Putnam was a lusty man at this time, in middle life. He wore homespun made from his own flocks. His great farm among the hills had been developed until it was made sufficient to support a large family and many work-people. He raised his own beef, pork, corn, grain, apples and fruit, and poultry. His family made their own butter and cheese; his wife wove the clothing for all; spun her own yarn. The manor farm might have been isolated for a hundred years, and yet thrift would have gone on.
No one was ever more self-supporting than the old-time thrifty New England farmer. His farm was more independent than a baron’s castle in feudal days.
He “put off” his butter, cheese and eggs, or bartered them for “West India goods”; but even in these things he might have been independent, for his maple-trees might have yielded him sugar, and roasted crusts and nuts a nutritious substitute for coffee and tea.
Putnam drove away his sheep, stopping at post-houses by the way, and telling some merry and some thrilling stories there of the wild campaign of the north, and of his escapes from the Indians under Pontiac.
He arrived at Boston and was welcomed by the patriot Warren.
A British officer faced him.
“And you have come down here,” said the British officer, “to contend against England’s arm with a lot of sheep. If you rebels do not cease your opposition, do you want to know what will happen?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty ships of the line and twenty regiments will be landed at the port of Boston.”