweetest maid of the 
 colonies, for such they are as yet. 
 
 Alice, in her own boudoir, long after midnight, sits 
 thinking of him whom she has but lately met, and of 
 his terrible sufferings at Valley Forge. Oh ! if she 
 could but have been his nurse when he lay so ill in the 
 winter ! She may never see him again. As this 
 thought occupies her mind a shadow steals over her 
 countenance, and as she slowly speaks aloud, " Going 
 back to Pennsylvania to-morrow morning," a tear 
 starts from her eye and courses slowly down her cheek, 
 dropping upon her snowy hand. Being so surprised at 
 this she suddenly starts, and looking up at the clock, 
 the hands of which are already pointing to ten minutes 
 of two, quickly rises from her place and retires to rest, 
 for she must wake in the morning at half-past four to 
 see him off. "Ah!" she exclaims, "it is morning 
 already." 
 
 Alice cannot sleep. The clock strikes half-past 
 two, then all is silent — then three — and then Alice and 
 her thoughts are in dreamland. 
 
 At four, she rises quickly, dresses, and stealing 
 softly down the stairs opens the sitting-room door, and 
 lo ! her father is sitting there. "Well, my pet," he 
 exclaims, "what are you doing up so early?" " I 
 thought I should like to go and see the soldiers oflf, 
 father." So out, hand in hand,. they go — the one to 
 see a friend off, the other a lover. On the bridge they 
 take their position, and as the soldiers go by Alice sees 
 
HOW IT HA PPENED. i o i 
 
 her lover look up ; she blushes and bows, and then all 
 is over. He whom she loves is gone forever out of her 
 sight. Oh ! the agony of that heart ! She whispers to 
 herself, half madly, ' ' Why should I care for him ? he 
 probably cares nought for me." 
 
 Eight months after this finds Washington stationed 
 with his troops on the Hudson. There has been a 
 storm without, but about four in the afternoon it clears 
 off, and now the sun is slowly sinking under the hori- 
 zon. A view is given to the eye of a most gorgeous 
 sky, shaded from bright red to a dark purple, with here 
 and there one of those most picturesque clouds tinted 
 with pale pink. Then all of a sudden a star darts out 
 and takes its position in the heavens, then another and 
 then another until the heavens seem more crowded 
 than usual with its little suns. 
 
 Our commander-in-chief is sitting in his camp near 
 a scanty fire, thinking of what movement will be best 
 for him and his soldiers next to undertake, when he 
 hears a step. L,ooking up he beholds his aid-de-camp, 
 our old friend, William Putnam. ' ' Well sir, ' ' he re- 
 plies, ' ' what do you want ? Any danger near at hand? ' ' 
 " I have come. General, to gain permission to take an 
 evening off. " " Well sir, you may have it if you will 
 be back by eleven. ' ' He soon makes his way up to the 
 same house where we saw him but eight months before 
 knocking. lyong months they have been. 
 
 William Putnam finds himself face to face with 
 Alice. He wagers with her that her older sister Carrie 
 uses paint to produce the brilliant color on her cheeks, 
 but finally, being convinced of his error, he gracefully 
 complies in the loss of his bet, and promises Miss Alice 
 a handsome dress-cap. And so the evening is gradu- 
 ally passing away, Alice sitting spinning as on the 
 night of their first acquaintance. 
 
102 HO W IT HA PPENED. 
 
 As the big, old-fashioned clock strikes ten, Mr. and 
 Mrs. White withdraw, leaving Mr. Putnam with Alice. 
 He seems to take advantage of their absence, for within 
 an hour he has told her of his love, and she, poor girl, 
 looks so sweet, blushing, while he gently imprints a 
 kiss on her forehead. That kiss seems to settle it, for 
 as he looks at her sweet, noble face, his old dream 
 all seems to come back to him, and he softl}^ murmurs, 
 ' * Yes, mine forever, forever. ' ' 
 
 It is long past midnight when he gets back to the 
 camp of his fellow soldiers, and as he is about to pass 
 the picket stationed at the entrance of the camp, the 
 guard asks him for the countersign. What is it ? oh ! 
 what is it ? — he does not know, he cannot think ; what 
 shall he do ? why can't he think ? and then, as if one 
 had risen from the dead to be his guardian angel, he 
 beholds the face of one of his old comrades who was at 
 Valley Forge with him. In a whisper he breathes to 
 him the countersign. 
 
THE MIDNIGHT ALARM. 
 
 THE MIDNIGHT ALARM. 
 
 BY SADIE E. GOODMAN. 
 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 THE April day was closing o'er a calm New England town, 
 The birds had sung their vespers, the sun had just gone 
 down ; 
 The farmer plodded homeward to his fireside's bright cheer. 
 His brow was dark and anxious, for the times were sore and 
 
 drear ; 
 For within fair Boston's harbor a British war-ship lay — 
 There were British troops to quarter, there was British tax to pay. 
 
 The evening meal is ended, the prayers have now been said, 
 And the farmer and his worthy spouse now seek their cosy bed ; 
 Without a thought of danger, yet heedful of British harm. 
 They hope that God may extend o'er them His protecting arm. 
 The farmer slept till midnight, when, up to the starlit sky, 
 There rose on the calm night air a loud and startling cry — 
 " Arouse, ye men of Concord, the British are on the way ! 
 To arms ! to arms ! remove the stores before the break of day !" 
 
 The farmer sprang from his cosy bed and quicklj^ donned his 
 
 clothes, 
 When, on the air of the village, again that cry arose — 
 " To arms ! to arms ! to arms ! the British are on the way ! 
 The stores must all be moved before another day !" 
 It made its wa)' to ev'ry home, it warmed the coldest heart, 
 Ev'ry man and ev'ry boy prepar'd to do his part. 
 
I04 THE MIDNIGHT ALARM. 
 
 Then, silently but quickly, each one fell to his work — 
 
 Where is the man or boy who would such urgent duty shirk ? — 
 
 All night long they labored at a task with peril fraught, 
 
 But oh ! what good and glory has that midnight labor wrought ! 
 
 At last, as in the east the first bright rays appear, 
 
 From the throats of the tired men there burst a mighty cheer ; 
 
 For, thanks to the friendly warning that startled the April night, 
 
 The stores had been safely moved and hidden from hostile sight. 
 
 And now, though weary and anxious, each man at his post is 
 found. 
 
 Determined to defend with life ev'r)' inch of freedom's ground ; 
 
 How anxiously they wait for the British to appear. 
 
 How they listen till the sound of soldiers' steps they hear. 
 
 Then came that order from the leader — " Ye rebels, now dis- 
 perse !" 
 
 And when 'twas not obeyed, crashed the bullets fierce and terse ; 
 
 'Twas then, and only then, the patriots return'd the fire. 
 
 But their aim was true, for the men were filled with a righteous 
 ire. 
 
 All the way to Boston fled the British, sore dismayed. 
 
 They had trampled on the rights of men — in lead had they been 
 
 paid ; 
 That was the real beginning of a long and bloody strife. 
 When men gave up for liberty their home, their gold, their life. 
 For eight long 3-ears the)- struggled within the whole world's 
 
 sight, 
 But at length Great Britain yielded, for God was with the right. 
 
 Hushed were the groans of the wounded, stilled was the sound 
 
 of the gun. 
 And to-day we cherish the victory that was so dearly won ; 
 Forever we cherish the memory of those men, so brave and true. 
 Who nobly fought and nobly died when this, our land, was new. 
 
ELSIE'S RIDE. 
 
 ELSIE'S RIDE. 
 
 105 
 
 BY MARGARET E. DUNBAR. 
 (Awarded Honorable Mention.) 
 
 ALONG the Mohawk's verdant banks. 
 And through the waving grass, 
 In the deep'ning summer twilight 
 Slowly rode a winsome lass ; 
 For in all Fort Schuyler's garrison 
 
 Ne'er a fairer could be seen, 
 Than laughing, blue-eyed Elsie, 
 The little regiment queen. 
 
 She was brave as she was winsome ; 
 
 E'en the savages had heard 
 Of her wond'rous skill as marksman, 
 
 And the rumor had not erred. 
 At her side, upon a pony. 
 
 Rode the daughter of a chief 
 Of a friendly tribe of Indians 
 
 Who had given them relief. 
 
 "Will the white girl soon be turning, 
 
 For the sun is setting low ? 
 And the maiden must be watchful 
 
 Lest she meet the lurking foe ; 
 For the red man has much cunning," 
 
 Added she with conscious pride, 
 " But fear not, no one shall touch you 
 
 While the red girl's at your side." 
 
 Elsie heard, but made no answer 
 To the Indian maiden's speech. 
 
 But, quick turning, spurred her horse on, 
 Hoping soon the fort to reach. 
 
io6 ELSIE'S HIDE. 
 
 Soon while speeding on their journey 
 The)^ arrive before a wood, 
 
 And they pause a moment, wond'ring 
 Which road best may be pursued. 
 
 " 'T would be shorter through the forest, 
 
 But 'tis safer on the bank." 
 And with that they started onward, 
 
 Through the damp grass tall and rank. 
 " Stop ! " the Indian whispers softly, 
 
 " Hush ! I hear a sound afar 
 As of some great host of soldiers 
 
 Full equipped for bloody war." 
 
 Then the sound becomes less distant, 
 
 As of footsteps coming near ; 
 They, dismounting from their horses. 
 
 Enter the woods, dark and drear. 
 Then the Indian and Elsie, 
 
 Hand in hand pass quickly'through. 
 Till they reach a hollow oak tree, 
 
 Which they enter hid from view. 
 
 Meanwhile still the sound comes nearer, 
 
 And dread fears their bosoms chill, 
 As they hear outside the forest. 
 
 Voices sounding nearer still. 
 Soon they hear leaves rustle round them, 
 
 Shadows on the grass are thrown 
 Of the noiseless, dusky redskin. 
 
 By the moon which brightly shone. 
 
 Then a voice beneath their oak free, 
 
 Rises with a deep and thrilling tone. 
 'Tis the Mohawk chieftain speaking 
 
 In the language of his own. 
 But the Indian maiden listened 
 
 To each word the savage said, 
 And when he had finished speaking, 
 
 Warninglv she shook her head. 
 
ELSIE'S RIDE. 107 
 
 As the steps and voice grew fainter, 
 
 Quickly grasping Elsie's arm, 
 Then in cautious tones she whispered 
 
 " Pale-face enem}' ! give alarm ! " 
 'Twas enough, the words scarce uttered 
 
 When from out their hiding place 
 They step quickly, find their horses, 
 
 Mount and ride with furious pace. 
 
 And the noble beasts now panting 
 
 Madly rush o'er bush and briar. 
 Till is seen at no great distance, 
 
 From the fort the beacon fire. 
 Suddenly a form confronts them, 
 
 And a British spy stands there ; 
 Elsie quickl}^ draws her pistol. 
 
 Shoots — a death-cry fills the air. 
 
 Onward rushing, never pausing — 
 
 Ah ! the camp is gained at last ! 
 And Gansevoort's tent soon entering, 
 
 Now, at last, the danger's past. 
 " Elsie, child, explain this fully," 
 
 Anxiously the Colonel cried ; 
 " Uncle, hasten ! for the British 
 
 Soon will be here," she replied. 
 
 "And recall 3'our troops now marching 
 
 To reinforce the other post. 
 For we heard the British coming — 
 
 If your men leave now we're lost !" 
 The troops were already marching. 
 
 The fort's doom was all but sealed, 
 When th' command to halt is given, 
 
 And the order is repealed. 
 
 Then St. Leger, proudly marching, 
 
 Comes near, but 'tis plainly seen 
 That the fort cannot be taken, 
 
 Thanks to Elsie, regiment queen.