Our mother, while she turned her wheel,
Or run the new-knit stocking heel,
Told how the Indian hordes came down
At midnight on Cochico town.
Then haply, with a look more grave,
And soberer tone, some tale she gave
From painful Sewall's ancient tome,
Beloved in every Quaker home,
And faith fire-winged by martyrdom.
Of his sister Mary he says:—