Through New England the church and town clocks struck: Seven. The land was peaceful as death. The hour passed. The lazy clocks began to strike: Eight.
In a village north of New Bedford stood a little crowd of farmers, gathered around the general store and listening to the sheriff. He was warning them that they must not attempt to resist the invading troops when they came.
“I know that you—and you,” said he, pointing to men as he spoke, “brought arms with you. You’d better give them up to me.”
“And you an American!” growled one of the men. The sheriff did not retort. He was scarcely past middle age; but there was a great, slow patience in his face that made him look old.
He shook his head and said: “It’s only for your own sake.”
The Modern Paul Revere
“Look!” cried a farmer. “Who is coming here?”
The man who was coming was a man on a motorcycle. Man and machine were so coated with dust, were speeding so desperately, that even without war in the land one would stare at this flying thing, one would wait with eyes and lips open to learn what startling message it was carrying.
Man, roaring motor, and their brother pillar of dust crashed by. They had disappeared before the breathless watchers realized that the man had waved an arm at them and had screamed: “Soldiers!”
A farmer ran to his wagon and pulled out a rifle from its hiding place under the wagon-seat. “Come on, boys!” he said.