Come, Bossy, come Bossy! Here I am with my cup,Come give me some milk, rich and sweet.I will pay you well with red clover hay,The nicest you ever did eat.
Daisies!Low in the grass and high in the clover,Starring the green earth over and over,Now into white waves tossing and breaking,Like a foaming sea when the wind is waking,Now standing upright, tall and slender,Showing their deep hearts' golden splendor;Daintily bending,Airily lendingGarlands of flowers for earth's adorning,Fresh with the dew of a summer morning;High on the slope, low in the hollow,Where eye can reach or foot can follow,Shining with innocent fearless facesOut of the depths of lonely places,Till the glad heart sings their praises—Here are the daisies!The daisies!Daisies!See them ebbing and flowing,Like tides with the full moon going;Spreading their generous largess freeFor hand to touch and for eye to see;In dust of the wayside growing,On rock-ribbed upland blowing,By meadow brooklets glancing,On barren fields a-dancing,Till the world forgets to burrow and grope,And rises aloft on the wings of hope;—Oh! of all posies,Lilies or roses,Sweetest or fairest,Richest or rarest,That earth in its joy to heaven upraises,Give me the daisies!Why? For they glow with the spirit of youth,Their beautiful eyes have the glory of truth,Down before all their rich bounty they fling—Free to the beggar, and free to the kingLoving they stoop to the lowliest ways,Joyous they brighten the dreariest days;Under the fringe of their raiment they hideScars the gray winter hath opened so wide;Freely and brightly—Who can count lightlyGifts with such generous ardor proffered,Tokens of love from such full heart's offered,Or look without glances of joy and delightAt pastures star-covered from morning till night,When the sunshiny field ablaze isWith daisies!Daisies,Your praise is,That you are like maidens, as maidens should be,Winsome with freshness, and wholesome to see,Gifted with beauty, and joy to the eye,Head lifted daintily—yet not too high—Sweet with humility, radiant with love,Generous too as the sunshine above,Swaying with sympathy, tenderly bentOn hiding the scar and on healing the rent,Innocent-looking the world in the face,Yet fearless with nature's own innocent grace,Full of sweet goodness, yet simple in art,White in the soul, and pure gold in the heart—Ah, like unto you should all maidenhood beGladsome to know, and most gracious to see;Like you, my daisies!M. E. B
Sing a song of sixpence,A pocket full of rye;Four-and-twenty blackbirdsBaked into a pie.When the pie was openedThe birds began to sing.Wasn't that a dainty dishTo set before the King?The King was in the parlorCounting out his money;The Queen was in the kitchenEating bread and honey;The maid was in the gardenHanging up the clothes,There came a little blackbirdAnd picked off her nose.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass,He turned them into the river lane;One after another he let them pass,Then fastened the meadow bars again.Along by the willows and over the hillHe patiently followed their sober pace—The merry whistle for once was stillAnd something shadowed the sunny face.Only a boy, and his father had saidHe never could let his youngest go,Two already were lying deadUnder the feet of the trampling foe.But, after the evening work was done,And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp,Over his shoulder he slung his gunAnd stealthily followed the footpath damp.Across the clover and through the wheat,With resolute heart and purpose grim,Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,And the blind bat's flitting startled him.Thrice since then have the lanes been whiteAnd the orchards sweet with apple bloom,And now when the cows came back at nightThe feeble father drove them home;For news had come to the lonely farmThat three were lying where two had lain,And the old man's tremulous, palsied armCould never lean on a son's again.The summer day grew cool and late,He went for the cows when his work was done,But down the lane, as he opened the gate,He saw them coming, one by one.Brindle and Ebony, Speckle and Bess,Tossing their horns in the evening wind,Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,But who was it following close behind?Loosely swung in the idle airThe empty sleeve of army blue,And worn and pale through its crisped hairLooked out a face that the father knew.For Southern prisons will sometimes yawnAnd yield their dead to life again,And the day that comes with a cloudy dawnIn golden glory at last may wane.The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes,For the hearts must speak when the lips are dumb,And under the silent evening skiesTogether they followed the cattle home.KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
To and fro,See us go!Up so high,Down so low;Now quite fast,Now real slow.Singing,Swinging,This is the way,to getfresh airIn apleasantway.
Rough and ready the troopers ride,Pistol in holster and sword by side;They have ridden long, they have ridden hard,They are travel-stained and battle-scarred;The hard ground shakes with their martial tramp,And coarse is the laugh of the men of the camp.They reach the spot where a mother standsWith a baby shaking its little hands,Laughing aloud at the gallant sightOf the mounted soldiers, fresh from the fight.The captain laughs out, "I will give you this,A bright piece of gold, your baby to kiss.""My darling's kisses cannot be sold,But gladly he'll kiss a soldier bold."He lifts up the babe with a manly grace,And covers with kisses its smiling face.Its rosy cheeks and its dimpled charms,And it crows with delight in the soldier's arms."Not all for the captain," the troopers call;"The baby, we know, has a kiss for all."To each soldier's breast the baby is pressedBy the strong rough men, and kissed and caressed.And louder it laughs, and the lady's faceWears a mother's smile at the fond embrace."Just such a kiss," cried one warrior grim,"When I left my boy I gave to him;""And just such a kiss on the parting day,I gave to my girl as asleep she lay."Such were the words of these soldiers brave,And their eyes were moist when the kiss they gave.ANON.
"Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?""Yes sir, yes sir three bags full;One for my master and one for my dame,And one for the little boy who lives in the lane."
Tommy Bangs looks quite smart,Driving along in his new goat cart,But Tommy's not one of your selfish boys,With every baby he shares his joys,Takes them to ride and lets them drive,Of course, they like TommyThe best boy alive.
The grand old kingdom of England, in the course of the mossy centuries you can count over its head, has had its times of gloom and depression at dangers that looked near, and its times of shouting and rejoicing over dangers its brave men have driven away quite out of sight again.
One of the deepest seasons of gloom was when the French Emperor, Napoleon, had conquered one country after another, until there was scarcely anything but England left to attack; and one of the proudest times of rejoicing was when the "Iron Duke" Wellington, and the bluff old Prussian, Blucher, met him at Waterloo, defeated his armies and drove him from the field. There were bonfires, and bell-ringings then, and from that day onward England loved and cherished every man who had fought at Waterloo—from the "Duke" himself down to the plainest private, every one was a hero and a veteran.
In one of the humblest houses of a proud nobleman's estate, a low, whitewashed cottage, one of these veterans lived not so very many years ago. He had fought by his flag in one of the most gallant regiments until the last hour of the battle, and then had fallen disabled from active service for the rest of his life.
That did not seem to be of so very great consequence though, just now; for peace reigned in the land, and with his wife and two beautiful daughters to love, his battles to think over, and his pension to provide the bread and coffee, the old soldier was as happy as the day was long. It made no difference that the bread and the coffee were both black, and the clothes of the veteran were coarse and seldom new.
"Ho, Peggy!" he used to say to his wife, "my cloak is as fine as the one the 'Iron Duke' wore when they carried me past him just as the French were breaking; and as for the bread, only a veteran knows how the recollection of victory makes everything taste sweet!"
But it seemed as if the old soldier's life was going to prove like his share in that great day at Waterloo—success and victory till the end had nearly come, and then one shot after another striking him with troubles, he could never get over.
The first came in the midst of the beautiful summer days, when the bees droned through the delicious air, the rose-bush was in full bloom, and the old soldier sat in the cottage door reveling in it all. A slow, merciless fever rose up through the soft air—it did not venture near the high ground where the castle stood, but it crept noiselessly into the whitewashed cottage, one night, and the soldier's two daughters were stricken down. This was the beginning of terrible trouble to the veteran of Waterloo. Not that he minded watching, for he was used to standing sentry all night, and as for nursing, he had seen plenty in the hospital; but to see his daughters suffering—that was what he could not bear!
And worst of all, between medicines and necessaries for the sick, the three months' pension was quite used up, and when the old soldier's nursing had pulled through the fierceness of the fever, there was nothing but black bread left in the house—and black bread was almost the same as no bread at all to the dainty appetities the fever had left; and that was what he had to think of, and think of, as he sat in the cottage door.
"Bah!" said the old soldier, with something more like a groan than was ever heard from him while his wounds were being dressed, "I could face all the armies of Napoleon better than this!"
And he sat more and more in the cottage door, as if that could leave the trouble behind; but it stood staring before him, all the same, till it almost shut the rosebush and the bees out of sight. But one morning a tremendous surprise came to him like a flash out of the sky! He heard the sound of galloping troops, and he pricked up his ears, for that always made him think of a cavalry charge.
"Who goes there?" he cried; but without answering his challenge the sound came nearer and nearer, and a lackey in full livery dashed up to the door, and presented him with a note sealed with the blood-red seal of the castle arms. It was an invitation to dine at the castle with a company of noblemen and officers of the army. His lordship, who had also fought at Waterloo, had just learned that a comrade was living on his estate, and made haste to do him honor, and secure a famous guest for his dinner party.
The old soldier rose up proudly, and gave the lackey a military salute.
"Tell his lordship," he said, "that I shall report myself at headquarters, and present my thanks for the honor he has done me."
The lackey galloped off, and the veteran pushed his chair over with his wooden leg, and clattered across the cottage floor.
"Ho, Peggy!" he cried, "did I not say that luck comes and trouble flies if you only face the enemy long enough? This is the beginning of good things, I tell you! A hero of Waterloo, and fit to dine with lords and generals, will certainly have other good fortune coming to him, till he can keep his wife and daughters like princesses. Just wait a bit and you shall see!" and he turned hastily away, for his heart came up in his throat so that he could not speak.
All the rest of that day he sat in the door, brushing and darning and polishing his stained uniform. It had lain abandoned on the shelf for many a year, but before night every button was shining like gold, the scarlet cloth was almost fresh once more, and the old soldier, wrapped in his faithful cloak, was making his way joyfully across the heathery moors to the castle quite at the other side.
But when he had fairly reached it, and the servant had shown him into the drawing-room, his heart almost failed him for a moment. Such splendor he had never seen before—a thousandth part would have bought health and happiness for the dear ones he had left with only his brave goodbye and a fresh rose-bud to comfort them!
However, what with the beautiful ladies of the castle gathering round him to ask questions about the battle, and with a seat near his lordship's right hand at dinner, he soon plucked up again, and began to realize how delightful everything was. But that was the very thing that almost spoiled the whole again, for when he saw his plate covered with luxuries and delicacies more than he could possibly eat, the thought of the black bread he had left at the cottage brought the tears rushing to his eyes.
But, "Tut!" he said to himself in great dismay, "what an ungrateful poltroon his lordship will think he has brought here!" and he managed to brush them off while no one was looking.
It was delicious, though, in spite of everything, and after a while the wine began to flow—that warmed his very heart—and then he heard his lordship calling to a servant to bring him something from his private desk, saying:
"Gentlemen, I am about to show you the proudest treasure I possess. This diamond snuff-box was presented to me by the stout old Blucher himself, in remembrance of service I was able to perform at Waterloo. Not that I was a whit worthier of it than the brave fellows under my command—understand that!"
How the diamonds glistened and gleamed as the box was passed from hand to hand! As if the thickest cluster of stars you ever saw, could shine out in the midst of a yellow sunset sky, and the colors of the rainbow could twinkle through them at the same time! It was superb, but then that was nothing compared to the glory of receiving it from Blucher!
Then there was more wine and story-telling, and at last some asked to look at the snuff-box again.
"Has any one the snuff-box at present?" asked his lordship, rather anxiously, for as he turned to reach it no snuff-box was to be seen.
No one said "yes," for everyone was sure he had passed it to his neighbor, and they searched up and down the table with consternation in their faces, for the snuff-box could not have disappeared without hands, but to say so was to touch the honor of gentlemen and soldiers.
At last one of the most famous officers rose from his seat:
"My lord," he said, "a very unlucky accident must have occurred here. Some one of us must have slipped the box into his pocket unconsciously, mistaking it for his own. I will take the lead in searching mine, if the rest of the company will follow!"
"Agreed!" said the rest, and each guest in turn went to the bottom of one pocket after another, but still no snuff-box, and the distress of the company increased. The old soldier's turn came last, and with it came the surprise. With burning cheeks and arms folded closely across his breast he stood up and confronted the company like a stag at bay.
"No!" he exclaimed, "no one shall search my pockets! Would you doubt the honor of a soldier?"
"But we have all done so," said the rest, "and every one knows it is the merest accident at the most." But the old soldier only held his arms the tighter, while the color grew deeper in his face. In his perplexity his lordship thought of another expedient.
"We will try another way, gentlemen," he said, "I will order a basket of bran to be brought, and propose that each one in turn shall thrust his hand into the bran. No one shall look on, and if we find the box at last, no one can guess whose hand placed it there."
It was quickly done, and hand after hand was thrust in, until at last came the old soldier's turn once more. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Then, at last the indignation of the company broke forth.
"A soldier, and a hero of Waterloo, and willing to be a thief!" and with their distress about the affair, and his lordship's grief at his loss, the evening was entirely spoiled.
Meantime the old soldier, with his faithful cloak wrapped closely round him once more, was fighting his way through the sharp winds and over the moors again. But a battle against something a thousand times sharper and colder was going on in his breast.
"A thief!" he was saying over and over to himself, "me, who fought close to the side of the 'Iron Duke'! And yet, can I look one of them in the face and tell him he lies?"
The walk that had been gone over so merrily was a terrible one to retrace, and when the cottage was reached, instead of the pride and good luck the poor invalids had been watching for, a gloom deadlier than the fever followed him in. He sat in the doorway as he used, but sometimes he hung his head on his breast, and sometimes started up and walked proudly about, crying—
"Peggy! I say no one shall call me a thief! I am a soldier of the Iron Duke!"
But they did call him a thief, though, for a very strange thing, after his lordship had sorrowfully ordered the cottage and little garden spot to be searched no box was found, and the gloom and the mystery grew deeper together.
Good nursing could not balance against trouble like this; the beautiful daughters faded and died, the house was too gloomy to stay inside, and if he escaped to the door, he had to hear the passers say—
"There sits the soldier who stole the Blucher diamonds from his host!"
And as if this was not enough, one day the sound of hoofs was heard again, and a rider in uniform clattered up to the door saying:
"Comrade, I am sent to tell you that your pension is stopped! His Majesty cannot count a thief any longer a soldier of his!"
After this the old soldier hardly held up his head at all, and his hair, that had kept black as a coal all these years, turned white as the moors when the winter snows lay on them.
"Though that is all the same, Peggy," he used to say, "for it is winter all the year round with me! If I could only die as the old year does! That would be the thing!"
But long and merciless as the winter is, spring does come at last, if we can but live and fight our way through the storms and cold.
One night a cry of fire roused all the country-side. All but the old soldier. He heard them say the castle was burning, but what was that to him? Nothing could burn away the remembrance that he had once been called a thief within its walls! But the next morning he heard a step—not a horse's hoof this time, but a strong man walking hastily towards him.
"Where is the veteran of Waterloo?" asked his lordship's voice, and when the old soldier stepped forward, he threw his arms about his neck with tears and sobs.
"Comrade," he said, "come up to the castle! The snuff-box is found, and I want you to stand in the very room where it was lost while I tell everyone what a great and sorrowful wrong a brave and honest soldier has suffered at my hands!"
It did not take many words to explain. In the first alarm of fire the butler had rushed to the plate-closet to save the silver.
"Those goblets from the high shelf! Quick!" he said, to the footman who was helping him, and with the haste about the goblets something else came tumbling down.
"The lost diamond snuff-box!" cried the butler. "That stupid fellow I dismissed the day it disappeared, must have put it there and forgotten all about it!"
The fire was soon extinguished, but not a wink of sleep could his lordship get until he could make reparation for the pitiful mistake about the box; and once more the old soldier made his way across the moors, even the wooden leg stepping proudly as he went along, though now and then, as the old feeling came over him, his white head would droop for a moment again.
The servants stood aside respectfully as he entered the castle, and they and the other guests of that unlucky day gathered round him while his lordship told them how the box had been found and how he could not rest until forgiven by the brave hero he had so unjustly suspected of wrong.
"And now," said the company, "will you not tell us one thing more? Why did you refuse to empty your pockets, as all the rest were willing to do?"
"Because," said the old soldier sorrowfully, "because I WAS a thief, and I could not bear that anyone should discover it! All whom I loved best in the world were lying sick at home, starving for want of the delicacies I could not provide, and I felt as if my heart would break to see my plate heaped with luxuries while they had not so much as a taste! I thought a mouthful of what I did not need might save them, and when no one was looking I slipped some choice bits from my plate between two pieces of bread and made way with them into my pocket. I could not let them be discovered for a soldier is too proud to beg, but oh, my lord, he can bear being called a thief all his life better than he can dine sumptuously while there is only black bread at home for the sick and weak whom he loves!"
Tears came streaming from the old soldier's listeners by this time, and each vied with the other in heaping honors and gifts in place of the disgrace suffered so long; but all that was powerless to make up for the past.
Two good lessons may be learned from the story: Never believe any one guilty who is not really proved to be so. Never let false shame keep you from confessing the truth, whether trifling or of importance.
What are the children doing today,Down on the nursery floor,That baby laughter and crows of delightFloat through the open door?Watching Don's topspinning around,Making that queer littlewhirring sound.
This big Reindeer must have run awayFrom Santa Claus and his Christmas sleigh.Do you think if I should take him backA present I would get out of Santa's pack?
When freedom from her mountain heightUnfurled her standard to the air,She tore the azure robe of night,And set the stars of glory there.She mingled with its gorgeous dyesThe milky baldric of the skies,And striped its pure celestial whiteWith streakings of the morning light;Then from his mansion in the sun,She called her eagle bearer down,And gave into his mighty handThe symbol of her chosen land.Majestic monarch of the cloud,Who rears't aloft thy regal form,To hear the tempest-trumpings loud,And see the lightning-lances driven,When strive the warriors of the storm,And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven—Child of the sun! to thee is givenTo guard the banner of the free,To hover in the sulphur smoke,To ward away the battle stroke,And bid its blendings shine afar,Like rainbows on the cloud of war,The harbingers of victory!Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly,The sign of hope and triumph high,When speaks the signal trumpet tone,And the long line comes gleaming on.Ere yet the life-blood warm and wetHas dimmed the glistening bayonet,Each soldier's eyes shall brightly turnTo where thy sky-born glories burn;And, as his springing steps advance,Catch war and vengeance from the glance.And when the cannon's mouthings loudHeave in wild wreaths the battle shroud,And gory sabers rise and fallLike darts of flame on midnight's pall,Then shall thy meteor glances glow,And cowering foes shall sink beneathEach gallant arm that strikes belowThat lovely messenger of death.Flag of the seas! On ocean waveThy stars shall glitter o'er the brave;When death, careering on the gale,Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,And frightened waves rush wildly backBefore the broadside's reeling rackEach dying wanderer of the seaShall look at once to heaven and thee,And smile to see thy splendors flyIn triumph o'er his closing eye.Flag of the free heart's hope and home,By angel hands to valor given;Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,And all thy hues were born in heaven.Forever float that standard sheet!Where breathes the foe but falls before us,With freedom's soil beneath our feet,And freedom's banner streaming o'er us?JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.
We will swing the rope for Baby dear,So jump, jump, jump!That you will trip her up I fear,But jump, jump, jump!Swing it easy and low,Steady and slow,Or down the dear tot will go.
A crafty Fox crept forth one dayAnd over the hills he scampered awayIn search of a fine, fat hen;But old dog Sport was keeping guard,When Fox leaped into our chicken yard,And chased him back to his den.
"Something about the Battle of Hampden?" Grandma took off her spectacles and wiped them reflectively "It seems to me already I have told you everything worth telling; but there!" in a sudden burst of recollection, "did I ever tell you about Aunt Polly Shedd's Brigade? That was quite an affair to those of us that belonged to it!"
"Oh, no! do tell us about it!" called out the three childish voices in chorus; and Grandma only waited to knit by the seam needle.
"I've told you all about it so many times that I don't need to describe again that dreadful morning when the British man-of-war came up the river and, dropping her anchor just opposite our little village of Hampden, sent troops ashore to take possession of the place in the King's name. So what I am going to tell you now is how, and where, we youngsters spent the three days that the British occupied our houses. I was about twelve years old at the time. I remember that it was just as we were getting up from the breakfast-table that one of our neighbors, Sol Grant, old General Grant's youngest son, rushed in without knocking, his face as white as a sheet, and his cap on hind-side before, and called out hurriedly:
"'Mr. Swett, if you love your family, for God's sake find a place of safety for 'em! The British are coming ashore—three boat-loads of 'em, armed to the teeth—and they won't spare man, woman nor child!
"Mother's face grew very pale, but she stepped quietly around, with her baby on her arm, close to where father was standing, and laid one hand on his arm, while she said, in a firm, clear voice:
"'MY place is with you, Benjamin, but we must think of some place of safety for the children. Where can they go?'
"Sol was just rushing out of the door as unceremoniously as he had rushed in, but he stopped when he heard her ask that, long enough to say:
"'I forgot to tell you that Aunt Polly Shedd will take all the children put in her charge out to Old Gubtil's; that's so out of the way they won't be disturbed, 'specially as the old man's a Tory himself.'
"Mother kissed us all round, with a smile on her face that couldn't quite hide the tears with which her dear eyes were filled, and as she hastily bundled us in whatever garment came to hand, she bade us be good children, and make Aunt Polly and the Gubtils as little trouble as possible. Then we followed father out-of-doors and into the school-house yard where a score or more of children were already gathered—still as mice for intense terror. Aunt Polly, in her big green calash, and a pillow-case of valuables under one arm, was bustling to and fro, speaking an encouraging or admonitory word, as the case might be, and wearing upon her pinched, freckled little face such a reassuring smile that I soon felt my own courage rise and, dashing back the tears that had filled my eyes a moment before, I busied myself in pinning little Sally's blanket more closely about her neck and setting the faded sunbonnet upon the tangled curls that had not yet had their customary morning's dressing.
"'Come, children,' called out Aunt Polly cheerily, 'you're all here now, and we'll start right off. I'll go ahead, an' all you little ones had best keep close to me; the bigger ones can come along behind.'
"Obedient to her order we started, following her steps across the road by the beeches, and up by the grocery store where a crowd of excited men were congregated, talking loudly with wild gesticulations, while farther down, toward the shore, we could catch glimpses, through the thick morning fog, of the blue uniforms of our militia company that had been summoned in hot haste to defend the town. As we filed past, I remember I heard one of the men on the grocery steps speak:
"'I tell you they won't leave one stone on another if they get possession of the town, and they'll impress all the able-bodied men and all the big boys into the King's service besides.'
"A cold shiver ran over me and I caught so hard at little Sally's hand that the child cried out with pain, and Aunt Polly said anxiously:
"'Hurry up, dears! 'Tain't much more'n a mile out to Gubtil's, and you'll have a good nice chance to rest after we get there.'
"Just then the martial music of a fife and drum announced the landing of the enemy's troops, and I tell you it quickened the lagging footsteps of even the youngest child into a run, and we just flew, helter-skelter, over the rough, little-used road that led to the Gubtil farm. Aunt Polly's gentle tones were unheeded. All she could do was to carry the weakest in her arms over all the worst places, with a word of cheer, now and then, to some child who was not too much frightened to heed it.
"What a haven of safety the low, unpainted old farm-house looked to us, as we rushed, pell-mell, into the dooryard, never noticing, in our own relief, the ungracious scowl with which the master and mistress of the house regarded our advent.
"Aunt Polly soon explained matters, taking care to assure the inhospitable pair that our parents would amply recompense them for the trouble and expense we must, of course, be to them.
"The farmer held a whispered consultation with his wife, and I remember well his harsh, loud tones as he came back to Aunt Polly:
"'They'll HAVE to stay, I s'pose; there don't seem no help for it now. There's pertaters in the cellar, an' they can roast an' eat what they want. I'll give 'em salt an' what milk an' brown bread they want, an' that's what they'll have to live on for the present. As for housin' 'em, the boys can sleep on the hay in the barn, an' the girls can camp down on rugs an' comforters on the kitchen floor, that's the best I can do, an' if they ain't satisfied they can go furder.'
"I remember just how he looked down at the troubled, childish faces upturned to his own, as if half hoping we might conclude to wander yet farther away from our imperilled homes; but Aunt Polly hastened to answer:
"'Oh, we'll get along nicely with milk for the little ones, and potatoes and salt for the big boys and girls, and we won't trouble you any more nor any longer than we can help, Mr. Gubtil.'
"She stood upon the door-stone beside him as she spoke, a little, bent, slightly deformed figure, with a face shrivelled and faded like a winter-russet apple in spring-time, and a dress patched and darned till one scarcely could tell what the original was like, in a striking contrast to the tall, broad-shouldered, hale old man, whose iron frame had defied the storms of more than seventy winters; but I remember how he seemed to me a mere pigmy by the side of the generous, large-hearted woman whose tones and gestures had a protectiveness, a strength born of love and pity, that reassured us trembling little fugitives in spite of our ungracious reception. We felt that Aunt Polly would take care of us, let what would come.
"The hours dragged slowly away. Aunt Polly told us that the distant firing meant that our men had not retreated without an effort to defend the village. When this firing ceased, we began to watch and hope that some message would come from our fathers and mothers. But none came. We wondered among our little selves if they all had been put to death by the British, and even the oldest among us shed some dreary tears.
"Dan Parsons, who was the biggest boy among us and of an adventurous turn, went in the gathering twilight gloom down as near the village as he dared. He came shivering back to us with such tales of vague horror that our very hearts stopped beating while we listened.
"'I crep' along under the shadder of the alders and black-berry bushes,' he began, ''til I got close ter De'con Milleses house. 'Twas as still as death 'round there, but jest as I turned the corner by the barn I see somethin' gray a-flappin' and a-flutterin' jest inside the barn door. I stopped, kind o' wonderin' what it could be, when all at once I thought I should 'a' dropped, for it came over me like a flash that it might be'—
"'What, what, Dan?' cried a score of frightened voices; and Dan replied solemnly:
"'THE OLD DEACON'S SKULP!'
"'Oh dear! oh dear!' sobbed the terrified chorus.
"Aunt Polly could do nothing with us; and little Dolly Miles, the deacon's granddaughter, burst into a series of wild lamentations that called Farmer Gubtil to the door to know the cause of the commotion.
"'What's all this hullabaloo about?' he asked crossly; and when he had heard the story he seized Dan and shook him till his teeth chattered.
"'What do you mean by tellin' such stuff an' scarin' these young ones ter death?' he demanded.
"Dan wriggled himself from his grasp and looked sulkily defiant:
"'I didn't say 'TWAS that,' he muttered. 'I said it MIGHT be, an' p'r'aps 'twas; or it might 'a' been the deacon's old mare switchin' 'er tail ter keep off the flies. I'm sureIdon't know which 'twas. But girls are always a-squealin' at nothin'.'
"And with this parting fling at us tearful ones, Dan turned in the direction of the barn; but I was too anxious to hear from father and mother to let him go without a word more. 'Dan,' I whispered with my hand on his arm, 'did you see or hear anything of OUR folks?'
"'No!' was the rather grump reply; 'after what I saw at the deacon's I didn't want ter ventur' furder, but from there I could see 'em lightin' fires in the village, an' I don't doubt by this time that most o' the houses is in flames.'
"With this comforting assurance Dan went off to his bed upon the haymow, and I crept back into the house and laid my tired head down upon Aunt Polly's motherly lap, where, between my sobs, I managed to tell what Dan had told me.
"Aunt Polly laid a caressing hand upon my hair: 'La, child,' said she soothingly, 'don't you worry yourself a bit over Dan Parson's stories. That boy was BORN to tell stories. The Britishers are bad enough, but they ain't heathen savages, an' if the town has surrendered, as I calc'late it has, the settlers will be treated like prisoners o' war. There won't be no sculpin' nor burnin' o' houses—no, dear. And now,' giving me a little reassuring pat, 'you're all tired out, an' ought ter be asleep. I'll make up a bed on this rug with a cushion under your head, an' my big plaid shawl over you, an' you'll sleep jest as sound as if you was ter home in your own trundle-bed.'
"Little Sally shared my rug and shawl, and Aunt Polly, gently refusing the ungracious civility of the old couple, who had offered her the use of their spare bedroom, after seeing every little, tired form made as comfortable as possible with quilts and blankets from the farmwife's stores, laid herself down upon the floor beside us, after commending herself and us to the God she loved and trusted, raised her head and spoke to us once more in her sweet, hopeful, quavering old tones:
"'Good night, dears! Go to sleep and don't be a bit afraid. I shouldn't wonder if your folks come for you in the mornin'.'
"What comfort there was in her words! And even the very little ones, who had never been away from their mothers a night before in their lives, stopped their low sobbing and nestled down to sleep, sure that God and Aunt Polly would let no harm come to them.
"The next day passed slowly and anxiously for us all. From a stray traveller Aunt Polly learned that the village was still in the hands of the British and—what was no little comfort to us—that no violence had been done to the place or its inhabitants. Some of the older boys were for venturing to return, but Aunt Polly held them back with her prudent arguments. If their parents had considered it safe for them to come home they would have sent for them. The British, she said, had been known to impress boys, as well as men, into service, and the wisest way was to keep out of their sight.
"The gentle, motherly advice prevailed, and even Dan Parsons contented himself with climbing the tallest trees in the vicinity, from which he could see the chimneys of several of the nearest houses. From these pinnacles he would call out to us at intervals:
"'The smoke comin' out o' Deacon Mileses chimly has a queer look, somethin' like burnin' feathers I shouldn't wonder a mite if them Britishers was burnin' up his furnitoor! Sam Kelly's folks hain't had a spark o' fire in their fireplace to-day. Poor critters! Mebbe there ain't nobody left ter want one.'
"With these dismal surmises, Dan managed to keep our forlorn little flock as uncomfortable as even he could wish; and as the second night drew on, I suppose the homesickness of the smaller ones must have been pitiful to see. Aunt Polly patted and cuddled the forlorn little things to the best of her ability, but it was past midnight before the last weary, sobbing baby was fairly asleep, while all night long one or another would start up terrified from some frightful dream, to be soothed into quiet by the patient motherly tenderness of their wakeful protector.
"Next morning the brow of the farmer wore an ominous frown, and his wife, as she distributed to each the scant measure of brown bread and milk remarked, grudgingly, that she should think 'twas 'bout time that her house was cleared of a crowd o' hungry, squallin' young ones; and then Mr. Gubtil took out his account-book and wrote down the name of each child, with an estimate of the amount of bread, milk and potatoes consumed by each. He did this with the audible remark that 'if folks thought he was a-feedin' an' a-housin' their young ones for nothin' they'd find themselves mightily mistaken.'
"The third morning dragged slowly away. Dinner was over and still no message for us forlorn little ones. At last Aunt Polly slowly arose from her seat upon the doorstep, with the light of a strong, courageous resolve on her little face.
"Children!' she called loudly, and after we had gathered at her call, she spoke to us with an encouraging smile:
"'I've made up my mind that 'twon't be best for us to stay here another night. We're in the way, and the little ones would be better off at home with their mothers. We know that the fightin' is all over, and I don't believe the English soldiers'll be bad enough to hurt a lot o' little helpless children, 'specially if they're under a flag o' truce.'
"Here she drew a handkerchif from her pocket. This she fastened carefully to a stick. Then putting it into the hands of my brother Ben, a well-grown lad of twelve, she went on with her directions:
"'We'll form in procession, just as we came, and you, Benjie, may march at the head with this white flag a-wavin' to let them know that we come in peace. I'll follow next with the biggest boys, and the girls, with the little ones, must keep behind where it's safest.'
"Perhaps it was the contagion of Aunt Polly's cheerful courage, but more likely it was the blessed hope of seeing home and father and mother again, that made the little folks so prompt to obey her directions. We formed ourselves in line in less time than it takes to tell about it; we elder girls took charge of the wee ones who were so rejoiced to leave the inhospitable roof of the Gubtils' that they forgot all their fears of the terrible English, and trotted along as blithely over the deserted road as if not a fear had ever terrified their childish hearts, and as if English soldiers were still simply those far-off monsters that had served as bugbears to frighten them now and then into obedience to maternal authority.
"The Gubtils watched us off without a word of encouragement or friendliness. Aunt Polly walked close behind the flag-bearer with a firm step, but I could see that she was very pale, and when we came to descend the little hill that led into the village, and when just at its foot, where then stood the grocery of old Penn Parker, we caught a glimpse of the scarlet uniforms of several soldiers loafing about—then even we children could see that her steps faltered; and I remember I thought she was fearful of some violence.
"But the next moment she was walking steadily along again as if no thought of danger or retreat had ever entered her mind; and as we came opposite the grocery and a tall man in an officer's uniform strolled out toward us with a curious, questioning look upon his handsome face, she gave the word of command to her little brigade in a voice as clear as a bell:
"'Halt, children!'
"We all stood still as mice, eying the stranger with looks in which fear and admiration were probably curiously blended, while Aunt Polly, taking the white flag from her color-bearer, advanced with a firm front to meet the foe who now, reinforced by several men, stood beside the way, evidently wondering what this queer parade was about.
"'Sir!' and Aunt Polly's voice trembled perceptibly but she waved the white flag manfully under his very nose, 'sir, I demand a safe passage for these innocent children to their different homes.'
"The officer stared, and his mouth twitched mischievously as if he had hard work to keep from laughing outright. But he was a gentleman; and when he spoke, he spoke like one.
"'My good woman,' he said kindly, 'these children are nothing to me. If you wish permission for them to go to their own homes you are welcome to it, though in what way the matter concerns me I must confess I am at a loss to imagine."
Then, and not till then, Aunt Polly broke down and sobbed aloud:
"'Run, children,' she cried as soon as she could speak; 'go home just as fast as you can scud; an' tell your folks,' she added with a gust of gratitude, 'that there's worse folks in the world than an Englishman.'
"You may be sure that we waited for no further urging; and as we flew, rather than ran, in the direction of our different homes, I heard the irrepressible burst of laughter with which the officer and his men received the grateful spinster's compliment which, to the day of her death, she loved to repeat whenever she told the thrilling story of her adventure with the English officer, 'when Hampden was took by the British in 1814;' always concluding with this candid admission:
"'An' really, now, if he'd 'a' been anybody but an Englishman, an' an inimy, I should 'a' said that I never sot eyes on a better-built, more mannerly man, in all my born days.'"