Harper's Round Table, August 13, 1895

Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. All Rights Reserved.

The summer of 1814 was a troubled one for the people living in northern New York. English troops were concentrating at points just across the Canadian border, and there were rumors that they would soon invade the territory of the States. The farmers were being hastily drilled into militia companies—train-bands, as they were called; the women were anxious and frightened; the boys shared the general excitement, and were busy drilling.
Early one warm July evening four persons were sitting in the little lattice-covered portico of a cottage in the outskirts of one of the larger villages near the Canadian border. The most noticeable of the little group was Madam Marston, an old lady, tall and straight, one of the type that furnished the New England pioneers with wives as hardy and brave as themselves. On the bench on the other side of the portico sat her daughter; the Widow Duval, a slender, gentle woman, but with the same look of determination in her fine gray eyes. Close to her side was Noel Duval, a boy of about fifteen, whose dark skin and keen aquiline features came from his French Canadian father, but who had his mother's eyes. The sharpness of the boy's features was emphasized by the thinness of his face, which was pinched, as if by suffering. While a child he had met an accident that had brought on a long illness, and left one arm withered and almost helpless. His sister, little Ninette, nestled close to her stately grandmother.
Mother, the boy was saying, Abram Dodds made me very angry to-day. He said I was not an American, because my father was not, and because I have always lived in Canada.
I wouldn't mind what the boys say. When they know you better I'm sure they'll stop trying to tease you. She laid her hand on his shoulder as if to check his impatience.
Nay, daughter, interposed the older woman, her eyes flashing, let him stand up for himself—if he can. Because you chose, against my wishes, to marry a Canadian is no reason why the boy should be sneered at. Was not his grandfather, Caleb Marston, as good a soldier as fought in the Revolution, and a captain, too? Let the boy stand up for himself, say I!