A TALE OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND.
A century ago on the post-road to Boston, and sixteen miles from the city of New York, stood a tavern called the Old Stone Jug. It was a one-story building of dark-colored stone, with a single window fronting upon the highway—a quaint, lozenge-shaped window, of thick, dingy glass, through which the sun’s rays penetrated with difficulty. The chimney, battered by two generations of northwest winds, sagged considerably to the south; a frowning rock rose close behind the house; and altogether the Old Stone Jug wore a sinister appearance, which tallied well with the stories told about it. A band of Indians had come in the night-time and massacred the first family who dwelt here; a peddler had been seen to enter the doorway and never been heard of afterwards; a cavern of fathomless depth was said to connect the cellar with the rock; and certain it is that no one who had made this spot his home had either remained long or prospered there, except Peter Van Alstyne—better known in the township of East Chester as Uncle Pete—who kept the tavern at the opening of the Revolution.
But he did well; the poorer his neighbors became, the more light-hearted did he grow and the richer, and all because the fox which prowleth about in the dark was not cunninger than Uncle Pete.
His wife was dead, but he had a daughter named Martha, who kept house for him, and whom he tenderly loved and strove to bring up in his own principles—namely, to be all things to all men. “For these are critical times,” he would say, “and who can tell, child, which side will win?”
Martha was just twenty years of age, and, if not what we might call a handsome girl, had something very attractive about her. She was tall and graceful and abounding in spirits. She knew everybody for miles around, and everybody knew her; and if the more knowing ones shook their heads and looked a little doubtful when they spoke of Van Alstyne, all agreed that Martha was a fine young woman.
The only member of the household besides herself and parent was a diminutive negro boy christened “Popgun.” And at the moment our tale begins Popgun is perched on the topmost limb of a wild-cherry tree hard by, Martha is in the kitchen making doughnuts, while the publican is standing in the middle of the road gazing up at the sign-board which hangs immediately above the entrance—and, considering that he painted it himself, ’tis not a bad work of art. Here we see King George with a crown on his head; at the royal feet crouches a lion, and around the two figures, in big red letters, are the words, “God save the King!”
He was still contemplating the features of his sovereign when a shrill voice cried down from the sky, “Be ready, sir.” In an instant Uncle Pete’s face lost its tranquil expression, and putting his hand to his ear, so as to catch well Popgun’s next warning note, he listened attentively.
In another minute came the voice again: “‘Lisha Williams, sir, on Dolly Dumplings.”
“Ho! Then I must be brisk, for the mare travels fast,” muttered Van Alstyne, hastening toward a ladder which lay a few yards off in readiness for these occasions. In less time than it takes to relate the sign-board was turned round, and, lo! in place of King George and the lion behold now George Washington, holding in his hand a flag whereon are thirteen stripes and thirteen stars, and circling the picture are the words, “God save our Liberties.”
“Child, here’s ‘Lisha coming,” shouted Uncle Pete, thrusting his head into the doorway.