Chapter III: Part 3

Mistress Arnold sighed as she stepped over the threshold and took her way—a tall, straight figure in gray crinoline—between the pink clouds that the apple blooms made, and then out of sight.

Small Patience Arnold, a little brown-eyed lass who had seen eight summers in the quaint, white-walled town of Lexington, watched her mother. Then she leaned back in the stiff, wooden chair that was so much too high for her, drawing a weary little sigh. It was very dull, indeed, and stupid to stay in the bare kitchen. All outdoors, the first bees, the robins, and the perfume of the apple trees called her. Oh, if she might only drop her sewing to the floor, and run out to the garden, darting in and out among the trees like a bluebird in her straight frock of indigo-dyed homespun. If she might only sing in her sweet, clear voice, above the hum of bees and birds, the songs that her mother knew—the songs of merry old England where every one was happy, and everything was gay!

But, no, she must not go. There was the square of rough cloth in her hand, and the sticky needle, and the thread that would knot in spite of Patience’s care. Every little girl in Lexington had finished a sampler, and some of them two, by the time they were nine. She must hurry, for the afternoon was wearing away. Soon the sun would drop behind the orchard. Such a long name it was to sew—Patience Arnold.

Patience took up her needle again and began to count the stitches and embroider the letters, P. A. T. There were so many of the letters, and they were very crooked, for all the world like the new minutemen whom her father drilled on the village green when it was dusk. No one saw the minutemen march and countermarch, and no one could hear their feet in the soft grass. Patience laughed to herself, a merry little trill of a laugh, as she bent over the letters of her work.

“You are Mistress Anderson’s lad who has such long legs and thinks he will be the captain of the militia some day.”

Patience pointed to the A.

“And you—” She put her needle in the T.

But a long shadow lay across the doorsill. There were other shadows on the grass outside. Where had they come from? Why, the orchard was full of soldiers. One stood, even now, in front of Patience—a most gallant gentleman in scarlet broadcloth and gold lace, holding his cocked hat in his hand and smiling down at the little girl.

“So the bumpkins of this little town of Lexington, too, have taken upon themselves the gentle art of soldiering. It is high time that his Majesty interfered.”

The man seemed to speak to himself. Then he bent so low over the little girl in her straight-backed chair that the gilt fringe which dangled from his epaulets brushed Patience’s cheek.

“Such a pretty little lass, and so industrious, as she sits alone in this great house—”

He paused, watching Patience’s trembling little brown fingers. She was frightened by this emissary of the King. Then he continued, “I would ask shelter for my men.”

He pointed to a score of soldiers in red coats who swarmed the dooryard now, laughing, brawling, and trampling on Mistress Arnold’s beds of savory herbs.

“The day is warm, and we have had a long march from Boston town. I would that my men might lie and rest a space on the cool hay of your barn, my little lady. We have tried the door, but we find it barred, and the key is missing from the padlock. Will you give me the key, little maid?”

Patience bent lower over her work as the last words came from the man’s lips. Reaching in her homespun pocket for the key which her mother had given her, she clasped it in her hand and held it underneath the sampler as she stitched the letters once more. For a second she did not speak. It seemed as if her throat was burning. Her lips were dry with fear. Then she looked up, smiling a wistful little smile.

“No, kind sir. I can not give you the key.”

“Oho, so the little lady is stubborn.”

The man crossed to the door and motioned to the waiting soldiers outside. In a second they had obeyed his summons, swarming Mistress Brewster’s clean kitchen and covering the spotless floor with the dust of the high road.

“Search the house!” commanded their leader. “Yonder stubborn girl is tongue-tied, and stubborn. She will neither give up the key, nor tell me where it is. Overturn the chests of drawers; tear up the carpets, break down the doors, spare nothing, I say, but bring me the key of yonder barn.”

No sooner were the words spoken than the work of pillage began. Sounds of doors and hinges wrenched from their places, the tramp of rough boots on the floor above her head, the rattle of chests told the frightened little Patience that the work of searching the house had begun. It seemed to her that the key would burn its way straight through her palm, so hot it was. Her hands trembled, and her eyes filled with tears so that she could scarcely see her needle. But still she stitched, never leaving her chair, nor lifting her white little face.

The soldier who had given the command remained in the kitchen pacing restlessly up and down, his arms folded, and a frown deepening on his forehead.

“P. A. T. I. E. N.”—Patience was nearing the edge of the sampler, and it was with difficulty that she stitched because of the key that lay underneath the cloth. The letters were, indeed, crooked and straggling, and lacking the precision of even those that spelled the text. There was no sound in the room, now, save the ticking of a tall clock and the tread of the soldier’s feet.

Suddenly the soldier in command stopped in front of Patience’s chair and laid a heavy hand on her little bare, brown arm. He spoke, and the words were full of anger.

“Enough of this nonsense! Give me the key, I say. I will have it!”

Patience slipped out of her chair and down to the floor, holding her sampler, covering the hidden key, as high as the man’s eyes. He loosed his grasp upon her arm, looking at her in wonder. Such a little lass, in her straight blue frock, and not as tall as his own little girl in England. She had the same soft eyes, though, and the same low, sweet voice.

“I would gladly give you what you wish, sir,” she began bravely, “but I promised my mother I would deliver the key to no one until she returned. Look!” She held the sampler still higher. “I am stitching my name. Is it not a stupid task on such a pretty day?”

“_A soft answer turneth away wrath._” The man read the text at the top of the sampler. Then he looked out of the window and farther than the apple trees.

“It is indeed neatly stitched, little lass,” he said. “My own Elizabeth is even now making her sampler, and wetting it with tears until I return to her, overseas.”

He gave a quick command to his men, who filed down the stairs, empty handed, and into the garden. Then he raised his hat in salute, and followed them as they marched slowly down the road and farther than Patience could see.

“My little girl—my Patience—are you safe?”

It was Mistress Arnold who ran across the orchard and into the kitchen, clasping the trembling little lass in her arms. “We saw the red coats from Mistress Brewster’s window and knew that they had been here. But you are unharmed—and the guns—the powder?”

“I spoiled my sampler, mother,” Patience gave a sobbing laugh as she held up her work with the crookedly stitched ending, and the unfinished name. “It is as you feared. I started my name too near the border and there is no room to finish it, but”—she held out the precious bit of iron, “here is the key.”

Sampler

A Soft Answer
Turneth Away Wrath
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQ
RSTUVWXYZ123456789
Patience Arnold

THE STAR LADY

From Tabitha Wells, aged ten, at Philadelphia, in the year 1776, to her cousin John Bradford, at Boston—a letter.

“My Dear John:

“It does seem more than a month ago that I said good-bye to you, and you took your long journey home again. Your visit was a bright spot in these troubled times. Do you remember the pair of robins that we watched building their nest in grandmother’s old apple tree. They have raised their brood of young ones now and the little birds have flown away. The old birds still live in the apple tree, though, and each day at sunrise and sunset they sing as if all the world were gay instead of fallen into this sad Revolution. And the early apples are as red as the coat of a British soldier and are dropping all over the grass of the garden.

“Grandmother gave me a pewter canister that used to hold tea—she knew it would be a long time before we have any more tea to put in it. I have filled it full of apples, one layer of fruit and then one of leaves to keep them from bruising. It is as sweet smelling as our garden, John, where you played with me so many happy days this spring. It is for you; the apples shall go to you by the next packet.

“But here I am writing you of such everyday matters as robins and apples, and wasting paper which is rising in price, and using up one of my grandfather’s best quill pens and his ink stone. I had other things in mind to tell you, John, when I started this letter—things of far greater importance.

“Strange happenings have come to your cousin Tabitha Wells in Philadelphia since she said goodbye to you, John. I feel as if I, a little girl of only ten summers, and not as learned as I should be, were of a part with these great and stirring times in the Colonies.

“To wit, as the barristers say. And now, my dear John, I will tell my story.

“I mind that we played so much at home when you visited me, John, that I had no time to take you to the little upholstery shop on Arch Street, near grandmother’s house, which is my special delight.

“It is kept by one Mistress Betsy Ross, not much more than a grown-up girl. They say she is little past twenty in years, and she has a great pleasure in letting me visit and watch her at work. Her husband was a brave young patriot of our Colonies and was but a brief space since killed. Mrs. Betsy always helped him in his shop and now that he will be there no longer, and she being most skillful with her needle, she is carrying on the work of the shop herself.

“When I have finished wiping the dinner service for grandmother, I often ask leave to go down for the rest of the afternoon to the shop of Mistress Betsy. I mind that we are both of us lonely; I, the only child in so quiet a house as this in which my father left me when he joined the army; and she a slim, sweet lady, all alone in her shop.

“Such pretty stuffs as she has, John! If you were a girl your eyes would stick out for envy, and your fingers ache for scissors and needle. She gave me a bit of yellow satin brocade, picked out with a pattern of butterflies. I made a court dress of it for my wooden doll—although grandmother says such finery is not for a doll even in these days.

“But here I am letting my quill go wandering again, John. It is not of my doll that I am minded to write you, but of the important thing that happened in the shop of Mistress Betsy Ross this summer time. I was there, John. I saw it with my own eyes.

“Mistress Betsy was fitting new covers to grandmother’s best fiddle-backed chairs, and I had come down to her shop to see if they were done. It chanced that they were, but I lingered a while for Mistress Betsy was busying herself at what she likes best to do. She was stitching a flag.

“You know, of course, John, that each of our American Colonies has its own flag, each of a different design, although they all favor the same colors, red, and white, and blue. Such days as these, when troops are marching to war, there is need of many flags, and so Mistress Betsy is as busy stitching them as she is in making her furniture covers. So quick and deft, she is, John.

“I wish you could but see how neatly she sews together the colors, and stitches on the designs. No scrap of cloth is wasted, and each flag that Mistress Betsy makes is quite perfect in shape and pattern. I mind that the packet had just brought Mistress Betsy some bundles of fresh stuff for her flag-making, red and blue, and she was looking it over as she spoke to me:

“‘Tabitha, child,’ Mistress Betsy said to me, ‘it would save me much time and work if I had one pattern for a flag. It tries my patience sorely to keep in my thoughts and at my fingers’ ends the patterns of thirteen.’

“‘So think I.’ The voice of a man surprised us, and we looked up to see a very grand gentleman standing in the door of the shop and looking at us. ‘I heard your speech just now, Mistress Ross,’ he said, ‘and it is even upon such an errand that I come to you. The Continental Congress is of a mind to adopt one flag that will be the flag of freedom and the emblem of the brave; one banner for the Colonies. The fame of your fine needlework has come to our ears, Mistress Ross, and we are here to consult with you in the matter.’

“The gentleman, very fine indeed in his blue broadcloth and gold lace, stepped into the little shop now, and behind him were other gentlemen in the uniform of the Colonies.

“I confess, John, that I was a bit awed, and I hid myself behind Mistress Betsy’s tall clock, where I could hear but not be seen. You see I was in my linsey-woolsey frock, not dressed for company. Mistress Betsy wore her long working apron over her chintz short gown, but she curtsied with great ease.

“‘You honor me, Mr. Washington,’ Mistress Betsy said. ‘I have been long of a desire to put my needle into one flag, and one only. What might be your wishes and that of the Congress in the pattern of this flag?’

“So this was the great Mr. Washington! My heart went pit-a-pat, John, as loudly it seemed to me as sounded the ticking of the clock. I tried to hold it quiet as I listened to Mr. Washington’s every word.

“‘We have not made any fixed design for an American flag, Mistress Ross,’ Mr. Washington said. ‘We feel that all the thirteen colonies should, in some way, have notice in it, and I have a great desire that there should be stars.’

“He took a quill from Mistress Betsy’s secretary and began making drawings on a piece of paper. Mistress Betsy looked over his shoulder and watched his long fingers, trying to see what manner of a flag he was designing.

“‘See, Mistress Ross,’ Mr. Washington said, ‘I should like stars like this one.’ He held up his drawing.

“Mistress Betsy took the drawing and looked at it, turning it first one way, and then the other. I came out from behind the clock and looked, too, for I was of a curious mind about this new flag. Oh, John, if you could have seen the strange, crooked star that Mr. Washington had drawn! He is a great soldier and statesman, without doubt, but he is not a draughtsman. I saw Mistress Betsy’s eyes twinkle, but she was quite sober and respectful when she spoke.

“‘You have your eyes on your men, Mr. Washington, during your night marches, not on the stars. Your star is drawn with six points, and it should have only five points. May I be so bold as to show you how to make a five-pointed star?’

“Then Mistress Betsy picked up a scrap of white cloth, folded it deftly into five parts, made one snip with her scissors and opened it. There was a perfect star with five points!

“Mr. Washington took it, and as he looked at it his stern face changed, and he smiled. Then he bowed as he turned to go.

“‘Well done, Mistress Ross,’ he said. ‘I have the idea of an American flag in my mind, but you have it in your fingers. Put your wits to the task of designing a flag to submit to the Congress, and I hope that the Colonies will see fit to adopt it. Good afternoon, Mistress of Flags!’ and Mr. Washington and his gentlemen had gone.

“Oh, John, how excited we were then! Mistress Ross took my hands in hers and she danced like a girl with me about the shop. Then she sat down in her big wooden rocking chair and took me in her lap. She put her arms around me and pulled my head close to hers. I thought she was going to cry as she spoke:

“‘Tabitha Wells,’ she said. ‘The chance has come to me to do something for my country. My husband died for the Colonies, but I, who must live, may perhaps make the flag that will wave in remembrance of him and of all the other patriots!’

“And I, knowing how she felt, could only hug her, not speaking because of a great choking in my throat.

“But we soon realized that it was not a time for tears, but for doing. Mistress Betsy jumped up, and thrust her hands deep into her colored stuffs.

“‘Only three colors for the flag of our country, Tabitha,’ she said, ‘red for the blood of her patriots, and blue for her truth, and white for her purity. But now, for the design?’ She laid the pieces of cloth together and tried them this way, and that.

“Oh, how we puzzled our minds, John, over that flag. Or Mistress Betsy did, while I looked on, and clapped my hands in pride for her. I forgot the time. It grew late, and grandfather had to come for me, but I went again the next day to Mistress Betsy’s shop, and for many days to watch her plan the pattern of our one flag.

“You see, my dear John, it was no easy task. Mr. Washington had said that he was of a mind to have the thirteen Colonies represented in it. Mistress Betsy, herself, was always of a mind to make her needlework good to look at because of its simplicity. So she cut, and stitched, and ripped, and then stitched again. It was a weary work and lasted through the burning of many candles, but at last Mistress Betsy finished her flag.

“Oh, John, if you could but see it! It is plain, which the better shows its bright colors of red, and white, and blue. It has seven long red stripes and six long white stripes, making thirteen in all, for the thirteen colonies. As I look at the stripes they mind me of the long way our Colonies are taking to their freedom. Then, in one corner of the flag is a large piece of blue cloth, and sewed to it with Mistress Betsy’s tiny stitches are thirteen stars. The stars are for our Colonies, too. Like stars, they will shine.

“And now comes the amazing part of this letter, which has tried you, I fear, with all its quill scratching. Mr. Washington is so greatly pleased with Mistress Betsy’s endeavor to carry out his wishes that her flag is to be adopted by the Congress. It will be our American flag forever, and ever. I, Tabitha Wells, know the sweet lady who made it. I can scarcely wait for my father to come home to tell him about it. The flag of our Union, John, and made here in Philadelphia and in the shop of my Mistress Betsy. I am going to call her my Star Lady after this.

“Your patience has been tried, dear John, I fear, in reading this long letter. I have had trouble with my quill, which would not travel over the paper as fast as my thoughts come. I hear that you are having stirring times in Boston, and I pray that you are safe, and well. I shall count the days until your letter comes.

“As soon as I can I will have a small flag made for you in the Star Lady’s shop. Perhaps I can send it by the same packet as the apples. So, you will remember Philadelphia well, John, by the fruit of our garden and by the first American flag.

“Your cousin,

“Tabitha Wells.”

THE FLAG OF THEIR REGIMENT

Prudence looked up from her sewing. It was a pleasant place to work, out there in the morning sunshine that trickled through the big white pillars of the broad piazza. The wide street was overarched by the leafy branches of the spreading elms, but the houses that lined the streets were strangely empty of life.

It was in Philadelphia in the long, long-ago time of the Revolution. Prudence was a quaint, demure little Colonist girl. In all her eleven years she had known nothing save the daily routine of the simple home; the scouring of floors, the polishing of copper kettles and brass andirons and mahogany chairs, the making of huge loaves of bread and yellow butter and round cheeses, the bleaching of linen, and the patching together of gay blocks of colored cloth to make log-cabin and morning-star bed quilts.

Sometimes there was a quilting bee or donation party at the minister’s to attend. These, with their feasts of rich preserves and pound cake, and the children’s table set after the grown-ups had finished, were wonderful parties for Prudence. Usually, though, her days were very much alike. She helped her mother and studied her lessons from school books in queer wooden covers, and stitched her sampler when the studying was done.

It was not a cross-stitch sampler, though, that Prudence was working on so busily now. Her needle flew in and out as she stitched together with even small stitches some long straight strips of red calico and white cotton. In her lap lay some star-shaped pieces of plain white cotton calico. The edges were neatly turned in and basted ready for sewing upon a square of blue calico cloth that Prudence had just cut.

“Put up your work! It’s too pleasant a day to sew.”

Prudence looked up and saw a boy standing in front of her—her neighbor, William Brewster. The hair of each of these little Philadelphia children was cut short and square. They had the same round, rosy faces. Prudence’s short-sleeved, short-waisted frock and William’s ruffled shirt were both cut from the same cloth. It was green and white checked gingham from Deacon Wells’ store. From beneath William’s long trousers and Prudence’s skirt showed the same stout shoes with copper tips on the toes.

William ran up the steps of the piazza and pulled Prudence’s sewing.

“Oh, William!” Prudence gasped. “Be careful; you’ll soil the white cotton I fear. What ails your hands? I never saw them so stained before in all my life.”

William dropped down on the top step and held up his two brown hands in the sunlight, laughing merrily.

“You are indeed right, Prudence,” he said. “My hands need a dose of my mother’s good soft soap, but”—the boy’s voice dropped to a whisper—“all this morning I have been busy digging holes in the orchard.”

“Why?” Prudence’s blue eyes were wide with wonder. William got up now and looked all about him to see that no one was listening. Then he whispered in Prudence’s ear.

“For burying the silver,” he explained. “We packed it all in a strong box; my grandmother’s teaspoons, the silver cake basket with the design of strawberries around the edge, and the sugar tongs. We buried them all; oh, very deeply.”

“Was it necessary, William?” Prudence’s eyes were frightened as she spoke. “I know that my mother, before she had to take to her bed with the ague, planned to hide our silver in the well that is dried out. Are—are the Red Coats coming through Philadelphia soon?”

“They do say that they are coming. I am very fearful,” William answered. Then, as Prudence’s pink cheeks grew a little pale at the thought, the boy pointed to her sewing.

“What are you stitching, Prudence? Surely you are not going to dress yourself in these gaudy colors? It would scarcely be right in these hard times.”

Prudence laughed, shaking out the strips of scarlet and white that filled her lap.

“No, indeed, William. Dark colors and plain frocks must be worn by us children of the war. I am making a flag. Our great, beautiful stars and stripes of the Colonies went to our regiment with father and your brother John. But I went down to the flag shop of Mrs. Betty Ross not long ago, and I stood awhile on the threshold, watching how she and her maids cut and sewed their red, white, and blue cloth together. I said to myself, ‘why not make your own flag, Prudence Williams? You have ten fingers and a piece bag up in the attic.’ And here it is, all done but sewing on the little white stars.”

“Oh, Prudence!” William’s eyes shone.

“It is wonderful! How did you ever measure and sew it so well? I always did say that you are the most clever girl with your needle of any in town.”

“It _is_ carefully made,” Prudence assented, “but that is because I thought of my regiment with every stitch. And I wished that I might march in the regiment beside my father, waving my flag, and shouting for the independence of our dear Colonies at every step. Oh, it is hard, William, to be a girl in this time of the Revolution, with nothing to do but sit at home.”

“That it is,” William said, “but now let’s go in the house and delve in your cooky crock, Prudence. Perhaps your cook has filled it with her good caraway cakes,” and the two little neighbors disappeared through the great white door of the old house.

In the days that followed, Prudence quite forgot to dread the coming to Philadelphia of the British soldiers. Rumors came of how the Red Coats had marched through the near-by towns and countryside. They had taken possession of the homesteads, appropriated the supplies that had been left for the women and children, and plundered the treasures of silver that were almost all the wealth of the Colonists. News of this reached the ears of those who remained behind, alone, in Philadelphia. But Prudence paid little heed to the rumors. Her mother was better, but still an invalid and confined to her room. There was only one maid servant to do the work of the large house, and Prudence found herself a real little housekeeper with her hands very full. All day long she tripped up and down the wide oak staircase, with instructions from her dear mother to the maid in the kitchen, and then helped to carry them out. She had finished the flag. It was laid away in a drawer.

“It’s hardly safe to fly a flag from your piazza, Prudence,” sensible William had warned. So Prudence opened the drawer only when she had a little spare time. Then she would kneel down on the rag carpet in front of the drawer and hold the beloved Stars and Stripes tenderly in her arms.

“I love every star, and every color,” she would say to herself. “Oh, may God win the battle for us and help to give me back my father, and William his brother John!”

The next morning, when Prudence set the tray with her mother’s breakfast, she laid it with unusual care. Upon the sun-bleached linen cloth stood the thin china dishes, white with a pattern of raised bunches of grapes in purple and green. The silver spoons and forks were arranged neatly. Prudence’s mother, sitting in a big arm chair by the window where the sweet odors of the garden roses were blown up to her, looked lovingly at her small daughter.

“You are a good little housewife, my dear,” she said. “I don’t know what I should have done without you. Father will find his little girl almost a little woman when he returns.” She paused a moment, lifting one of the silver spoons to break the end of her eggshell. “If he ever does return,” she sighed. “Oh, I should have hidden the silver weeks ago.” The sound of a muffled drum struck her ear. She looked at Prudence in terror. “Pull the curtains close, child, and lock all the doors. The Red Coats are coming.”

Like a line of fire taking its winding way in and out between the houses, the regiment of British soldiers streamed through the streets of Philadelphia. Here, it stopped as an officer and his men stripped the fruit from some peaceful orchard or garden. There, at an officer’s order, a group of soldiers entered a house, and returned with bits of old family treasure that war gave them the privilege of taking.

Prudence’s heart beat fast, but she tried to be brave. She ran from room to room, stowing away the silver candlesticks and tableware, closing blinds, and locking doors. The old maid servant, her apron held over her head, had fled to the cellar in her fright. Her mother, bravely directing Prudence, was still unable to leave her room. Suddenly the front door burst open and in came William.

“I couldn’t bear to leave you alone, Prudence,” he said. “See, I brought my father’s old drum, thinking we could make a little noise on it and scare the Red Coats.”

Prudence looked into the brave face of her little neighbor.

“You’ve given me an idea, William,” she exclaimed. She ran over to the chest of drawers, opened one drawer, and pulled out the little homemade flag.

“We’ll both scare the Red Coats,” she said. “We won’t fasten the doors, for it wouldn’t be of any use. The soldiers could very easily break the bolts and I can’t find any safe place to hide the silver. Come. We’ll go right out on the piazza and meet the whole British army if it comes!” She clutched William’s hand, and tugged him toward the door.

“Do we dare?” William’s round, merry face was very sober.

“Of course we dare. Come on. You drum and I’ll wave the Stars and Stripes,” Prudence said.

The Williams’ white house, set a little back from the street in the midst of sweet old flower beds and low hedges of box and yew, looked like a prize to the ruthless Red Coats. It was well known in Philadelphia at that time that Prudence’s father had used much of his wealth to further the cause of the Colonies. This made the invading enemy hate him. It was a common rumor, too, that although the Williams’ chests of gold were greatly depleted, there was still much treasure of silver left in the home. News of it passed from mouth to mouth of the soldiers.

“There’s the house. Left flank, wheel, Halt!” shouted the British general in command. He turned in at the Williams’ gate and strode up the path. At the steps he looked up and stopped. “Gad!” he said, “the children of these stubborn Colonists would defy us, too,” but a smile took away the stern lines from his mouth.

On the top step of the piazza stood Prudence and William, two brave little Colonists. William was beating a loud, _rap tap_, on the cracked head of an old drum. Prudence, her arm held high above her head, waved the little home-made flag that showed the glorious stars and stripes of their regiment.

“You mustn’t come a step farther, sir!” she commanded.

“No indeed!” echoed William. “We won’t let you come in.”

“So you’re holding the fort, are you?” the General asked.

“We have to, sir,” Prudence explained. “My father is with the army of the Colonies and my mother is ill. This is my neighbor, William Brewster. He came over to help me guard the house.” Then she turned pleading eyes toward the great man as she held out her flag.

“It looks to me as if there were a thousand Red Coats, sir, more or less, out there in the road. There are only two of us. Please, sir, for the sake of our flag, march on!”

Was it dust or the mist of tears that made the British general wipe his eyes? He reached out one ungloved hand and grasped Prudence’s little one.

“Give my sympathy to your mother, my child,” he said kindly, “and tell her that I hope she will soon be better. Little soldiers, remember that never before have I surrendered, but now I do, in the name of the King. March on!” he ordered to his men. Looking back he saw Prudence and William standing in the gate and waving him good-bye until the trees and the distance shut them from his view.

THE BOY WHO HAD NEVER SEEN AN INDIAN

“I saw Painted Feathers this morning,” the boy said as he threw himself down on the rude log settle in front of the fire and stretched out his hands to feel the blaze. “He seemed angry about something,” he went on, “but he and the young braves were glad to see me. They like us, mother. Painted Feathers remembers how you took care of his little daughter, Laughing Eyes, when she strayed away from the camp up in the Blue Ridge, and he still wears the beads you gave him around his neck. Heap big chief, Painted Feathers, but I guess we’ve made him our friend.”

The woman in homespun, who bent over a savory stew brewing in a kettle that hung from the crane, smiled as she looked down at the boy’s manly face. He was the counterpart of his father, who had gone over the Blue Ridge hunting, and had never returned—lost in the trackless wilderness of the woods, they feared. He wore the same kind of rough suit of tanned skins, hide boots, and fur cap. His eyes were just as deep and fearless as his father’s had been. He was his mother’s mainstay now in the little cabin set so far from any other habitation in the depth of the wilderness. There were Indians near, but, so far, they had been friendly to the two settlers.

“I tried to understand what Painted Feathers was angry about,” the lad continued.

“What was it, Eli; nothing that we have done, I trust?” the boy’s mother asked, her voice trembling a little as she peered out through the window at the gathering dusk and the gloomy forest that surrounded them.

“Oh, no, mother,” Eli hastened to assure her. “As nearly as I could make out, Painted Feathers and the tribe are afraid of losing their land. They pointed toward the direction the Shenandoah takes, beyond the Blue Ridge as it flows into the Potomac. They say that the land in that valley is being measured off with strange instruments and by white men who are going to bring their own tribes and build their own camps there. You can’t blame Painted Feathers, mother, for his tribe settled here first. I thought as I came home what a pity it would be to take the land away from the Indians; such lofty trees, and the silver river, and the buds of the wild flowers opening everywhere. I never saw the mountains look so blue as they did in the sunshine this morning, and Painted Feathers has lived here for years and years,” he said, his clear, boyish voice full of sympathy.

“I know, too, how Painted Feathers feels about this valley,” Eli’s mother said. “He knows every deer track and every spring and partridge call for miles around. But I think this is all talk about surveyors being near, son. No one has marked out the lands in all this time, and they would scarcely begin now. How much longer the days are!” she added, turning toward the door to open it and let in the earth-soaked wind of the evening. It was early spring and the twilight was long and mellow.

To her surprise, she found a boy standing outside. His hand which he had raised to knock with went like a flash to his cap. He pulled it off and stood, bareheaded, as he bowed like a young cavalier and smiled up at her. He was about Eli’s age, she thought, between fifteen and sixteen, but a different sort of lad from her sturdy son. His long, pale face had the lines of an aristocrat. Even his slender fingers showed his gentle heritage.

“May I ask shelter of you for the night,” he begged courteously. As he spoke, Eli’s mother noticed that he carried surveying instruments, and his clothing was weather-stained and worn.

“I have come all the way up the Shenandoah and over the mountains, measuring and marking the land, and making maps of its important features,” he said. “I have not slept more than three or four nights in a bed, but after tramping through your wild forests all day, have lain down before a fire on a little straw or fodder or a bearskin like some beast of the wood. And my cooking has been done on sticks over the same fire with chips of wood for plates.” He smiled as he told of the hardships. “I have strayed away from my companions,” he said, “and do not know where to spend the night.”

Eli, crowding close to his mother in the doorway, had been listening to the tale of the stranger lad with the greatest interest. He pushed open the door now.

“Come in,” he said.

“Yes, you must come in and share our supper, and stop with us in the cabin as long as you like,” Eli’s mother added. And in a few minutes the three were gathered around the rough deal table before the fire, eating bowlfuls of the steaming broth.

“My name is Eli. What is yours?” Eli asked, between mouthfuls.

“George,” said the other lad. “I live at Mount Vernon. Our neighbor, Lord Fairfax, has an estate that is so large it extends way over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Ever since I was a little lad I have ridden and walked with Lord Fairfax, and when he decided to have his estate surveyed, even as far as this distant boundary, I gladly undertook the work. I like this wild life and the adventure of making new paths in the wilderness.”

“Tell me about some of your adventures, George,” Eli begged, leaning across the table, his eyes bright with excitement.

“The narrowest escape we had,” George replied, “was when we made our straw beds on the ground a few nights since and were awakened by smelling something scorched. The straw was on fire, and we were almost burned ourselves.”

“Have you seen any Indians?” Eli asked.

“Not an Indian,” the young surveyor replied. “Indeed, I wish that I might, for I never have seen an Indian in my life. They were long ago driven out of Virginia, you know, by the Colonists. Once, though,” he added, “and not so many days ago, if I remember rightly, we were setting up our stakes about a tract of land near here and we heard a sudden crackling in the bushes. There was a bit of bright color showing among the branches as we looked, like the bright feathers of a chief’s headdress, but it was gone in a moment. It may have been only a scarlet tanager, or a red-headed woodpecker,” he said carelessly.

The words had scarcely escaped his lips, though, when a sudden light flashed against the window of the cabin, lighting like day the scene outside. As scarlet and yellow leaves are whirled in a moment by a sudden gust of wind from a forest, so the thirty or more Indians who surrounded the cabin seemed to have flashed out of the woods—as swiftly and as silently. Painted Feathers led them, decked in fresh war paint, as were all the other braves, and a scalp dangled menacingly from his belt to show that he was bent on warfare. With fierce gestures toward the cabin and the three white faces that peered in terror from the window, the Indians made their preparations. One of the younger braves drummed loudly on a deerskin that he had stretched over an iron pot; another rattled a huge, dried gourd filled with shot and decorated with a horse’s tail. The others built a great fire directly in front of the cabin, pulled blazing brands from it, and danced in a circle with wild yells and whoops.

Eli whispered his frightened explanation to the other lad. “It’s Painted Feathers and his band of braves, and they’re dancing the death dance. When they finish they’ll set fire to our cabin, I’m afraid. He used to be our friend, but this morning he seemed in a great rage about his land and hunting ground being taken away from the tribe by settlers.” Eli’s voice was trembling as he finished. “It wasn’t a wild bird that you heard and saw in the woods when you were surveying, George. It was Painted Feathers watching you, and now he has followed you to our cabin.”

The other lad’s heart beat with terror, but his voice did not falter, as he spoke: “Then I am going out to give myself up to the Indians, Eli. I won’t have your life and that of your mother endangered when you have been so kind to take me, a stranger, into your house, and feed, and shelter me.” He made a quick movement toward the door, but Eli intercepted him.

“Wait, George! It would only satisfy their rage without doing any good. Let me think a moment.”

But as the three waited and watched, the cabin lighted by the fire outside, the seconds seemed hours. The shouting, excited Indians piled more logs upon the fire and fed it with pine knots until the sparks darted in a crimson cloud as high as the tops of the trees. As they danced, they circled nearer and nearer the cabin, their shrieks growing each moment more shrill and menacing. It was time to act if the cabin and its occupants were to be saved. Before either his mother or the boy surveyor could stop him, Eli stepped out in front of the cabin, alone, and unprotected. He stood there, one hand held out in welcome to the terrible Indian chief.

The sudden apparition of the boy was a surprise to the Indians. They were silent for a moment, spellbound by the boy’s bravery, and interested, as well, in something that he drew from his coat and held out in supplication toward Painted Feathers. He had grasped the object from its place on the shelf over the fireplace before he left the cabin. It was a tiny moccasin made of the softest of deerskin and embroidered with bright beads. Painted Feathers drew nearer to look, and Eli spoke to him.

“Laughing Eyes left her moccasin in the wigwam of her paleface friends. We kept the moccasin because we love Laughing Eyes. We found her when she strayed away from the tribe and we gave her back to her father, Painted Feathers, the big chief.”

As the boy spoke, Painted Feathers nodded his great head slowly, and his cruel face softened a little. Eli was quick to see the advantage that he had gained and he acted upon it.

“A strange pale face has come to the cabin. He measures the land in the valley, but he is the friend of the Indians. He will protect their hunting grounds and keep away strange tribes from the west. Will Painted Feathers say ‘how’ to the stranger?” Eli asked, his voice trembling a little at what might be the outcome of his bold request.

Painted Feathers held the little moccasin in his hand now, the touch of it warming and softening his stony heart. Then he slowly nodded his head in assent, stalking nearer the cabin door.

“Come, George,” cried Eli breathlessly. “Come out and meet your friend, Painted Feathers, the big chief.”

In the flaring light of the torches, the great Indian solemnly shook hands with the boy surveyor. Then, as the two boys stood in the doorway, the chief went back to the fire and gave a quick order to the braves. In a second their fearful death dance was changed to the slow, stately steps of a dance of welcome. At its end they put out the fire, and filed silently back into the forest.

Snuggled under bearskins in front of the warm hearth, the two boys slept but little that night, and talked a great deal about their wonderful adventure.

“You needn’t be afraid to go in the morning, George,” Eli assured the boy surveyor. “Painted Feathers’ tribe is the only band of Indians anywhere around here, and now that he knows you are his friend, he won’t harm you.”

“I shall never forget you, Eli,” said George. “You have taught me how to be brave.”

His companions found the lad in the morning and, with many thanks and assurances of his friendship, the young surveyor left the settler’s cabin and started to finish his work and his trip.

More than a score of years passed. Where the trees had grown there was a town now, and the cabin itself was replaced by a comfortable frame dwelling. Eli’s mother was an old lady and he, a man grown. It was a time of much stress for America, the period of the Revolution.

“Great news, mother!” Eli exclaimed as he came in one day. “They say that General George Washington has taken Lord Cornwallis and all his army as prisoners. Yorktown has surrendered, and the war is over.”

“General George Washington?” repeated his mother, her mind going back through the years. Then a thought came to her. “Eli,” she said, “do you remember the lad surveyor who stayed with us for a night when you were a boy? He told me his full name as he was leaving and, all these years, I have never thought to speak of it to you. George Washington, he said he was.”

The man’s eyes flashed. “One and the same,” he said. “The great general, and our guest, George, who had never seen an Indian.”

DICK, THE YOUNGEST SOLDIER

“Did you hear the news, Dick?” The children on their way to school along the elm-lined street of Hartford caught up with the lad of ten and spoke to him.

“They do say that General Burgoyne and all his Red Coats are marching down from Canada and will fight their way to Albany. Our soldiers are dropping out of the ranks from weariness with this long struggle, and General Schuyler is calling for more recruits.”

“My father is going to enlist in the Continental Army.”

“So is my brother.”

“And my father too.”

The lads and lassies in their homespun and calico drew themselves up proudly. They loved this fair, green land of America with its fields of yellow corn and orchards of ruddy fruit. They loved its blazing fireplaces, the games on the Common, and the brave, ragged army of farmer soldiers who were trying to free the Colonies.

“Do you know what General Washington says about us?” Abigail, a quaint little girl in a long frock and pinafore said, touching Dick’s sleeve. “He says if all the states had done their duty as well as our little State of Connecticut the war would have been ended long ago. But of course that doesn’t mean us, Dick,” she added. “There’s nothing we children can do for the Colonies.”

Dick drew himself up proudly. Although he was but ten years old he was as straight and held his head as high as a soldier. He looked down the street toward a big white house with the Stars and Stripes flying from the pole on the green lawn. It was the recruiting station where volunteers were enrolled to march against the Red Coats.

“I should like to help General Washington,” he said. “Perhaps they would let me enlist.”

A shout of laughter went up from the children.

“A boy of ten a soldier in the Continental Army!”

“What would you do for your country?”

“All you know, Dick, is how to play tunes on your grandfather’s fife.”

The words hurt the little lad and his face flushed. He was about to retort, but the boys and girls scattered, some running ahead swinging their school bags, some stopping to look at the sweets in Dame Brewster’s bake-shop window. Dick waited until he saw that he was alone. Then he hurried on down the street and he did not stop until he had reached the recruiting station and turned in at the gate.

The sun touched their ranks with gold and the summer wind carried the Stars and Stripes before them the day in 1777 when the new volunteer regiment left Hartford. It was on its long, weary way over rough roads to Peekskill on the Hudson, the headquarters of General Putnam. All Hartford was gathered on the wide piazzas and green streets to cheer the regiment on its way. All the children were there, too, waving their caps and bonnets.

All? No, one child was missing.

As the lines of blue swung along beneath the great old trees, the sound of a fife playing an old marching tune came piping above the shouting and the cheers of the crowd. Suddenly every one was quiet as the drummer came into sight and beside him a little lad of ten years, dressed in the uniform of the Colonies and playing a fife.

“Richard Jones!” the children whispered in excitement to each other. “It is our Dick, going to war with the regiment.”

An old man leaning on his cane at the edge of the crowd took off his hat and called to Dick.

“Good-bye, little lad. If you play your fife as well as Grandfather taught you, it will put heart into the soldiers and strength in their arms. It was your fine piping that won you a place in the regiment, the youngest soldier of the Revolution. God save you and bring you back safe to us.”

Hearing him, Dick stopped playing a moment and called out, “Good-bye, Grandfather. I’ll try to do my duty. Good-bye!”

Then he was lost to sight,—a little figure in a blue coat and knee breeches, Richard Lord Jones, enlisted at ten years in the army of the American colonies.

Dick could play the fife better than any one else in the regiment. It made the soldiers forget hunger and weariness and sleeplessness to have the little lad march at their head, his gay tunes marking the time for their ragged shoes. He fifed the regiment all the long way to White Plains and then up the Hudson to Peekskill where General Putnam was stationed and needed reinforcements. There he rested for a while, but not long. The British commander, General Clinton, appeared and captured two forts on the west side of the Hudson. General Putnam was obliged to retreat up the river.

It was a wild, adventure-filled retreat all the way. Dick had little but hard biscuit and raw, salt pork to eat. He marched through villages that were in flames from the fire brands of the British. He saw and was able to give information about a British spy who was condemned and shot. Then the division to which Dick belonged reached Long Island where it was commissioned to land at Huntington. The soldiers were in a common transport, though, without guns, and it was captured by a British man of war. Dick, the little fifer, was marched with his Colonel and officers and the militia, all picked men, into the presence of a British commander.

The little lad must have looked very strange to the Englishman. His shoes were so worn that his feet were on the ground and one could scarcely see the blue of his Continental uniform because of its dust and rags. He was pale from going without food and sleep, but he held his head very proudly and high. Not one of the prisoners was as brave as Dick as he marched into the presence of the enemy beside his Colonel, carrying his fife under his arm.