BY C. H. WOODMAN.
IN 1776, the eastern end of Long Island was over-run with the English troops and mercenaries. There was no security to life or property: everything was at the mercy of the wicked Hessians.
At this time there was living on the island, and not far from New York, a Quaker by the name of Pattison. Henry Pattison, the father, was one of the strictest of the sect; of a noble, generous nature, a kind neighbor, and a wise councilor. He was universally loved and revered. He won the name of the Peace-Maker.
He owned a fine farm, and was growing wealthy, when the war came and sad days settled down upon the community.
Mother Pattison was the true type of the Quaker wife and mother. Under her tidy white cap beamed the placid, tender face which is so common among these pure-hearted people, and her skillful advice and winning words of consolation were often heard in the house of the sick and afflicted. Eight sturdy boys, and one little sweet, timid flower of a daughter, blessed this good couple, and made their home one of happiness and love.
Edmund, the oldest son, was a handsome, manly lad of eighteen. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat, his quiet “thee” and “thou,” beat a fiery and fearless heart that often broke through the mild Quaker training and made him, notwithstanding his peace principles, a leader among his fellows.
One day, as he sat in the barn, quietly enjoying his noonday rest, a British trooper rode up to the door. Seeing Edmund he shouted:
“Come, youngster, make haste and stir yourself. Go and help my driver there unload that cart of timber into the road!”