Joyce stopped her humming as Mary began dramatically:
"'A Boy of Seventy-six.' That's the name of it." She read unusually well for a child of her age, and the verses were new to Joyce:
"You have heard the story, time and again,
Of those brave old heroes, the 'Minute Men,'
Who left their homes to fight or fall,
As soon as they heard their country's call.
Let me tell you of one, unnamed, unknown,
A brave boy-hero, who fought alone.
When the breathless messenger drew rein
He had started whistling, down the lane
With his rod and line, to the brook for trout,
But he paused as he heard the warning shout,
And his father called to him, 'Ben, my son,
I must be off to Lexington!
There is little time for fishing now,
You must take father's place behind the plough.'
One quick good-bye! The boy stood still,
Watching him climb the homeward hill—
In and out of the house again,
With his musket, to join the 'Minute Men.'
Then he turned the furrows, straight and true,
Just as he'd seen his father do.
He dropped the corn in the narrow rows,
And fought for its life with the weeds and crows.
Oh, it was hard, as the days wore on,
To take the place of that father, gone.
The boyish shoulders could hardly bear
All their burden of work and care.
But he thought, 'It is for my country's sake
That father's place at the plough I take.
When the war is over, and peace is won,
How proud he'll be of his little son!'
But they brought him home to a soldier's grave,
Wrapped in the flag he had died to save.
And Ben took up his burden again,
With its added weight of grief and pain,
Saying bravely, 'In all things now
I must take father's place behind the plough.'
Seed-time and harvest came and went,
Steadily still to the work he bent,
For the family needed bread, and then,
So did the half-starved fighting men.
Only a boy! Not a hero bold,
Whose deeds in the histories are told.
Still, there fell under British fire,
No braver son of a patriot sire
Than this young lad, who for duty's sake
Said, 'This is the task I'll undertake.
I cannot fight for my country now,
But I'll take father's place behind the plough.'"
"I wonder why it is," said Mary, thoughtfully, as she came to the end, "that all the heroes live so far away that nobody knows them except the people who write the books and poetry about them. I wish I knew a boy like that."
"You do," said her mother, quietly. "One who has been just as faithful to duty, just as much of a hero in his small way as Ben. Who said the same thing, 'In all things now, I must take father's place behind the plough,' and who has done it, too, so faithfully and well that he has lifted a great burden from his mother's heart, and made living easier for all the family."
"Why, mamma, do I know him? Was it somebody in Plainsville? What was his name?"
"John Alwyn Ware," said her mother, with a smile, although her lips trembled.
"John Alwyn Ware," repeated Mary, with a puzzled expression. "Why, that was papa's name, and you said that he was a boy that I knew."