“‘MY COOKING HAS BEEN DONE ON STICKS OVER THE FIRE’”“MY COOKING HAS BEEN DONE ON STICKS OVER THE FIRE’”
“MY COOKING HAS BEEN DONE ON STICKS OVER THE FIRE’”
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.
“ELI STEPPED OUT ... ALONE AND UNPROTECTED”“ELI STEPPED OUT ... ALONE AND UNPROTECTED”
“ELI STEPPED OUT ... ALONE AND UNPROTECTED”
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.”
“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.
“Who is this boy?” the British officer demanded, frowning down on the lad. His tent was bristling with swords and crowded with other officers of the King in scarlet broadcloth and gold lace. It was indeed a fearful place for a little boy to be, but Dick answered bravely,
“A soldier of the Colonies, sir.”
The British officer laughed.
“What can a little bantam cock like you do for the cause of these fighting farmers?” he asked. “I’ll wager you’re of no use and, methinks, only a hindrance to your regiment.”
Dick drew himself up proudly. “I have played the fife for the regiment these many months,” he asserted stoutly, “and they do say there isn’t a man in the army can put as much heart into a tune as I. It might chance I could fight, too, if I were put to it.”
A chorus of laughter from the British officers greeted Dick’s last assertion.
“You fight!”
“The little cock thinks he could fight!” they sneered, but the British commander looked sternly at Dick as he spoke to him.
“There is too much of this idle boasting in the farmer army. I would put an end to it.”
He motioned to an English lad, the boatswain’s boy, older and more toughly built than Dick.
“Fight!” the officer commanded. “Let the Yankee fight one of King George’s men!”
The two lads went at each other, rough and tumble. It was hardly a fair fight. The English lad hit right and left with iron fists and Dick tried to parry the blows, weak from his long marches and fasting. Dick’s spirit and his courage were stronger than those of the other lad, though. First one would be on top and then the other while the British officers and Dick’s own men shouted,
“Down with the enemy of the King!” or, “Down with King George!”
It was one of the strangest and most memorable fights of the whole war for independence because both lads felt that more than their personal prowess was at stake. Dick fell under his assailant’s blows many times but each time he struggled to his feet, caught his breath, and struck back again.
“Enough!” the English lad cried at last and this battle, like so many others, was a victory for the Colonies.
There was scant mercy showed by the British in those days but one could not help but admire the pluck of the youngest soldier of the regiment. The officer whose prisoner he was called Dick to him and patted him on his curly head.
“A brave little cock indeed!” he said. “As a reward for your good fighting, how would you like to have me give you your freedom?” he asked.
“Oh, sir,” Dick cried, his whole face lighted with pleasure. “I should like it very much, but—” he stepped nearer his own commander, “I do not want to be released unless my Colonel may come with me.”
The British officer considered a moment. Then, in a sudden impulse of kindness, he granted Dick’s request.
“Colonel Webb may go too, on parole,” he said.
Dick went home for a week in Hartford after his first fight. There had never been such a hero as he among the other boys and girls. He could not stir outside of his gate without a crowd of them following at his heels, begging for tales of his adventures, a button, or a scrap of lining from his coat. The little soldier did not care for fame, though. He longed to be back in the thick of the fight so he put his fife to his lips again and rejoined his regiment. They were glad to see him. They had missed his cheerful tunes.
Dick was with the regiment when the great Kosciusko helped them to fortify West Point. He marched over rough and frozen ground two hundred miles to Morristown, but at the end of the weary way General Washington greeted him. The winter of privation and exposure that followed was not so hard for Dick to bear because he was sharing it with the great Washington. No other boy had so great an honor.
Through the three years of his enlistment Dick faced whatever hardships came to him without a whimper and the sound of his cheerful fife tunes comes down to us through all these years as one of the helps to America’s freedom. He was honorably discharged from the Continental Army when he was a little more than thirteen years old and, with an escort of two soldiers, he walked two hundred miles home.
No one asked him now what he could do for his country. Dick was the hero of the children and everyone else in Hartford. When the Revolution was over and the Stars and Stripes waved over the free Colonies Dick knew that he had helped in winning his country’s independence.
Betsy looked with delight at the dainty white frock spread out on the big four-poster bed in the spare room.
It was early spring in the quaint old Southern town of Salisbury. Through the windows of the big white house of the Brandon plantation which was Betsy’s home came the sweet notes of the first mocking bird, the singing of the farm hands as they ploughed the land for the first planting, and the fresh odor of the pine trees.
A few years before Salisbury had seen the devastating ruin of war in its lovely green borders. Now, in the year of our Lord and of America’s independence, 1791, the South was peacefully planting and harvesting once more. Barns and cellars and the home larders were full to overflowing.
The next day was to bring a great event to Salisbury. The President of the new United States, George Washington, and his cabinet were making a tour of the South. They had driven in lordly, leisurely fashion in their coaches through Virginia, South Carolina, and Georgia. All Salisbury would see the Greatest American in the morning.
TWO OF THE FARM HANDSTWO OF THE FARM HANDS
TWO OF THE FARM HANDS
The little town was ready for the President. He was to be met at the village green by an escort of soldiers who would accompany him as he toured the town, and flower girls were to head the procession.
Betsy Brandon was to be one of the flower girls and that was why she had such a pretty new frock. It was made of the sheerest, white dotted swiss with as many ruffles as a white rose has petals. And some of the ruffles were caught up with bunches of tiny pink flowers and green leaves that Betsy’s mother had made with her own clever fingers. A wide pink sash lay on the bed, too, and a white hat with wide pink streamers and a bunch of the same pretty pink flowers in front. Betsy was to wear pink silk stockings and white slippers. Never, in all her life, had she been allowed to wear such lovely things.
She touched the flowing ruffles and the soft silk of the sash, thinking how happy she would be with the other little daughters of Salisbury in the morning. She had not noticed that her mother had crossed the threshold of the spare room and stood beside her looking down earnestly into the little girl’s happy face. Mistress Brandon put her hand on Betsy’s brown braids that were coiled neatly and tied about her head.
“My precious little daughter,” Mistress Brandon said, “there is something that I must tell you.”
“Yes, mother,” Betsy looked smilingly into her mother’s sober face.
Her mother spoke quickly now and as if the words hurt her. “Your dear Aunt Tabitha’s serving man has just come in great haste on horseback from her plantation to say that his mistress is far from well and wishes me to come to her at once with a supply of simples. I must go. The maids are packing my basket and laying out my traveling cloak, and the horses are harnessed and at the door.” She paused, in sorrow at the grief that she saw suddenly in Betsy’s radiant face.
“Your father will not return for some days yet,” she added, and then stopped.
There was a pause and then Betsy looked up bravely, saying just what her mother had hoped and expected that she would, for she was a good little girl.
“And Grandmother should not be left alone here because she is not well and the maids are new,” Betsy said. Then, all at once, it seemed as if she could not bear her disappointment. She threw herself into her mother’s arms, burying her head in her shoulder. “I can’t be a flower girl,” she sobbed. “I must stay at home to-morrow, and not see President Washington. Oh, I can’t bear it; it seems as if I just can’t!”
Her mother stooped down and kissed her. “Any other little daughter except my own brave little Betsy perhaps could not bear the disappointment,” she said, “but she can. The Brandons come of a brave old family, strong to fight and well able to bear whatever comes to them. And think, too, dear, what sorrows came to our brave President before he won the war for us. You can try to be as brave as he, dear child, can you not?”
“Yes, mother.” Betsy was smiling again. She folded the dainty frock and the sash and laid them away in one of the lavender-scented drawers of the big mahogany bureau. And then she went downstairs, and did not shed one tear as she kissed her mother good-bye and watched her drive away between the magnolia trees that lined the long driveway of the plantation.
It was a hard afternoon, though, for Betsy. The little girl who lived on the next plantation came over to see Betsy’s dress and after she had shown it to her, Betsy had to tell her that she would not have an opportunity to wear it. She thought, too, that it would make her grandmother feel badly if she were to know of her disappointment, so she sat with her in her big, sunny room in the afternoon and read to her and was a smiling little girl all the time. Late in the day Betsy went down to the kitchen and made corn bread. She was almost as good a cook as was her mother. The corn bread was as yellow as gold, and as light as sponge cake.
The morning of the great day for Salisbury was as blue and gold as sky and sun could make it. Betsy was up with the birds and gave the maids their orders for the day, and looked over the supplies in the safe, as the big locked cupboard for food was called, just as Mistress Brandon would have done if she had been home. She opened all the windows of the mansion to let in the sweet spring air. She filled the bowls and vases with fresh flowers, and then she sat down with her sewing on the piazza.
Betsy was working a sampler in cross-stitch. Around the edge, embroidered in bright crewels, was a border of flowers and bees, the latter because of her initials. Inside, Betsy was working her name in neat letters, the Lord’s prayer, and the date of her birth. Usually Betsy liked nothing better than to be able to sit there in the quiet of the piazza, shaded by its great pillars, the green lawn stretching below the steps and her colored sewing in her lap. To-day, though, her eyes left the bright worsted often to follow the line of the plantation driveway that led away from the house and down toward the village.
Through the trees she had glimpses of fluttering white skirts and bright ribbons. The flower girls, her little girl neighbors, were gathering and taking their happy way down to the village green to meet Mr. Washington. She could hear their merry voices and the sounds of fifes and drums. The soldiers were starting, too.
Betsy could see, in imagination, how pretty and gay the town would be. People in their carriages and coaches would be there from miles around. Every one would be joyous and so proud to do honor to the Greatest American. It was hours too early for him to be there yet, but here they were gathering to greet him.
“I am brave, but it seems as if I must cry just a little bit,” Betsy buried her head in her sewing. But before she had shed a tear, a man’s voice startled her. She looked up.
He was very tall and straight, and wore the beautiful, rich costume of the Colonies. His velvet knee breeches, silver-buckled shoes, gold-embroidered coat, and white wig showed Betsy that he was a personage of importance. But he stood before her with his three-cornered hat in his hand and bowed to her quite as if she had been a young lady.
“Good morning, little lass of Salisbury,” he said in his deep, kind voice, pointing to her sewing. “You are an industrious child, such an one as I like to see growing up in this new land. You work betimes in the day, and with the birds.”
Betsy rose and dropped a deep curtsey to the stranger. She must have looked very winsome to him in her pink calico dress, white apron, and with her cheeks flushed to a rose color in excitement.
“My mother has taught me that work comes before play, and always in the morning,” Betsy explained. “What is your pleasure, sir!” she went on. “I am the mistress of the Brandon plantation for the day. My mother is called away by the illness of my Aunt Tabitha and I am taking care of grandmother and the maids in her absence. It is a sore disappointment to me, sir. I was to have been a flower girl in the village and walked with our guest of honor of the day, Mr. Washington.”
The stranger came up the steps, and took a chair beside Betsy.
“You wanted very much to see him?” he asked. “Why?”
“Because President Washington is a great soldier, and the most important man in the United States,” Betsy answered, her hands clasped, and her eyes shining with excitement.
The man smiled. “I know him,” he said. “Did it ever occur to you, little lass of Salisbury, that perhaps Mr. Washington is a great deal like other Americans. He loves the earth,” he pointed to the wide expanse of the fertile Brandon acres. “Perhaps, too, he likes to try new roads as I have done this morning. I have come a long distance,” he said, “and am tired and hungry. I left my carriage at the entrance to your plantation, and the driveway looked so pleasant and quiet that I walked along it until I came to your house. May I ask you for food and drink, little Mistress of the Mansion?”
“Indeed, yes, sir!” Betsy sprang toward the door, but with her hand on the latch she turned. “Do you like corn bread, sir,” she asked. “I made some, myself, yesterday afternoon. It is delicious with our fresh milk, half cream.”
“That would make a breakfast that I should like above all else,” the stranger said, smiling. And he watched the graceful little figure as Betsy slipped through the door. “A good daughter of America,” he said to himself, “a housewife above all else.”
“LITTLE MISTRESS OF THE MANSION”“LITTLE MISTRESS OF THE MANSION”
“LITTLE MISTRESS OF THE MANSION”
In the twinkling of an eye, Betsy returned, carrying a daintily-spread tray. On a white cloth there was set gold and white china, thin and sparkling. The corn bread almost matched the gold, and a tall glass goblet was filled to the top with foamy milk. Betsy’s guest ate as if no meal had ever tasted so good to him before. He did not speak until he had eaten the last crumb of the corn bread and drunk the last drop of the milk. Then he rose to go.
“Many thanks, little Mistress of the Mansion,” he said, “for your very gracious hospitality. I have been entertained most lavishly on the journey I am now taking, but at no stopping place have I enjoyed it so much. I want you to be comforted in your disappointment, my child, and to realize that in serving and feeding a stranger you have done quite as kind an act as if you had scattered flowers before your President.”
“Thank you very much, sir!” Betsy bowed again, and took the strong hand the man gave her as he started down the steps. Then a sudden thought came to her.
“May I ask your name, sir?” she asked. “I should like to tell my mother when she returns.”
“You may, my child,” he replied. “It is George Washington.”
PATRIOTIC SONGS
The best Patriotic Songs of the United States and the Allied European Nations.
Arranged for four part singing. Harmonized for use of children in the keys best suited for that purpose. Large type. Size of print page 5×8. Book trimmed to 6×9. Printed on good paper. Strong paper cover. 32 pages. Price, 10 cents.
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America—The Star Spangled Banner—Battle Hymn of the Republic—Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean—Hail Columbia!—The Battle Cry of Freedom—Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! the Boys are Marching—Yankee Doodle—Tenting on the Old Camp Ground—Home, Sweet Home—Onward Christian Soldiers—Dixie—My Old Kentucky Home—Old Black Joe—Old Folks at Home—Illinois—Sweet and Low—Hymn of the Marseillaise—God Save the King—March of the Men of Harlech—Annie Laurie—Auld Lang Syne—When Johnny Comes Marching Home—Swanee River.
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AMERICAN HEROES FROM HISTORY
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When the “fairy-tale” period has passed nothing thrills the school boy or girl as do true stories of real heroes. “American Heroes from History” describes the deeds of those men who were instrumental in building our great Nation so entertainingly that the pupils are taught history and patriotism while absorbed in the stories themselves.
PATRIOTIC SONGS
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THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY
By EDWARD EVERETT HALE
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