Children's book of patriotic stories: The spirit of '76

by Unknown

THREE WASHINGTON ANECDOTES

Adapted from M. L. Weems

The original story of little George Washington and his hatchet, together with two other doubtful anecdotes not so well known.

ON A fine morning in the fall of 1737 Mr. Washington, taking little George by the hand, went to walk with him in the orchard, promising to show him a fine sight. On arriving at the orchard, a fine sight indeed was presented. The whole earth, as far as could be seen, was strewed with fruit, and yet the trees were bending under the weight of apples which hung in clusters like grapes, and vainly strove to hide their blushing cheeks behind the green leaves. “Now, George,� said his father, “look here, my son! Don’t you remember when a good cousin of yours brought you that fine large apple last spring, how hardly I could prevail on you to divide with your brothers and sisters; though I promised you that if you would but do it God Almighty would give you plenty of apples this fall?�

Poor George could not say a word, but hanging down his head, looked quite confused, while with his little naked toes he scratched in the soft ground. “Now look up, my son,� continued his father, “look up, George, and see there how richly the blessed God has made good my promise to you. Wherever you turn your eyes you see the trees loaded with fine fruit, many of them indeed breaking down; while the ground is covered with mellow apples, more than you could eat, my son, in all your lifetime.�

George looked in silence on the wide wilderness of fruit. He marked the busy humming bees, and heard the gay notes of birds; then, lifting his eyes filled with shining moisture, to his father, he softly said, “Well, Pa, only forgive me this time, and see if I ever be so stingy any more.�

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When George was about six years old he was made the wealthy master of a hatchet, of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately fond; and was constantly going about chopping everything that came in his way. One day, in the garden, where he often amused himself hacking his mother’s pea-sticks, he unluckily tried the edge of his hatchet on the body of a beautiful young English cherry tree, which he barked so terribly that I don’t believe the tree ever got the better of it. The next morning, the old gentleman, finding out what had befallen his tree, which, by the by, was a great favorite, came into the house; and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author, declaring at the same time that he would not have taken five guineas for his tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Presently George and his hatchet made their appearance. “George,� said his father, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden?� This was a tough question, and George staggered under it for a moment; but quickly recovered himself, and looking at his father, with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all-conquering truth, he bravely cried out, “I can’t tell a lie, Pa, you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.�

“Run to my arms, you dearest boy,� cried his father; “such an act in my son is worth more than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold.�

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To startle George into a lively sense of his Maker, his father fell upon the following very curious but impressive expedient:

One day he went into the garden and prepared a little bed of finely pulverized earth, on which he wrote George’s name at full, in large letters, then strewing in plenty of cabbage seed, he covered them up, and smoothed all over nicely with the roller. This bed he purposely prepared close alongside a gooseberry walk, which happening at this time to be well hung with ripe fruit, he knew would be honored with George’s visits pretty regularly every day. Not many mornings had passed away before in came George, with eyes wild rolling and his little cheeks ready to burst with great news.

“Oh, Pa! come here, come here!�

“What’s the matter, my son? What’s the matter?�

“Oh, come here, I tell you, Pa: come here, and I’ll show you such a sight as you never saw in all your lifetime!�

The old gentleman, suspecting what George would be at, gave him his hand, which he seized with great eagerness, and tugging him along through the garden, led him point blank to the bed whereon was inscribed, in large letters, and in all the freshness of newly sprung plants, the full name of

GEORGE WASHINGTON

“There, Pa!� said George, quite in an ecstasy of astonishment, “did you ever see such a sight in all your lifetime?�

“Why, it seems like a curious affair, sure enough, George!�

“But, Pa, who did make it there? Who did make it there?�

“It grew there by chance, I suppose, my son.�

“By chance, Pa! Oh, no! no! It never did grow there by chance, Pa. Indeed that it never did!�

“Why not, my son?�

“Why, Pa, did you ever see anybody’s name in a plant bed before?�

“Well, but George, such a thing might happen, though you never saw it before.�

“Yes, Pa; but I did never see the little plants grow up so as to make one single letter of my name before. Now, how could they grow up so as to make all the letters of my name, and then standing one after another, to spell my name so exactly, and all so neat and even, too, at top and bottom! Oh, Pa, you must not say chance did all this. Indeed, somebody did it; and I dare say now, Pa, you did it just to scare me, because I am your little boy.�

His father smiled, and said, “Well, George, you have guessed right. I indeed did it; but not to scare you, my son, but to teach you a great thing which I wish you to understand. I want, my son, to introduce you to your true Father.�

“Aye! I know well enough whom you mean, Pa. You mean God Almighty, don’t you?�

“Yes, my son, I mean Him indeed. He is your true Father, George, and as my son could not believe that chance had made and put together so exactly the letters of his name (though only sixteen) then how can he believe that chance could have made and put together all those millions and millions of things that are now so exactly fitted to his good.�

WHEN GEORGE THE THIRD WAS KING[T]

By Elbridge S. Brooks

How a Philadelphia boy watched the Declaration of Independence in the making and celebrated the first Fourth of July on the Eighth.

PHILADELPHIA in July! Not even the most loyal boy or girl of that good old Quaker town but must admit that Philadelphia in July is a hot place.

“Warm and sunshiny,� were the words that Mr. John Nixon, in his daily journal for the year 1776, placed against the early days of July, but I am inclined to think that young Joe Nixon was nearer the fact when he called it “broiling hot.�

Very possibly, however, this slight exaggeration on the part of young Joe was due to the fact that he was very busy and therefore very warm. Not that he had anything of especial importance to do. Not always those who are busiest have the most to do; but you see there was a great deal to hear and see in Philadelphia town in the early days of July in the year 1776 and young Joe Nixon, like a true American boy, felt it his duty to be on hand when anything of importance was on foot.

And so he was continually on the go between his uncle’s big house on the Water Street, the room of the Committee of Inspection on Second Street, the parade-ground of the “Quaker Blues� on the city common, and the big brick State House on Chestnut Street.

For young Joe Nixon was a privileged character and duly felt his importance. His uncle, Mr. John Nixon, was a member of the Committee of Safety, and better still, young Joe was a particular favorite of Mr. David Rittenhouse who “had charge of the public clock in the State House Square.� This put him on good terms with a still more influential acquaintance—the doorkeeper of the Continental Congress, then in daily session in the Assembly chamber of the State House.

Young Joe was a quick-witted lad and like all the rest of the race of boys dearly loved to watch and listen even though he could not always understand. Seated by the side of his friend the doorkeeper, he found it very interesting and sometimes highly exciting to follow the proceedings of the bewigged and earnest gentlemen who were talking, discussing, and sometimes getting quite angry with one another on the floor of the Congress. Joe only knew in a general sort of way what all this talk and discussion meant. But one thing he was certain of, as were all the boys and girls in the colonies—and that was that there was a “jolly row� on hand between the colonies and the King. He knew, too, that, away off toward Boston-town there had been two or three fights with the King’s soldiers, in which the troops of the colonies by no means had the worst of it. And he knew, most of all, that it was mightily hard just now for a boy to get hold of anything new or nice to eat or to wear or to play with and that, somehow, this was all the fault of King George the Third, and that the colonies did not propose to stand this sort of thing any longer.

So he had made the most of his acquaintance with the doorkeeper of the Congress and had witnessed most of the important events that had taken place during that lovely Philadelphia June.

He had looked with all the awe of a small boy of twelve upon the fifty or more gentlemen—the delegates to the Congress—who, representing the thirteen colonies, were ranged in a half-circle on either side of Mr. Hancock, the President. But I think he admired, even more, the “elegant standard, suspended in the Congress Room,� over the door of entrance at which he sat with his friend the doorkeeper, and which was “a yellow flag with a lively representation of a rattlesnake in the middle in the attitude of going to strike, and these words underneath: ‘Don’t tread on me!’�

He had been in the Congress Room so often that he knew most of the delegates by sight and name: that gentleman in the big chair behind the heavy mahogany table and the great silver inkstand—the gentleman with the scarlet coat and the black velvet breeches—was Mr. John Hancock, the President of the Congress—“Rosy John,� the Tory boys called him, much to young Joe’s ireful indignation; that gentleman in the long-waisted white cloth coat, scarlet vest and breeches, and white silk hose, was Mr. Jefferson of Virginia; that gentleman in the long buff coat and embroidered silk vest was, as of course every Philadelphia boy knew, the great Doctor Franklin; and there, too, were Mr. Adams and Mr. Gerry of Massachusetts, Mr. Sherman of Connecticut, Mr. Clinton of New York, Mr. Stockton of New Jersey, Mr. Carroll of Maryland, Mr. Lee of Virginia, Mr. Rutledge of South Carolina, and many others whose faces and whose voices had now grown familiar. Even his boyish mind, thoughtless of the present and careless of the future though it was, had felt the excitement of the moment when on Friday, June 7th, Mr. Richard Henry Lee of the Virginia colony had risen in his place and, “amidst breathless silence,� had read to the Congress this notable resolution:

“Resolved, that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.�

Then Mr. John Adams of Massachusetts seconded the resolution, Mr. Thomson, the secretary, made the official entry in the Journal, the Congress, with but few words, postponed its consideration until the next day, and young Joe Nixon adjourned with the delegates, like them, half-dazed and half-jubilant.

So, through the long June days, the Congress argued and debated and hesitated while young Joe Nixon—a true type of the restless Young America that is ever in a hurry for action and results—watched and wished and wondered, not thinking of what might be in the future save that King George was to be thrown overboard and the colonies were to set up for a Nation.

At last, on June 28th, a committee, consisting of Mr. Jefferson of Virginia, Mr. Adams of Massachusetts, Doctor Franklin of Pennsylvania, Mr. Sherman of Connecticut, and Mr. Livingston of New York, presented to the Congress a long paper which young Joe understood was called a Declaration of Independence. And although he thought it was splendid and full of the most mightily strong blows against King George, much to the lad’s disgust the Congress did not seem to go into ecstasies over it, but hummed and hawed and deliberated until July 2d, when Mr. Lee’s original resolution was put to vote, carried by the voice of every colony except New York, and the United Colonies were declared to be Free and Independent States.

Young Joe Nixon, had he dared, would have tossed his little three-cornered hat in the air with a loud hurrah, but the gentlemen of the Congress he thought seemed strangely quiet about it all. He did not see what their wiser heads comprehended, that the vote of the Congress on that second of July meant years of struggle against a mighty power—sorrow and privation and, perhaps, after all, only defeat and, to the leaders, the disgraceful death of traitors. He saw only the glowing colors of victory and excitement as young folks are apt to, and as it is right they should.

And yet that very night, as the Congress adjourned, portly Mr. John Adams, with whom the lad was quite a favorite, noticed the ill-concealed exultation of the boy and laying a hand upon his head said to him: “A great day this, my young friend; a great day, is it not?�

“Oh, yes, sir,� replied young Joe with energy, “I’m so glad it passed, sir.�

“And so am I, my lad,� said Mr. Adams, with almost equal enthusiasm; “you are a bright and seemly little lad and will not soon forget this day, I’ll be bound. So mark my words, my lad. The second of July, 1776, will be the most memorable day in all the history of America. It will be celebrated ere you grow to manhood, and by succeeding generations, as the great anniversary festival, commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty, from one end of the continent to the other, from this time forward for evermore.�

“Yes, sir,� said Joe most respectfully. He did not comprehend all the meaning of Mr. Adams’s solemn words, but he was quite as confident as was that gentleman that it was a day the anniversaries of which would mean in future plenty of fun and jubilee.

Good Mother Nixon could get but little work from her Joe on the following morning. And though, in her peaceful Quaker way, she bade him beware of too much glorying in all the strife and warfare that seemed afoot, I rather suspect that even her placid face flushed with quiet enthusiasm as she besought her boy to remember that right was always right, and that it was nobler and manlier to boldly face whatever might betide than to be as were some men in their Quaker town who, so she said, “loved too much their money and their ease, and did but make conscience a convenience, instead of being sincerely and religiously scrupulous of bearing arms.� All of which meant that there were some craven folk in that day of manly protest against tyranny who, to save themselves from annoyance, pretended to be Quakers and “non-combatants,� when they were only skulking cowards. And all such every honest Quaker utterly detested.

But young Joe Nixon, too full of the excitement of the moment, paid but little regard to his good mother’s words, inasmuch as they did not apply to his case; and, hot and panting, fearful lest he should miss something new, dashed up to the State House and slipped in beside his friend the doorkeeper.

The Congress was already in session. Mr. Jefferson’s paper called the “Declaration respecting Independence� had been again taken up for consideration, and was being soberly debated, paragraph by paragraph.

Frequent repetitions had made Joe familiar with some of the phrases in this remarkable paper. Even his young heart beat high as he heard some of those ringing sentences—about all men being created equal and being “endowed with the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness�; how that “whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it�; that “the history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations,� that “a prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant is unfit to be the ruler of a free people�; that “we must, therefore, hold the British people, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends�; that “we, the representatives of the United States of America in general Congress assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare that these united colonies are and of right ought to be free and independent States�; and, lastly, that “for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.�

Joe, as I have said, had felt his young heart glow and his young pulse beat under the enthusiasm of these ringing declarations and all this debating and questioning appeared to him as fearfully slow and faint-hearted; he wondered why, since the Congress had already passed Mr. Lee’s resolution of Independence, they should so hesitate over Mr. Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence; and, quite frequently, he felt compelled to dash out into the hot and sunny street and work off his impatience in a wild and purposeless “go-as-you-please� around what was called “Mr. Rittenhouse’s Observatory� in the centre of the square.

The day dragged on and so did the debate. Even Mr. Jefferson lost patience and, confessing that he was “writhing under� all this talk, needed all of Doctor Franklin’s philosophy and example to calm him down again. So it is not to be wondered at that, late in the afternoon, Joe Nixon, enthusiastic young patriot though he was, grew wearied with the talk and the delay and determined to go home. But just as he was leaving the building there dashed into the State House yard a big chestnut horse covered with foam and dust. Its rider, a fine, well-built man in dust-stained travelling cloak, sprang from the saddle and, dropping the bridle-rein into Joe’s ready hand with a quick, “Here, my lad, take my nag to the City Tavern stables, will you?� hurried without further words into the Congress room.

Joe’s impatience changed to burning curiosity again and, transferring his panting charge to another ready lad for attention, he, too, hurried into the hall and asked his friend the doorkeeper who this newcomer might be.

“Why, lad, ’tis Mr. Cæsar Rodney, don’t you know,� replied the doorkeeper. “The delegate from the Counties upon Delaware whom they sent for by special post only yesterday, since his colony is divided in action and his vote is needful to carry the Declaration through.�

“And did he ride from home to-day?� inquired Joe.

“Surely, boy,� said the doorkeeper, “clean from the County of Kent, eighty miles away. ’Twas a gallant day’s ride and a fair day’s work, for by it is independence won.�

It was even as he said. Rodney’s glorious ride secured the vote of Delaware for the Declaration and late that very night of Wednesday, the third of July, by a majority vote of the States—as the colonies now called themselves—the immortal paper that we know as the Declaration of Independence passed the Congress.

But before it was handed to the secretary to be engrossed, or copied so that it might be signed by all the delegates, Mr. Hancock, as president of the Congress, affixed to it his bold signature that we all now know so well. And young Joe Nixon had, actually, to stuff his hat into his mouth to stifle the hurrah that did so want to burst out when Mr. Hancock, rising from his seat, said in his most decided tones:

“There! John Bull can read my name without spectacles. Now let him double the price on my head, for this is my defiance.�

Then the Congress adjourned and young Joe went home, completely tired out with the day’s anxiety and excitement. And though on that notable night of the third of July a nation had been born, Philadelphia lay quietly asleep knowing little or nothing of the great happening.

Next day—the first Fourth of July ever specially known to Americans—Joe was about the only privileged character who, slipping into the secret session heard, from his seat by the side of his friend the doorkeeper, the order given by Mr. Hancock as president of the Congress that “copies of the Declaration be sent to the several assemblies, conventions, and committees or Councils of Safety, and to the several commanding officers of the Continental troops; that it be proclaimed in each of the United States and at the head of the army.�

This was all that was done on the Fourth of July, 1776, as young Joe Nixon could testify. But the printed copies of the Declaration prepared for transmission to the several States and to the army and signed by Mr. Hancock, the president of the Congress, and by Mr. Thomson, the secretary, all bore the heading: “In Congress, July 4, 1776,� and thus that date has come down to us as the one to be especially remembered.

That very night Joe heard, at his uncle’s big house on the Water Street, that the Committee of Safety in Philadelphia—of which, as I have said, Mr. John Nixon was a member—had ordered that “the Sheriff of Philadelphia read or cause to be read and proclaimed at the State House, in the city of Philadelphia, on Monday the 8th day of July instant, at 12 o’clock at noon of this same day, the Declaration of the Representatives of the United States of America, and that he cause all his officers and the constables of the said city to attend to the reading thereof.�

Here was a new treat in store for young Joe; and when he learned that the Worshipful Sheriff had designated his uncle, Mr. John Nixon, as the reader, Joe knew that this meant a front seat for him and was appropriately jubilant.

The day came. Monday, the eighth of July, 1776. “A warm and sunshiny morning� again reads the truthful journal, and twelve o’clock, noon, must have been hot indeed. But not all the heat of a Philadelphia July could wither the ardor of such patriots as young Joe Nixon. He was therefore a very “live� portion of the procession which, forming at the hall of the Committee of Inspection in Second Street, joined the Committee of Safety at their lodge, and, to the stirring sounds of fife and drum, marched into the State House square. Out from the rear door of the State House came the Congress and other dignitaries and then, standing upon the balcony of Mr. Rittenhouse’s astronomical observatory just south of the State House, Mr. John Nixon in a voice both loud and clear read to the assembled throng the paper which declared the United States of America “Free and Independent.�

The reader concluded with the glorious words: “We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,� and, as his voice ceased, the listening throng, so the record says, “broke out into cheers and repeated huzzas.� Then the Royal arms were torn down from above the seats of the King’s Judges in the State House, and Joe, like a wild young Indian, danced frantically around the bonfire which destroyed these “insignia of Royalty.�

Again, at five o’clock, the Declaration was read to the troops then present in the town, and the evening was given up to bonfires and fireworks which you may be certain young Joe enjoyed to his full content.

And peal upon peal, sounding above all the shouts and the hurrahing, rang out loud and clear, at both the noon reading and the night’s celebration, the joyous clang of the big bell of the State House telling the glad tidings of freedom, as well befitted a bell on whose brazen rim men had read for twenty-four years the almost prophetic motto:

“Proclaim liberty through all the land to all the inhabitants thereof.�

To his dying day Joe Nixon never forgot the glory and exultation of that jubilant first Independence Day—the eighth of July, 1776.

One other notable scene also lived long in his memory—a day and a date new to many of us who have always supposed that the Declaration of Independence was passed, signed, and proclaimed on the Fourth of July. It was the morning of Tuesday, the second of August, that same historic summer of 1776. From his customary seat by the doorkeeper Joe saw Mr. Thomson, the secretary of the Congress, lay upon the president’s table a great sheet of parchment. And on this sheet carefully and beautifully copied was the Declaration of Independence. Then, one by one, beginning with Mr. Hancock the president, the delegates to the Congress signed the great paper and by that act sent their names down to posterity—famous and honored forever.

Of the fifty-six signers of the Declaration not all affixed their names to the document on that notable second of August. Absentees and new-comers added their names as they joined the Congress, and not until the fourth day of November, 1776, was the last signature affixed.

Names and dates go for but little when a great deed is done. The deed itself is of more importance than either names or dates. But to us of this second century of the Republic there is both interest and pleasure in re-telling the story of liberty and following out by dates, altogether new to most of us, the real progress of the historic document that made us a nation.

Instead of one “Fourth of July,� you see, we have really four—The Second of July, upon which Mr. Lee’s Resolution of Independence was passed by the Congress; the Third of July, upon which the Declaration itself was passed; the Fourth of July which witnessed the order for its proclamation, and the Second of August upon which it was actually signed by the members of the Congress.

The original document to which these names were signed still exists, grown worn and yellow with age; the Liberty Bell that rang out the joyous news of freedom on the sunny noon and the starlit night of the eventful eighth of July is now cracked and voiceless; the signers themselves are now only names and memories; but their work lives in the power and glory of the great nation which they founded, and every true American girl and boy honors the memory and applauds the courage of those devoted men. And upon each recurring Fourth of July every girl and boy in the land is as joyous and jubilant a young patriot as was even young Joe Nixon when, with bonfire and rude, old-time fireworks, with hurrah and shout and song he celebrated, in the days when George the Third was king, the first Fourth of July on the Eighth.

THEIR FLAG DAY[U]

By Herbert O. McCrillis

A grandfather tells a group of patriotic little Americans how his grandfather was a redcoat at Lexington.

TOOT! Toot! Rub-a-dub-dub! came from down the street, and it made Grandpa Sturdy, who sat dozing in the sun, start up suddenly and look to see what gallant soldiers were coming.

First came Captain Tommy Rankin, acting as drum-major, with his sister’s muff worn for a fur hat, and an umbrella for a baton. Behind him came a troop of children wearing all sorts of military decorations—helmets, epaulets, and paper caps. One boy carried a large flag, and one of the girls was singing through a comb.

Grandpa rose and went out to the gate as they came near. Then, just as they came close, he took off his hat and gave them a military salute—for grandpa was a soldier once—and held up his hand for them to stop just a moment.

“Company, halt!� commanded Tommy, in a loud tone. “Parade, rest! Salute! Attention!� And they obeyed.

“What company is this?� said grandpa smilingly.

“We are the minute-men, grandpa,� said Tommy. “We are going out to Concord to keep Flag Day. Our teacher was going to have a celebration to-day, but she is sick, so we have made a procession, and are going to march by her house to show her how we can remember the flag.�

“That’s right,� said grandpa, saluting the flag. “I can do that if my grandfather was what we call a redcoat.�

“Your grandfather a redcoat?� cried all the boys in a breath. “Did he ever tell you anything about it?�

“Oh, yes, he told us about going to America to fight the rebels, and what a lot of British soldiers there were in Boston, who all laughed at the idea of the plain country farmers and workmen being able to fight the king’s own fine troops; and granddad thought so with all the rest, he said. Well, they found out that day that the rebels could fight, after all. Let me see, what day was that, boys?�

“April 19, 1775,� said Tommy, echoed by the others.

“Yes, yes. You have got that learned, haven’t you? Grandfather said that all through that long, hard march from Concord back to Boston they were fighting. They were ashamed to be beaten by those they had made fun of.

“Every stone wall, every large rock or tree seemed to have an American behind it. He said it was wonderful how those farmers could shoot. Dozens of the Englishmen fell and died there in the road. Granddad told us how they struggled on, tired, wounded, thirsty, and almost ready to give up. Finally most of them got back to Charlestown, and were safe. But all day long, and most of the night before, they had had to march.

“And they didn’t do what they went out for, either, for the Americans had carried off the guns and powder they went to destroy. The night before they marched out gaily enough, expecting to have no trouble, and only a trip into the country in the fine spring air.

“But the trip became a terrible battle, and began a great war. And ever since America and England have been two separate nations.

“Grandfather went back to England very soon, and as he couldn’t march and fight any more, he got a pension from the king and stayed in England all his life.

“He liked America, and always said that now there was peace, and the new country promised so much, he would like to go there to live; but he never did. My father brought us over, though, when I was sixteen. So I am an American, if my grandfather was one of the redcoats who fought at Lexington in America.�

“I’d rather have a grandfather that was a minute-man,� said one of the boys.

“Perhaps the great-grandfathers of some of you fought the redcoats,� said Grandpa Sturdy. “But I am not ashamed to tell you that my grandfather wore one of the king’s red-and-white uniforms and carried a British gun. The soldiers were doing their duty bravely enough. It was the king and the men with him who were to blame for the battle. Well, boys, march on again, march along. Stand up for your flag. It is my flag, too, and I love it. Always be ready to be minute-men for the flag.�

“Attention, company! Carry arms! Forward, march!� shouted the captain.

Away went the procession to the teacher’s house, their flags waving gaily and the flowers they were carrying nodding their heads, while Grandpa Sturdy settled back in his easy chair.

A TRUE STORY OF THE REVOLUTION[V]

By Everett T. Tomlinson

A boy’s story by a boy’s author, telling of a thrilling escape from “Tarleton’s men.�

“FATHER’S escaped! Moses has just brought me word,� said John Russell, as he ran to the steps of the broad veranda. His mother quickly rose from her chair and looked down at the eager boy on the steps below her. Her slight figure was trembling, and a bright red spot had appeared on each cheek.

“Are you sure, John?� she asked, in a low tone.

“Yes, sure! It seems that the British escort had gone but halfway to Charleston when a band of five Whigs met them. They had a bit of an argument, and the upshot of it was that father made off. Strange about these Whigs happening to meet them, wasn’t it?�

John, unable to restrain his feelings longer, threw his hat high in the air, and rushing up the steps, seized his “little mother� in his arms and began to dance with her about the porch.

“What’s that you say? Your father’s escaped?�

John quickly released his mother and turned to face the gruff-voiced Captain Heald of the British service, who had just come out of the open door. The boy’s manner instantly changed, although he could not conceal his exultation as he replied: “Yes, sir; he’s escaped! He had no fancy to spend any more time in the ‘provost’ at Charleston. It isn’t a fit place for vermin, to say nothing of human beings.�

“I ought to have hanged him, and you, too!� replied the captain. “It’s the only way to deal with such rebels!�

“Hanging, sir,� said John, “seems the thing your party do best; unless you have a still stronger fancy for quartering yourselves on your betters.�

“Fine parole you’ve kept!� sneered the captain. “I’ll warrant, if the truth were known, you yourself had a share in this escape of your father.�

“I’m under no parole not to help my father to freedom,� said John.

The captain looked at him angrily a moment, and then, without making any further reply, turned and went down the steps and across the lawn to join some of the soldiers who were quartered on the plantation.

“I beg you to be careful, John,� said his mother anxiously, when they were alone again. “You know that man can do whatever he pleases here.�

“No,� replied John, “he cannot frighten me with his bluster and his red coat.�

“But you must not provoke him. Tarleton has given him full command in this district, and he has already committed outrages that no British regular officer would venture on.�

In fact, the war in that region was largely a conflict of partisans native to the soil, and Tory Americans often committed against Whig Americans high-handed acts from which officers accustomed to the procedure of military law would have shrunk.

“Very well,� said John, laughing to reassure his mother. “He hasn’t any great cause for liking me, that’s a fact. I’ve let the pigs out of the pens and scared away the chickens, and told the negroes where to hide some of the stuff in the barns. But this last work is the worst—this sending word, as I did, by Moses to Dick Eddy to look out for father when he passed. Heald will never forgive me for that. I’m not afraid, though,� he added, as he left his mother and followed the captain across the lawn.

Even in his excitement the beautiful summer day had an influence to soothe him. All about him lay the fertile lands of Ridgefield, his father’s plantation, one of the most beautiful in all the South. Behind him was the great house in which he had been born, flanked by the quarters of the negroes and the spacious barns. Off on the left was a grove, and below the hill was the slow stream. John would have felt the sweet influences of the hour more but for the presence of thirty men in scarlet, who now were the virtual masters of the place.

Only a week earlier Captain Heald had somehow gained information that Major Russell and his son had left Sumter’s army for a brief visit home, so the Tory band had at once swooped down and captured both. John had been left on parole, and his father had escaped; but Ridgefield was now occupied by “Tarleton’s men,� and all its beauty for John was gone.

He stopped and watched the guards doing “sentry go� in the road and out by the grove beyond the house, and the longer he watched them the more helpless and angry he felt. “Great liberty this!� he muttered. “Shut up here like a pig in a pen! Not that there are many pigs left here now,� he added, smiling grimly. “Oh, well, I hope father’ll do something, now that he’s got away.�

“John,� said his mother, when he returned to the house, “Captain Heald is going to leave.�

“Good for Captain Heald! When is he going?�

“To-night. Lieutenant Mott is to be left in charge here.�

“He’s not as bad as the other. Where’s the captain going?�

“I think over to Fort Granby.�

“Humph! Probably to set some one on father’s tracks. He’ll never get him, though. Hello! Here comes the captain now, and he’s all dressed to leave!�

A colored man soon brought the captain’s horse, and as the officer swung himself lightly into the saddle, John, taking off his hat and bowing low, called out: “Good-bye, captain! We’ll speed the parting guest, although we can’t welcome the coming!�

Captain Heald made no reply, but turned on John a threatening look, at which the boy laughed.

That day went by and on the following morning John was wandering about the place, idly watching the soldiers, longing to be with his father, and wishing he had not given his parole to stay on the plantation. A black servant came to him and said that his mother wished to speak with him at the house. He went, and found his mother at the door. An expression of agony was on her face.

“What is it mother?� he asked.

“Go up to your room, John, and I’ll tell you.�

The boy ran swiftly up the stairs, and held the door of his room open for his mother to enter. She closed and locked the door behind her, and then, handing him a letter, said: “I found this in the dining-room after Lieutenant Mott left the breakfast-table.�

John took the letter from his mother’s hand and read:

Fort Granby, August 6, 1780.

Lieutenant Mott. Upon receipt of this, you will at once take and hang that young rebel, John Russell. He has violated his parole and is entitled neither to a further hearing nor a trial. Hang him before sunset to-night. I shall expect to receive word by to-morrow morning.—Heald.

John’s face turned deadly pale, then red with anger. “I have not broken my parole!� he cried. “I never gave a promise that I would not help father to escape. This is murder, and——�

“I think Lieutenant Mott dropped that letter in the dining-room intentionally,� broke in his mother. “He’s not as bad as Captain Heald. He won’t carry out the order.�

With a great effort John controlled his voice. “We’ll see, mother. If it is really an order, I suppose he’ll have to carry it out—unless I escape.�

“He might let you escape.�

“No, little mother. But don’t give up. I’ll find a way out.�

He kissed his mother, unlocked the door and walked slowly down the stairs and out upon the veranda. Lieutenant Mott was coming up the steps, and as he met John he gave him a keen glance of sympathy. But that was all. Not a word or sign to show that he would not carry out his order.

Hanged! The very crickets seemed to be chirping it. Over and over the word kept repeating itself in John’s mind as he walked slowly on over the lawn. He saw that now he was no longer bound by his parole. His word of honor had held him, but the order to hang him released him from the bond. He would escape if he could, but wherever he went red-coated soldiers were lounging lazily about, and up and down the road marched the sentries with their muskets over their shoulders.

If it were only night! In the darkness he might escape, but it was not yet noon. The very words of the letter came back to him. “Hang him before sunset to-night!�

And this was to be the end of it all! To be hanged! It was too horrible to think of. Every avenue of escape was blocked, and in sheer desperation he returned to the house and made his way noiselessly up the stairs to his room. His mother was not there, and relieved by the thought that she was not present to look upon him in his weakness, he bolted the door and seated himself by the table on which stood a miniature of her. He looked at it, and dropping his head upon his arms on the table before him, he sobbed in an agony of despair.

He was roused by the sound of the dinner-bell. He must go down and somehow conceal his feelings. He bathed his face and, somewhat relieved by his tears, arose to join the family in the room below.

Only his sisters were there when he entered, and he knew at once by the expression upon their faces that his mother had not shown the letter to them. He choked down a few mouthfuls of food, but he could not eat. Excusing himself from the table on the plea that he wished to find his mother, he ran swiftly up to her room and rapped upon the door.

He had to repeat his summons before it was opened, and then it was only far enough to enable his mother to see who the visitor was. Then she drew him inside, and quickly closed and bolted the door again.

John almost broke down when he looked at her, so woful and desperate was her expression. He must cheer her with some hope, and his own courage revived at the cheerful tone which he assumed:

“Little mother, none of the Russells were ever hanged, and I shall not be the first.�

“What will you do, my son?� Her voice sounded as if it were far away, and John looked up quickly as he replied: “I shall make a break for it, if I must. I’d rather be shot in trying to get away than be hanged.�

“You are my own brave laddie,� said his mother, rising. “Do your best, John; but if you have to——�

“I know, I know,� he murmured, as for one moment he returned her frantic embrace; and then, not daring to look back, he left the room.

After crossing the lawn he seated himself beneath a spreading tree to collect his thoughts and survey the place. Everything was as it had been. The guards were marching up and down in the road; the idle soldiers were lounging about the tents; the locusts were calling in the trees, and peace apparently was over all.

“I’ll have to try it. They may come for me any time now,� he thought, suddenly rising and starting toward the guard in the upper road. He could feel that his mother was watching him, but he dared not look toward her windows. The testing time had come and now it was to be a struggle for life.

He walked leisurely up the road, although his heart was beating furiously. He would try not to attract attention, and it was no unusual thing for him to join the men on guard. They all knew he was on parole, and besides, there were the guns if he should try to get away.

“It’s hot to-day, Tom,� he said, as he approached.

“You’d think it was if you had to carry a gun up and down this dusty road.�

“I’d be glad to relieve you, Tom. You rest a bit, while I take your place.�

“That’s kind of you,� laughed the guard, “but I fear it won’t do, sir,� and he passed on, while John seated himself to await his return.

He glanced at the soldiers in the tents near by. How easily they could reach him, and only one word would bring them all after him! But he must take his chances. There was no other way, and when the guard turned his back again he would try it.

Just then a little, lean, half-starved pig came out of the woods and stood for a moment stupidly staring at the boy before him. “Poor fellow!� thought John. “You’re in the same box with me. Tarleton’s men will treat us alike.�

He looked up and saw the returning guard. The pig saw him, too, and as if inspired by a sudden fear, he gave a startled grunt and darted swiftly up the road.

“Here, sir, help me catch the pig!� shouted the guard, starting swiftly in pursuit of the runaway. “He’s the last on the place.�

John needed no second invitation, and in a moment he and the guard were following the pig, which was running as if he knew his life was in danger. The soldiers rushed from their tents, and stood laughing and cheering the pursuers. To them it was a comedy to see the sentry and the prisoner striving to catch one poor, little half-starved pig; but to John the pursuit had all the elements of a tragedy. Life or death lay in the outcome for him.

He flung aside his hat and coat, and put forth all his strength. Dripping with perspiration, streaked with dust, almost breathless he sped on and on. Once he came close upon the frightened pig, but he took good care to fall upon him in such a manner that the little “porker� only emitted a terrified squeal and redoubled his speed.

“Hold! hold!� shouted the guard, who was behind now. “Let him go. We can’t catch him!�

John glanced quickly back, and saw that he was out of the range of the soldiers’ muskets. His speed increased as he realized that the supreme moment had come at last. Only the gun of the guard was to be feared now.

“Halt!� shouted the guard again. “Stop, or I shoot!�

John only drew his head down between his shoulders. His heart almost ceased to beat. The report of the gun rang out, and he almost fell to the ground as he heard the bullet whistle over his head.

---

A few days afterward, when he was with his father in Sumter’s army near Camden, just before the terrible battle, and for the second time had been relating the story of his escape, he added, “That little porker did a double duty. He saved his bacon, and he saved mine, too.�

POLLY CALLENDAR: TORY[W]

By Margaret Fenderson

The tale of a Tory maid, a Patriot youth, and a kettle of scarlet dye.

IN 1774-5, previous to the outbreak of the Revolution, the Callendars were Royalists, and General Gage’s young British officers, one of whom was related to the Callendars, frequently rode out from Boston to call at the hospitable country-house. It was Polly Callendar whom they went to see; her beauty and vivacious wit were the theme of many toasts. And up to the evening of this story Polly was as disdainful of the “minute-men� as was her mother.

At about noon of that day Madam Callendar was summoned to the bedside of Elizabeth Ballard, a kinswoman living near Natick. She had left her brick oven full of the week’s baking, and had set a large brass kettle, filled with redwood dye, on the crane in the great fireplace. Madam Callendar’s parting directions to Polly had been not only to watch the oven, but to stir the boiling redwood.

Numerous skeins and hanks of woolen yarn, spun during the previous winter, were immersed in it, and the last warning from Polly’s mother was: “Redwood must never be hurried, Polly. Stir often, lass. Press the hanks down hard with your clothes-stick, and then drop in a little of this powdered alum to set the scarlet.�

So through the long, foggy afternoon it was Polly Callendar’s homely task to watch the oven and tend the “scarlet kettle.� But with evening came an unexpected diversion. A knock was heard at the outer door; and when old Rastus, the negro servant, had opened it, a tall young man, in provincial garb, inquired how far it was to Boston and what was the road. Learning that the distance was still considerable, he entreated hospitality, saying that having ridden since dawn, he was both tired and wet. Polly at first demurred, but in the end, moved by his plight and persuaded somewhat by his respectful manners and handsome face, she sent Rastus to stable the horse.

She spread a plentiful supper before the wayfarer; and then, because his appearance pleased her, she brewed for him some of her mother’s cherished tea, and poured it into one of the delicate china teacups that had come from England.

But the young man ate in silence, notwithstanding these attentions. Truth to say, he was ill at ease. He was on his way to join the minute-men, and he was bringing with him a hundred pounds that had been contributed by the “patriot committee� of his native town. He feared that in some way the redcoats had been given a hint of his mission. Mounted men had stared hard at him that day, and he had thought it wise to avoid a troop patrolling the roads. And now, despite the quality of his supper, he paused to listen anxiously whenever horses’ hoofs or voices were heard without. Polly, noticing his uneasiness and marking his blue colonial home-spun, drew her own inferences.

Of a sudden the young man took note of the kettle and its scarlet contents.

“That is a bright dye which you have there, mistress,� he remarked. “Are you fond of so high a color?�

“In good truth, sir, and why not?� replied Polly. “Have you fault to find with it?�

“I would be but a churl, an I did,� answered the guest gallantly, “since it is scarcely more pink than the cheeks of my fair hostess.

“The redcoats must feel flattered at your preference,� he added.

“And is it not the hue that all loyal subjects should prefer?� queried Polly demurely.

“Nay, but I will not gainsay you, mistress,� replied the young man. “And yet,� he added, “it is a color soon to fade under our American sun.�

“But not from the hearts of the king’s loyal subjects,� retorted Polly. “This is no rebel household, sir. My kinsmen, who were here but yesterday, wear the scarlet and are the king’s loyal servants.� And saying this she observed her guest closely and saw that he winced.

“Beyond doubt he is one of the patriots,� she thought. “But such a handsome youth! Moreover, he is most courteous, and his voice and ways are more gentle and respectful than those of Cousin Charles.�

As for the stranger, his heart sank afresh. “I will pay for my supper and get on,� he thought. “I shall be safer abroad in the darkness than here.� And he rose to take leave as gently as he might, but at that moment the tramp of horses was again heard; and this time they did not pass, but pulled up before the house door.

“My kinsmen, it is very like,� said Polly, smiling. “They wear sharp swords, sir.� Then, as she noted the hunted look which the young man cast about the room, her light and taunting manner changed. “Is it that you would not like to meet them, sir?� she asked, in a low tone.

As she spoke there came an imperative rap at the outer door, and a cry of “Open in the king’s name!�

“For heaven’s sake, mistress, show me some way out,� cried the stranger. “It is less that I fear their swords, but I am on a mission of importance.�

“Open, madam! Open, Polly! It is I, your Cousin Charles; and they say there is a rascally rebel here!� cried the voice outside. “But we have the house surrounded.�

Polly had turned toward a rear door, but hearing these last words, darted to the centre of the room again. For an instant she was at a loss. Then her eyes fell on the door of her mother’s storeroom, a closet beside the large chimney, which it was Madam Callendar’s practice always to keep locked; but in the haste of departing that day she had forgotten to take the key.

“Here, sir,� Polly whispered. “Quick, be quick!� and she unlocked the door, half pushed the man within and hastily turning the key again, put it in her pocket.

“Open! Open!� cried the voices outside. “Open in the king’s name!� and the raps were repeated.

“Coming, good sirs, coming,� cried Polly. Then her eye fell on the young patriot’s greatcoat lying across the back of a chair. If seen, that would betray all. She snatched it up and plunged it into the great kettle of scarlet dye. Then throwing the door open and courtesying low, as was the custom of those days, she cried: “Good-evening, Cousin Charles. Welcome, good gentlemen. My mother has gone to Natick for the day. Ne’theless you are right welcome.�

“Ay!� grumbled the young officer. “After my knuckles are skinned with knocking. But prithee, Polly, have you seen naught of this insolent knave?�

“Indeed, Cousin Charles, this is but a sorry jest!� exclaimed Polly Callendar. “Since when has my family been aught but loyal to the king?�

“True,� assented the Briton. “Yet the rascal may be lurking about.�

“Enter, then, and see for yourselves,� cried Polly. “My mother would earnestly desire you to purge her house of rebels!�

They came noisily in—while the young patriot’s heart beat fast—they peered into nooks and corners, and presently ascended to the attic.

“Do not forget the cellar!� cried Polly gaily, opening the door and handing her cousin a lighted candle. “Perchance the knave is hiding in some bin or box.�

The quest there proved as fruitless as in the chambers; but on emerging one of the party noted the closed door by the chimney and tried it. “Why locked?� he exclaimed. “The key, fair mistress.�

“For that you will do well to ask my mother,� replied Polly carelessly. “The closet is my mother’s keeping-room; and it is ever her custom to carry the key in her pocket.�

“True,� remarked her cousin, who knew the ways of the household. “The rogue will hardly have got into madam’s keeping-room. Doubtless he has slipped away.�

“If ever he were here,� flashed back Polly. “But beyond doubt, good cousin and gentlemen, you must be hungry after your hard ride. Will you not partake of our cheer?�

Nothing loath, the young redcoats gathered about the supper-table, where for an hour or more Polly maintained the reputation of the house for loyalty and good entertainment. In truth, the soldiers were slow to depart, and would hardly have gone by nine o’clock had not Polly adroitly reminded her kinsmen that the “Knave� they were pursuing would surely get clear away. Thereupon they took leave and rode off with much laughter.

But fearful lest they might return, Polly waited long listening, and not until old Rastus had come in to bar the outer door for the night and close the shutters would she release her prisoner.

“Come forth, sir,� she at last commanded, with assumed austerity. “What have we here? A rebel, I fear me, from all I am told.�

“But one profoundly grateful to his preserver,� replied the young man; and to old Rastus’s great astonishment he took Mistress Polly’s hand and gallantly kissed the tips of her fingers, albeit they were tinged with scarlet from her dye.

“Methinks, sir, it but ill becomes me to accept such thanks from one who confesses his disloyalty to King George,� Polly replied, still with seeming severity, “and whose name I do not even know. But since you are here, prithee take seat before the fire. For of necessity, sir, I have made a good Royalist of you, so far as your greatcoat covers you. See!� And with the clothes-stick she lifted the coat out of the kettle. “Not Cousin Charles’s own is a brighter scarlet!�

The stranger burst into a hearty laugh.

“Good faith, I had not thought to wear a scarlet coat!� he exclaimed.

“Yet, sir, it may stand you in good stead as you ride into Boston to-morrow,� replied Polly. “It was of that I thought as I dipped it. And now let us powder a little alum in the mortar to set the hue. I would not have thy loyalty wash out, sir, in the first shower that falls on you.�

As a consequence, one young patriot found himself powdering alum to dye his own coat scarlet. And midnight came and passed as he and Polly sat in front of the great brass kettle, and old Rastus nodded in the corner.

Beyond doubt they became better acquainted in this time; and Polly certainly learned the stranger’s name, for as the tall old clock in the corner struck one, she said, “It is now time to wring thy coat, John Fenderson.�

When wrung, it had still to be dried; and Polly put it for an hour into the warm brick oven.

Somewhat puckered from the dye, the garment still required pressing out; and to heat a sad-iron and accomplish this occupied yet another hour. The old clock struck three.

“Truly, John Fenderson, making a king’s man of thee has been a long task!� exclaimed Polly, as at last she held up the scarlet coat for inspection. “Don it, sir! I would even desire to mark the effect.� And what John Fenderson would not have done at the king’s command he appears now to have done without hesitation at Polly Callendar’s request. For between these two young people the grievous differences of Tory and Patriot had already been dispelled—in the dyeing of a coat before a fireplace.

“Good luck, John Fenderson, in thy brave coat,� said Polly at four o’clock, as the young man took leave, after she had given him breakfast. “May the color hold,� she added. “But if it fades——�

“I shall come back to you,� said John.

“Ah, but it will grieve me when I hear that thou art to be hanged for a rebel!� cried Polly from the door.

“Nay, Mistress Polly, I should have but to send for thee to teach me how to dye!� replied John Fenderson.

So he rode away, and had cause to be thankful for the disguise the coat offered him; for while riding through Newton a little before noon, he was hailed by three redcoats, two of whom raised their muskets; but the third held them back, saying, “Nay, by his coat he must be one of our men.�

There is much reason to believe that Mistress Polly’s loyalty to King George was ever afterward open to question. At any rate, the records of John Fenderson’s native town show that he married in 1779, and that the bride’s name was Polly Callendar.

NEIL DAVIDSON IN DISGUISE[X]

By Mary Tracy Earle

A boy in General Greene’s army sets out to capture a famous Tory marauder and finds him to be his own brother. What does he do?

IN THE early days of March, 1781, Neil Davidson was thirteen years old and had been five months in the patriot army. He had taken part in several skirmishes and had lived in camps where food was scarce and clothing scarcer, where a blanket for four men was a prize, and companies were sometimes obliged to stay away from review because their uniform had been worn through to that of mother nature. He had shared the hard marches by which Greene and Morgan kept the prisoners taken at Cowpens from recapture by Cornwallis, and during which Greene had reported that the naked feet of his men marked their way with blood.

It was a strange experience for a boy, and Neil had become such a queer combination of outspoken child and shrewd veteran as can be matched in these days only by the gamins who fight their battles in the city streets. Without losing his boyishness he had acquired a military swagger which he knew enough to suppress when there was any advantage to be gained by acting like a child, and underneath swagger and boyishness there burned the revengeful, deep-seated hatred of Tories which marked all but a few of the patriots of those days. In Neil it was an unchildlike passion, giving him strength on long marches, putting a keen barb to his wit, making him trusted in the army beyond his years.

Before the real beginning of the Revolution his father had been hanged by the Tory government for taking part in a popular outbreak, and his mother had been crazed by grief. From the shadow of such an early childhood Neil had emerged almost a man in purpose at thirteen and very fierce at heart.

Yet, in spite of a bronzed face, he was still exceedingly coltish and immature in appearance, with round, wide-open blue eyes, a shock of long, sunburned hair, and legs that also were long and sunburned, having seldom been covered by a substantial, untorn garment. There was a great amount of speed available in the bare legs, and under the shock of hair there was plenty of boyish logic and common sense.

Altogether, he was handy to have about, and he was sent on so many errands from officer to officer that he was known around all the cheerless campfires in Greene’s army. Even the general kept him in mind, and at times permitted him to undertake important missions. He had carried more than one of the appeals for reënforcements which Greene kept sending to the governors of North and South Carolina and Virginia, and to the military leaders of the three states. His way had lain through a country swarming with enemies, and he had come safely through encounters in which a man’s errand would have been investigated.

One night, during the anxious two weeks before the Battle of Guilford Court House, Greene sent for him again. The army was moving stealthily along muddy roads through the dusk of starlight, for the general thought his force still too weak to risk an engagement and evaded Cornwallis by shifting his camp every twenty-four hours, in the dark. The footsore men plodded forward silently. Loss of sleep was wearing them out. Greene himself had hardly slept for a week, and physical exhaustion united with his judgment in declaring that the strain could not last much longer. If sufficient reënforcements did not arrive soon, he would have to fight without them, and disaster would result. He sighed and settled himself wearily in the saddle. For a moment his overburdening anxiety slipped from him, and he dozed as he rode. Then he straightened himself with a start. A small lanky figure had bobbed up beside his horse out of the obscurity of the night, and he caught the motion of a salute.

“Ah, Neil,� he said, “I sent for you to see if you are ready to undertake another dangerous errand. I fear my last message to Colonel William Campbell has been intercepted. I want some one to go out, try to meet him, and hurry him forward. If he has not heard of our recent movements, he may be marching toward the Dan River.�

He hesitated a moment, as if he had more to say, but Neil did not wait for it. “I’m your man, sir!� he declared.

The general smiled at the boy’s confidence. “That was my impression, too,� he admitted. “Yet there is one strong argument against your going. Gillespie, one of the scouts, has just come in. He’s been hanging around Tarleton’s Legion and he’s heard you spoken of. It seems that the enemy took notice of you in the affair at the mill the other day, and that rascal who has your name, Davidson, the bushwhacker, is with the Legion, and he swears to capture you; so if any of Tarleton’s men come across a boy of your size and description, he will have hard work to get away from them.�

“But even if they are on the lookout for a boy, they’re just as much on the lookout for every grown man in your army,� Neil urged. “Anybody that the Tories get hold of will have to give a good account of himself.�

“So I reasoned,� the general said, “and at the same time I am unwilling to have you undertake this without some safeguard. You are about the height of an ordinary young woman, and when we reach Mrs. Bynum’s plantation, where we shall make our next camp, I shall have her furnish you with clothing and a side-saddle, and you will go disguised as a girl. That is all for the present. Report to me at the Bynum house as soon as you reach the plantation, and keep this to yourself in the meantime.�

Neil saluted and dropped back. As soon as he was at a safe distance he gave a long whistle of surprise. Then he began to laugh. The dismay with which he first thought of concealing his military identity in petticoats gave way to excitement. He began softly to hum the air and words of a rude ballad which celebrated the victory of King’s Mountain, five months before, and was passing from mouth to mouth through the patriot army.

“Stop that singing!� a gruff voice said in his ear. “Are you signalling to Cornwallis?�

In the darkness it was impossible to see if the speaker were officer or man from the ranks. Neil took the risk and answered like an equal: “Who are you that are giving me orders? I left General Greene ahead there, and just now I’m taking orders direct from him.�

“Oh!� the voice returned ironically, but without apparent offense, “then I reckon you’re the great Neil Davidson. I’m merely Joe Gillespie, scout.�

“I have heard of you,� Neil said good-naturedly. “The general was speaking of you just now.�

“Do you know who was speaking of you lately?� Gillespie asked. He took the boy by the arm and walked along with him through the dark. “That namesake of yours, Sandy Davidson. He’s taken a notion to capture you, and you want to be as wary as you know how. He’s the worst of the Tory bushwhackers, and the most daredevil. If he’s decided to capture you because your name’s the same as his, he’s likely to walk right into Greene’s camp and do it. It’s nothing to him that there’s a reward out for his life.�

“I reckon he’ll not find it as easy to catch me as he thinks,� Neil said. A tremor of fierceness came into his voice. He threw back his shoulders, and his companion could feel his arm grow tense. “But if I live long enough I’ll capture him and see him hanged. He has my brother’s name.�

“The name is common.�

“It shan’t be common among Tories!� the boy declared. “They killed my brother. They shan’t have his name.�

“How did they kill him?� Gillespie’s voice was stirred. It was an old story, the loss of life on either side in the bitter Civil War that tore the Carolinas, but it was a story that never found dull ears.

“I don’t know,� Neil said. “I was a very little boy and the Indians had carried me off. When I was exchanged and brought home my mother told me that the Tories had killed Sandy. She didn’t say how—she never would tell me how. She’d had so much trouble that she was—well, queer, and she never would tell anything very much. I was so scared and lonesome that I ran away to the Indians, and stayed with them again a long time. Mother was just the same when I came back. She didn’t need me and I couldn’t do anything for her, and that’s why I followed the army to fight the Tories in Sandy’s place. And I don’t intend to let any Tory live with his name.�

Gillespie had been seasoned in border warfare, yet he felt uncomfortable at hearing a mere child use the fierce language of the war. “Pshaw, now,� he said, “it’s an ugly business to plan to kill men one at a time! When a whole army gets up before you and you shoot at it, that’s a different matter. And you want to be careful; besides, he’s a good deal more likely to get hold of you and do what he pleases with you than you are with him.�

“I’ll be careful,� Neil agreed—“careful to capture him.�

There were so many things to occupy the general’s attention that it was nearly daybreak before the messenger was despatched; but at last, with his length and thinness encased in linsey-woolsey petticoats and a sunbonnet on his head, the boy rode off through the cold morning chill.

Before Neil started the sunbonnet had been ripped open, and Greene had slipped a letter to Colonel Campbell in between the lining and one of the slats which stiffened its brim. Neil was as conscious of the letter as he was of the rattling of the bonnet round his ears and of the imprisoned feeling which it gave him to wear it. The general had told him to treat the bonnet carelessly if he fell into trouble; to swing it by the strings as a girl might, and to swing it into a fire if possible; but for the first hour Neil was in no trouble except from the bonnet and the petticoats and the necessity of sitting sidewise on his horse.

He was riding through woodland; day began to sift slowly down among the dark tree-trunks. The branches above him grew astir with wakening birds; the cold air was sweet from unseen jasmine flowers.

The world seemed so quiet, and there was such a sense of peace abroad, that Neil did one of the few imprudent things of his service. His side-saddle continually troubled him; he felt insecurely perched on it, and his back was twisted in an unfamiliar way. If he rode astride for a while, during this secure, peaceful time, he reasoned that the rest of the journey would be easier for him when in full daylight he was obliged to play the girl decorously and be constantly on his guard.

One leg swung over. He pressed his knees into the horse’s sides, and gave a suppressed whoop of joy. The horse sped forward, and just for practice, he jerked off his sunbonnet and swung it round and round his head by the strings; the blood danced in him; he leaned forward and gave a hissing chirrup to the horse; his petticoats flapped in the wind, and the trees fled hastily to the rear. Now was his chance for making time. To feel himself firmly and naturally seated on the horse was glorious. He swung the bonnet round his head again. One of the strings slipped from his hand and the other tore from the bonnet. The bonnet flew to the roadside, and before Neil could check his horse it was rods behind.

As he rode back for it, a man stepped out of the woods and picked it from the bush where it had lodged. At sight of him Neil flung his stray leg back where it belonged, and blushed to a depth of embarrassment which would have done credit to any girl.

“If you please, sir,� he said, “I just lost that bonnet.�

The stranger held the bonnet behind him and laughed. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a face which made Neil sure that he was a man to be reckoned with. The features were large, yet mobile, and his pale, greenish eyes had a spark of mischief in them which looked as if it might turn to fire. Neil felt sorely perturbed, and he had no need to play a part in order to show timidity. Sandy Davidson came back into his mind; but if this were Sandy, there would be small chance to capture him in such a meeting, and the most Neil could hope was to get away.

Whoever the stranger might be, his first object was to tease. “What’ll you give me for it, Miss Tomboy?� he asked.

“I—I don’t have anything to give you,� Neil stammered.

“Then you’ll not get it,� the other said, slipping the bonnet inside his blouse. “You don’t really want it you know. Anybody can see from your brown face that you’re not used to wearing a bonnet.�

“But I do want it!� Neil declared. He was wild with anxiety and had no idea what to do. If the man had not slipped it into his tunic, he might have ridden closer, snatched it, and galloped off.

The man stood laughing at him. “I’ll swap it for a kiss,� he offered.

Neil drew back. “No, you’ll not!� he cried angrily. His indignation was for himself rather than for the girl he pretended to be. As far as he could remember, neither his mother nor the Indians nor the soldiers had ever offered him a bargain of this kind. He had never been kissed since his babyhood. His face set, his blue eyes turned fierce, and he lifted the switch which he used as a riding whip.

The stranger fell back a pace and stared with a look which was first startled and then keen. “You’re not a girl; you’re Neil Davidson!� he said abruptly.

Neil’s hand dropped. He stared back at the stranger. Something far away and dimly remembered, something which had made the boy tremble from the first, was in the man’s features. There was no question now. This was Sandy Davidson, and he had not only borrowed a name from Neil’s brother, he had borrowed a face.

As they stood bewildered a faint sound reached them. Although distant, there was no mistaking the murmurous trample of many feet.

The man took Neil’s horse by the bridle. “You don’t deny that you’re Neil Davidson, and you’re my prisoner,� he said. “That’s Tarleton’s Legion. I was waiting here till it came by.�

“Why do you think I’m Neil Davidson?�

“Can’t you guess?� For the first time the man’s voice had a troubled sound. “It was when you got so mad. Your eyes blazed just as hers always did, and then all at once I could see your baby face—changed a lot, but looking right out at me. You always looked like mother.�

Neil’s hand closed on the horn of the side-saddle. The name “Sandy Davidson� had not prepared him; the resemblance had seemed only an added insult.

“You needn’t be afraid,� the other said, noticing how pale he had grown under his tan. “Since I heard of you in Greene’s army I’ve vowed I’d catch you, and now I have. Our family has done enough against the king. But I’ll see that nobody hurts you.�

Neil straightened himself with a jerk. His timidity was gone and his bewilderment was yielding to an understanding of what his mother had meant when she said that the Tories had killed Sandy. “And since I’ve heard of a Tory with my brother’s name, I’ve vowed to capture him!� he cried. “I’ve vowed that no Tory named Sandy Davidson should live, for mother said they’d killed you.�

The other gave an impatient laugh. “Why don’t you capture me, then?� he asked. “Here I am. I told mother I was on the king’s side, and she said I was dead to her. She was growing crazy and driving me crazy begging me to revenge father’s death, when father was a rebel and deserved what he got. She drove me out of the house when I said I was a king’s man.� He shrugged his shoulders as if to put an end to accounting for himself. “Of course you’ve got messages on you, or you’d not be disguised. Hand them over and it will save you trouble. I’m your very affectionate brother, though you would like to collect that reward for me, but I can tell you Tarleton’s a very affectionate brother to nobody!�

The sunbonnet with the letter in it was still in the front of Sandy’s hunting-shirt. “You can search me,� Neil said. “You’ll find no letters.�

“Then what were you sent for?�

“To practise riding on a side-saddle. You noticed that I don’t take very kindly to sitting this way.�

“You’re pretty cool for a prisoner,� Sandy said approvingly. “I’ll search you fast enough, but I reckon we’ll be as good friends as when you wore dresses all the time.�

“Don’t think it!� Neil cried out. “Don’t think I’ll ever——� He checked himself, remembering that he was absolutely powerless in the hands of a man whose name stood for that all was unmerciful. If there was any kindly feeling left in such a man, Neil would need it. The trample of feet grew louder, and the brothers waited in silence, half-concealed by the clump of bushes on which the bonnet had caught.

Neil was busy with the possibilities of getting away. He looked at his brother critically, trying to judge what might be expected of him. Hard living, hard fighting, and cruelty had left strangely slight marks upon Sandy. His face was almost noble, suggesting possibilities which he was fast outliving.

The boy’s head began to whirl with remembrance of the days when he had toddled at Sandy’s heels; the two had shunned the house where their mother’s half-crazed talk of revenge left them no peace; they had stayed in the fields together; sometimes the big boy had teased the little one, but sometimes he had snatched Neil up and tossed and played with him, making him blissfully certain that they were of one age and stature—rough, loving mates.

Neil’s only bright memories of home were of Sandy. It was because they were so bright that he had hated the Tory Sandy so much more than any other Tory; and yet this man, this bushwhacker and marauder, had spoken of the old days.

Once Neil leaned forward to ask him if he recalled some trifling circumstance which stood out with special plainness in his own recollection, but he could not form the words. Relive the past with a Tory? He shook his head savagely and looked in the direction of the approaching troops.

The soldiers were coming into view round a curve in the road—not Tarleton’s Legion, but a body of plainly dressed militia such as might be found in either army, such as might have reinforced Tarleton. For the space of a breath Sandy and Neil watched them. Then an officer galloped forward. The brightening daylight struck across his red hair and large, high-boned face. It was Col. William Campbell leading his riflemen to Greene.

Before Sandy could stir Neil caught him by the arm. In their partial shelter they had not yet been seen. “If you run, I’ll call out your name and you’ll be a dead man!� he whispered. “That’s Campbell’s regiment, and you’re my prisoner! Give me back that bonnet. There’s a message in it to Colonel Campbell from General Greene!� His words grew swifter with triumph. “Oh, you laughed when I said I’d vowed to capture you. You were sure it was Tarleton’s regiment——�

Sandy nodded. For once a surprise had dazed him and he stood quiescent, realizing that if Neil gave the alarm those grim-faced men would scour the woods and hunt him down. “Oh, I’m caught!� he acknowledged grimly. “You’ll have the pleasure of seeing me shot or hanged.�

“I said I’d capture you,� Neil repeated. “I said no Tory should live——� Something unexpected choked his words. The vision of deaths he had seen in the army passed before him, and then of two boys romping together in a field. It was only an instant, but the love and the hate of his life struggled together. He began to tremble.

“The bonnet!� he begged. “If I have the bonnet I can hold their notice.�

“You mean you’ll help me off?� Sandy’s voice broke huskily. “Little Neil—I’ll remember this, I’ll——� But there was no time for words. He pulled the bonnet from his tunic, turned and walked coolly into the woods, just as the soldiers caught sight of Neil’s higher figure on the horse.

Neil rode to meet the regiment, holding his bonnet in his hands. He forgot his disguise and saluted like a soldier.

“Colonel Campbell, I’m not a girl. I’m Neil Davidson, and I’ve brought you a message from General Greene,� he said. “It’s sewed inside the bonnet.�

But the colonel had caught a motion between the trees. “Who’s that moving off there?� he asked sharply.

“A man I was talking to,� Neil said. “I was riding fast and my bonnet flew off. A stranger stepped out of the woods and picked it up for me. He thought I was a girl, of course, and teased me at first. He wanted me to kiss him before he’d give it back. I was nearly wild on account of the message. Then we heard you coming. He stopped teasing and waited with me until I told him you were my friends.�

“Humph! It’s pretty evident we weren’t his friends; but I reckon he’s not worth following!� the colonel commented. He tore open the bonnet, found the message in it, and troubled himself no more about the man in the woods.

“Ah, Neil, you brought them in!� the general said, when Neil reported to him. As it chanced, the regiment would have arrived just as safely without the message, yet he let his grave, tired eyes rest approvingly on the boy.

Neil had on his own tattered clothes again. His head was as shaggy and bare as usual, and his brown legs nearly as bare, but there was something unfamiliar in his face. “Yes, sir,� he answered impetuously. “I brought them in, but I let the worst Tory in the country go free.�

Greene smiled half-incredulously. “Why was that?� he asked.

Neil was silent a moment, and the general saw tears rising in the blue eyes that he had supposed were always shrewd or fierce.

“He was my brother!� Neil broke out at last, and because his heart was so full that he had to tell some one, he told the big, considerate general the whole story. “And you may do what you please with me, general,� he ended. “I had to let him go free.�

The general took the boy’s small, shaking hand. “I don’t think you let him go free, exactly, Neil,� he said. “That minute of mercy will make him more or less your captive all his life.�

JOHN PAUL JONES: THE BOY OF THE ATLANTIC[Y]

By Rupert S. Holland

A little Scottish lad dreamed of a great sea fight—of a flag with red and white stripes, and white stars on a blue field. This story tells how his dream came true.

THE summer afternoon was fair, and the waves that rolled upon the north shore of Solway Firth in the western Lowlands of Scotland were calm and even. But the tide was coming in, and inch by inch was covering the causeway that led from shore to a high rock some hundred yards away. The rock was bare of vegetation, and sheer on the landward side, but on the face toward the sea, were rough jutting points that would give a climber certain footholds, and near the top smooth ledges.

On one or two of these ledges sea-gulls had built their nests, tucked in under projecting points where they would be sheltered from wind and rain. Now the gulls would sweep in from sea, curving in great circles until they reached their homes, and then would sit on the ledge calling to their mates across the water. Except for the cries of the gulls, however, the rock was very quiet. The lazy, regular beat of the waves about its base was very soothing. On the longest ledge, below the sea-gulls’ nests, lay a boy about twelve years old, sound asleep, his face turned toward the ocean.

Either the gulls’ cries or the sun, now slanting in the west, disturbed him. He did not open his eyes, but he clenched his fists, and muttered incoherently. Presently with a start he awoke. He rubbed his eyes, and then sat up. “What a queer dream!� he said aloud.

The ledge where he sat was not a very safe place. There was scarcely room for him to move, and directly below him was the sea. But this boy was quite as much at home on high rocks or in the water as he was on land, and he was very fond of looking out for distant sailing-vessels and wondering where they might be bound.

He glanced along the north shore to the little fishing hamlet of Arbigland where he lived. He saw that the tide had come in rapidly while he slept, and that the path to the shore was now covered. He stood up and stretched his bare arms, brown with sunburn, high over his head. Then he started to climb down from the ledge by the jutting points of rock.

He was as sure-footed as any mountaineer. His clothes were old, so neither rock nor sea could do them much harm; his feet were bare. He was short but very broad, and his muscles were strong and supple. When he came to the foot of the rock he stood a moment, hunting for the deepest pool at its base, then, loosing his hold, he dove into the water.

In a few seconds he was up again, floating on his back; and a little later he struck out, swimming hand over hand, toward a sandy beach to the south.

A young man, wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the British navy, stood on the beach, watching the boy swim. When the latter had landed and shaken the water from him much as a dog would, the man approached him. “Where on earth did you come from, John Paul?� he asked with a laugh. “The first thing I knew I saw you swimming in from sea.�

“I was out on the rock asleep,� said the boy. “The tide came up and cut me off. And oh, Lieutenant Pearson, I had the strangest dream! I dreamt I was in the middle of a great sea fight. I was captain of a ship, and her yard-arms were on fire, and we were pouring broadsides into the enemy, afraid any minute that we’d sink. How we did fight that ship.�

The young officer’s eyes glowed. “And I hope you may some day, John!� he exclaimed.

“But the strangest part was that our ship didn’t fly the English flag,� said the boy. “At the masthead was a flag I’d never seen, red and white with a blue field filled with stars in the corner. What country’s flag is that?�

Pearson thought for a moment. “There’s no such flag,� he said finally. “I know them all, and there’s none like that. The rest of your dream may come true, but not that about the flag. Come, let’s be walking back to Arbigland.�

Although John Paul’s father came of peaceful farmer and fisher folk who lived about Solway Firth, his mother had been a “Highland lassie,� descended from one of the fighting clans in the Grampian Hills. The boy had much of the Highlander’s love of wild adventure, and found it hard to live the simple life of the fishing village. The sea appealed to him, and he much preferred it to the small Scotch parish school. His family were poor, and as soon as he was able he was set to steering fishing yawls and hauling lines. At twelve he was as sturdy and capable as most boys at twenty.

Many men in Arbigland had heard John Paul beg his father to let him cross the Solway to the port of Whitehaven and ship on some vessel bound for America, where his older brother William had found a new home. But his father saw no opening for his younger son in such a life. All the way back to town that afternoon the boy told Lieutenant Pearson of his great desire, and the young officer said he would try to help him.

The boy’s chance, however, came in another way. A few days later it chanced that Mr. James Younger, a big ship-owner, was on the landing-place of Arbigland when some of the villagers caught sight of a small fishing yawl beating up against a stiff northeast squall, trying to gain the shelter of the little tidal creek that formed the harbor of the town.

Mr. Younger looked long at the boat and then shook his head. “I don’t think she’ll do it,� he said dubiously.

Yet the boat came on, and he could soon see that the only crew were a man and a boy. The boy was steering, handling the sheets and giving orders, while the man simply sat on the gunwale to trim the boat.

“Who’s the boy?� asked the ship-owner.

“John Paul,� said a bystander. “That’s his father there.�

Mr. Younger looked at the man pointed out, who was standing near, and who did not seem to be in the least alarmed. “Are you the lad’s father?� he asked.

The man looked up and nodded. “Yes, that’s my boy John conning the boat,� said he. “He’ll fetch her in. This isn’t much of a squall for him!�

The father spoke with truth. The boy handled his small craft with such skill that he soon had her alongside the wharf. As soon as John Paul had landed Mr. Younger stepped up to the father and asked to be introduced to the son. Then the ship-owner told him how much he had admired his seamanship, and asked if he would care to sail as master’s apprentice in a new vessel he owned, which was fitting out for a voyage to Virginia and the West Indies. The boy’s eyes danced with delight; he begged his father to let him go, and finally Mr. Paul consented. The twelve-year-old boy had won his wish to go to sea.

A few days later the brig Friendship sailed from Whitehaven, with small John Paul on board, and after a slow voyage which lasted thirty-two days dropped anchor in the Rappahannock River of Virginia.

The life of a colonial trader was very pleasant in 1760. The sailing-vessels usually made a triangular voyage, taking some six months to go from England to the colonies, then to the West Indies, and so east again. About three of the six months were spent at the small settlements on shore, discharging goods from England, taking on board cotton and tobacco, and bartering with the merchants.

The Virginians who lived on their great plantations with many servants were the most hospitable people in the world, always eager to entertain a stranger, and the English sailors were given the freedom of the shore. The Friendship anchored a short distance down the river from where John Paul’s older brother lived, and the boy immediately went to see him and stayed as his guest for some time.

This brother William had been adopted by a wealthy planter named Jones, and the latter was delighted with the young John Paul, and tried to get him to leave the sailor’s life and settle on the Rappahannock. But much as John liked the easy life of the plantation, the fine riding horses, the wide fields and splendid rivers, the call of the sea was dearer to him, and when the Friendship dropped down the Rappahannock bound for Tobago and the Barbadoes he was on board of her.

Those were adventurous days for sailors and merchants. Money was to be made in many ways, and consciences were not overcareful as to the ways. The prosperous traders of Virginia did not mind taking an interest in some ocean rover bound on pirates’ business, or in the more lawful slave-trade with the west coast of Africa. For a time, however, young John Paul sailed for Mr. Younger, and was finally paid by being given a one-sixth interest in a ship called King George’s Packet.

The boy was now first mate, and trade with England being dull, he and the captain decided to try the slave-trade. They made prosperous voyages between Jamaica and the coast of Guinea, helping to found the fortunes of some of the best-known families of America by importing slaves.

After a year, however, John Paul tired of the business, and sold his share of the ship to the captain for about one thousand guineas. He was not yet twenty-one, but his seafaring life had already made him fairly well-to-do. He planned to go home and see his family in Scotland, and took passage in the brig John o’ Gaunt.

Life on shipboard was full of perils then, and very soon after the brig had cleared the Windward Islands the terrible scourge of yellow fever was found to be on the vessel. Within a few days the captain, the mate, and all of the crew but five had died of the disease. John Paul was fully exposed to it, but he and the five men escaped it. He was the only one of those left who knew anything about navigation, so he took command, and after a stormy passage, with a crew much too small to handle the brig, he managed to bring her safely to Whitehaven with all her cargo. He handled her as skilfully as he had the small yawl in Solway Firth.

The owners of the John o’ Gaunt were delighted and gave John Paul and his five sailors the ten per cent. share of the cargo which the salvage laws entitled them to. In addition they offered him the command of a splendid full-rigged new merchantman which was to sail between England and America, and a tenth share of all profits. It was a very fine offer to a man who had barely come of age, but the youth had shown that he had few equals as a mariner.

Good fortune shone upon him. He had no sooner sailed up the Rappahannock again and landed at the plantation where his brother lived than he learned that the rich old Virginian, William Jones, had recently died and in his will had named him as one of his heirs. He had always cherished a fancy for the sturdy, black-haired boy who had made him that visit. The will provided that John Paul should add the planter’s name to his own. The young captain did not object to this, and so henceforth he was known as John Paul Jones.

Scores of stories are told of the young captain’s adventures. He loved danger, and it was his nature to enjoy a fight with men or with the elements. On a voyage to Jamaica he met with serious trouble. Fever again reduced the crew to six men, and Jones was the only officer able to be on deck. A huge negro named Maxwell tried to start a mutiny and capture the ship for his own uses. He rushed at Jones, and the latter had to seize a belaying-pin and hit him over the head. The man fell, badly hurt, and soon after reaching Jamaica died.

Jones gave himself up to the authorities and was tried for murder on the high seas. He said to the court: “I had two brace of loaded pistols in my belt, and could easily have shot him. I struck with a belaying-pin in preference, because I hoped that I might subdue him without killing him.� He was acquitted, and soon after offered command of a new ship built to trade with India.

The charm of life in Virginia appealed more and more strongly to the sailor. He liked the new country, the society of the young cities along the Atlantic Coast, and he spent less time on the high seas and more time fishing and hunting on his own land and in Chesapeake Bay. He might have settled quietly into such prosperous retirement had not the minute-men of Concord startled the new world into stirring action.

John Paul Jones loved America and he loved ships. Consequently he was one of the very first to offer his services in building a new navy. Congress was glad to have him; he was known as a man of the greatest courage and of supreme nautical skill.

On September 23, 1779, Paul Jones, on board the American ship Bon Homme Richard, met the British frigate Serapis off the English coast. A battle of giants followed, for both ships were manned by brave crews and commanded by extraordinarily skilful officers. The short, black-haired, agile American commander saw his ship catch fire, stood on his quarter-deck while the blazing spars, sails, and rigging fell about him, while his men were mowed down by the terrific broadsides of the Serapis, and calmly directed the fire of shot at the enemy.

Terribly as the Bon Homme Richard suffered, the Serapis was in still worse plight. Two thirds of her men were killed or wounded when Paul Jones gave the signal to board her. The Americans swarmed over the enemy’s bulwarks, and, armed with pistol and cutlass, cleared the deck.

The captain of the Serapis fought his ship to the last, but when he saw the Americans sweeping everything before them and already heading for the quarter-deck, he himself seized the ensign halyards and struck his flag. Both ships were in flames, and the smoke was so thick that it was some minutes before the men realized his surrender. There was little to choose between the two vessels; each was a floating mass of wreckage.

A little later the English captain went on board the Bon Homme Richard and tendered his sword to the young American. The latter looked hard at the English officer. “Captain Pearson?� he asked questioningly. The other bowed.

“Ah, I thought so. I am John Paul Jones, once small John Paul of Arbigland in the Firth. Do you remember me?�

Pearson looked at the smoke-grimed face, the keen black eyes, the fine figure. “I shouldn’t have known you. Yes, I remember now.�

Paul Jones took the sword that was held out to him, and asked one of his midshipmen to escort the British captain to his cabin. He could not help smiling as a curious recollection came to him. He looked up at the masthead above him. There floated a flag bearing thirteen red and white stripes and a blue corner filled with stars. It was the very flag of his dream as a boy.

Thus it was that the sturdy Scotch boy, full of the daring spirit of his Highland ancestors, became the great sea-fighter of a new country, and ultimately wrote his name in history as the Father of the American Navy.

THE END

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
GARDEN CITY, N. Y.