“RODNEY’S RIDE
“In that soft mid-land where the breezes bear
The North and South on the genial air,
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,
Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
“Burly and big and bold and bluff,
In his three-cornered hat and coat of snuff,
A foe to King George and the English State,
Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
“Into Dover village he rode apace,
And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,
It was matter grave that brought him there,
To the counties three on the Delaware.
“‘Money and men we must have’m,’ he said,
‘Or the Congress fails and the cause is dead:
Give us both and the King shall not work his will.
We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill!’
“Comes a rider swift on a panting bay:
‘Ho, Rodney, ho, you must save the day,
For the Congress halts at a deed so great,
And your vote alone may decide its fate.’
“Answered Rodney then: ‘I will ride with speed;
It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s need.
When stands it?’ ‘To-night. Not a moment to spare,
But ride like the wind from the Delaware.’
“‘Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half a day,
And the Congress sits eighty miles away—
But I’ll be in time, if God grants me grace,
To shake my fist in King George’s face.’
“He is up: he is off! and the black horse flies
On the northward road ere the ‘God-speed’ dies;
It is a gallop and spur as the leagues they clear,
And the clustering mile-stones move a-rear.
“It is two of the clock! and the fleet hoofs fling
The Fieldboro’s dust with a clang and a cling;
It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where
The road winds down to the Delaware.
“Four; and he spurs into New Castle town,
From his panting steed he gets trim down—
‘A fresh one, quick! not a moment’s wait!’
And off speeds Rodney the delegate.
“It is five; and the beams of the western sun
Tinge the spires of Wilmington gold and dun;
Six; and the dust of Chester Street
Flies back in a cloud from the courser’s feet.
“It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream—
And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse clock,
He flings his reins to the tavern jock.
“The Congress is met; the debate’s begun,
And Liberty lags for the vote of one—
When into the hall, not a moment late,
Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.
“Not a moment late! and that half day’s ride
Forwards the world with a mighty stride;
For the act was passed ere the midnight stroke
O’er the Quaker City its echoes woke.
“At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet flung;
‘We are free!’ all the bells through the colonies rung,
And the sons of the free may recall with pride
The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride.”
“Pretty stirring, isn’t it! I take it that the Continental Congress had moved over to Independence Hall by this time,” said Tom, when the reading was done.
“Yes, they were over here, sitting in the East Room, when they passed the Declaration of Independence.”
An attendant seeing the interested faces of the young people, took them about the room and explained the relics to them.
“This,” he said, “is the very furniture that was in the room at the time of the signing of the Declaration. Right on this very table the Document received the signature of the President of the Congress—”
“John Hancock,” murmured Helen to James in an undertone.
“—and the rest of them,” continued the guide.
“Is the original document here?” asked James, who was thrilling with interest, but who preserved the calmness which he inherited from his Scottish ancestors.
“No,” answered the caretaker. “That is kept at Washington in the Library of the State Department, but there is an exact copy of it over there on the wall.”
Going upstairs, the party remembered to look up the piece of the elm tree, under which Penn had signed his Treaty with the Indians, and they saw in addition the original Charter of Philadelphia, bearing the date 1701.
In another room they found some furniture belonging to Washington and Penn and various portraits of more historic than artistic interest. They enjoyed more seeing some of the boards of the original floor. These were carefully kept under glass, as if they were great treasures.
“Now we’re going to see the most sacred relic in America, next to the Declaration itself,” said Helen, leading the way down the staircase at whose foot was the famous Liberty Bell, which had rung out its message of joy on July 4, 1775, when the delegates passed the Declaration and the people of Philadelphia knew that war was before them, and yet were glad to meet whatever might be the outcome of the defiance.
They gathered in silence around the bell and read its description:—“PROCLAIM LIBERTY TO ALL THE LAND AND TO ALL THE INHABITANTS THEREOF.” They noticed the crack which ran through it, and felt that they were looking upon a real veteran of that far-away time.
“Grandfather told me not to forget to tell you about the little boy who gave the signal to the bell-ringer,” Helen said. “He was stationed where he could see the door-keeper of the room in which the delegates were sitting. When the final vote was taken, the door-keeper gave the signal to the boy and he ran out, shouting the cry that resounded through the colonies, ‘Ring! Ring! Ring!’”
CHAPTER IX
HELEN DISTINGUISHES HERSELF
“Come out into the Park for a few minutes,” said Mrs. Morton. “I’m perfectly sure Helen has some poetry to read to us before very long, and if we can sit down for a minute or two on the benches, we can hear it at our convenience.”
“The fire of discontent had been smouldering for a long time,” said Helen, beginning her lecture promptly when they were seated, “and just as soon as the Declaration was passed the flames burst out. There was fighting all over the colonies from South Carolina to New York City. Washington was made Commander-in-Chief of the little Army there, but he was quite unable to defeat the large force which the British sent. He retreated across New Jersey, and in December of 1776—”
“About a year and a half later,” interposed Ethel Brown.
Helen nodded and continued: “he reached the Delaware River. The British followed him on the other bank of the river, with the centre of the army at Trenton, New Jersey. On Christmas Night of 1776, the future of the Colonies looked about as dark as the night itself, but here is what happened, told in some of the rhymes that Grandfather found for us.” And Helen read Virginia Woodward Cloud’s poem, called the “Ballad of Sweet P.”
“She was a spirited girl,” said James gravely.
“She was too nice a girl to be a deceiving girl,” said Ethel Blue, and a vigorous discussion as to how much deception was fair in war time would have broken out if Helen had not continued her account of the Revolution around Philadelphia.
“At day-break on the 26th of December, Washington entered Trenton and surprised the enemy,” Helen ended.
“It was in the battle of Trenton and in the battle of Princeton about a week later, that our Emerson great-great-great-grandfather fought, wasn’t it?” said Roger, recalling the account which his grandfather had read to the Mortons several times from the old family Bible.
“Yes, don’t you remember how he fought against his daughter’s English lover?”
“We must ask the chauffeur where the Betsy Ross house is,” said Mrs. Morton, rising and leading the way to the car.
The man knew and set off at once through the few narrow streets, and before long they were standing in front of the old-fashioned dwelling.
“Who is the lady?” murmured Tom in an undertone to Ethel Brown, pretending to be afraid that Helen would hear him but really speaking loudly enough to draw her attention.
“Tom Watkins, you’re perfectly dreadful,” Helen exclaimed promptly. “Do you really mean that you don’t know who Betsy Ross was?”
This direct question was too much for Tom’s truthfulness and he broke into a laugh.
“I don’t know that I should have known if I hadn’t read the other day a tale about a play that some urchins wrote for the stage at Hull House in Chicago.”
“Did Jane Addams tell the story?”
“She did, so it must be true. It was entirely original with some immigrant boys who had been studying American history. It went something like this:—in the first act some American Revolutionary soldiers are talking together and one of them says, ‘Gee, ain’t it fierce! We ain’t got no flag.’ The others agreed that it was fierce. In the next act a delegation of soldiers approached General Washington. They saluted, and then said to him, ‘General, we ain’t got no flag. Gee, ain’t it fierce?’”
Tom’s story was received with many giggles.
“What did Washington say?” asked Ethel Blue.
“Washington agreed that it was fierce, and said that he’d do something about it, so the next act shows him at the house of Betsy Ross. He said to her, ‘Mrs. Ross, we ain’t got no flag. Ain’t it fierce? What shall we do about it?’”
“They didn’t have a very large vocabulary,” laughed Margaret.
“But the American spirit was there,” insisted Mrs. Morton.
“What did Betsy say,” inquired Ethel Brown.
“Mrs. Ross said, ‘It is fierce. You hold the baby, George, and I’ll make you something right off.’”
“Isn’t that perfectly delicious!” gurgled Dorothy.
“And that last realistic scene took place in this little house!” said Mrs. Morton, shaking with mirth. “It belongs to the city now, so Betsy’s patriotism and industry are remembered by many visitors.”
“Here’s Grandfather’s contribution to this moment,” smiled Helen as she brought out still another of her type-written sheets, and read some lines by Minna Irving.