Chapter 2

"A remnant of witchcraft!" remarked a soldier within hearing.

"Do I look like a witch?" she demanded.

"If you do," replied Major Pitcairn, "I admire New England witches, and never would condemn one to be hung, or burned, or--smothered."

Martha Moulton never wore so brilliant a color on her aged cheeks as at that moment. She felt bitter shame at the ruse she had attempted, but silver spoons were precious, and, to escape the smile that went around at Major Pitcairn's words, she was only too glad to go again to the well and dip slowly the high, over-hanging sweep into the cool, clear, dark depth below.

During this time the cold, frosty morning spent itself into the brilliant, shining noon.

You know what happened at Concord on that 19th of April in the year 1775. You have been told the story, how the men of Acton met and resisted the king's troops at the old North Bridge, how brave Captain Davis and minute-man Hosmer fell, how the sound of their falling struck down to the very heart of mother earth, and caused her to send forth her brave sons to cry "Liberty, or Death!"

And the rest of the story; the sixty or more barrels of flour that the king's troops found and struck the heads from, leaving the flour in condition to be gathered again at nightfall, the arms and powder that they destroyed, the houses they burned; all these, are they not recorded in every child's history in the land?

While these things were going on, for a brief while, at mid-day, Martha Moulton found her home deserted. She had not forgotten poor, suffering, irate Uncle John in the regions above, and, so, the very minute she had the chance, she made a strong cup of catnip tea (the real tea, you know, was brewing in Boston harbor).

She turned the buttons, and, with a bit of trembling at her heart, such as she had not felt all day, she ventured up the stairs, bearing the steaming peace-offering before her.

Uncle John was writhing under the sharp thorns and twinges of his old enemy, and in no frame of mind to receive any overtures in the shape of catnip tea; nevertheless, he was watching, as well as he was able, the motions of the enemy. As she drew near he cried out:

"Look out this window, and see! Much GOOD all your scheming will do YOU!"

She obeyed his command to look, and the sight she then saw caused her to let fall the cup of catnip tea and rush down the stairs, wringing her hands as she went and crying out:

"Oh, dear! what shall I do? The house will burn and the box up garret. Everything's lost!"

Major Pitcairn, at that moment, was on the green in front of her door, giving orders.

Forgetting the dignified part she intended to play, forgetting everything but the supreme danger that was hovering in mid-air over her home--the old house wherein she had been born, and the only home she had ever known--she rushed out upon the green, amid the troops, and surrounded by cavalry, and made her way to Major Pitcairn.

"The town-house is on fire!" she cried, laying her hand upon the commander's arm.

He turned and looked at her. Major Pitcairn had recently learned that the task he had been set to do in the provincial towns that day was not an easy one; that, when hard pressed and trodden down, the despised rustics, in home-spun dress, could sting even English soldiers; and thus it happened that, when he felt the touch of Mother Moulton's plump little old fingers on his military sleeve, he was not in the pleasant humor that he had been, when the same hand had ministered to his hunger in the early morning.

"Well, what of it? LET IT BURN! We won't hurt you, if you go in the house and stay there!"

She turned and glanced up at the court-house. Already flames were issuing from it. "Go in the house and let it burn, INDEED!" thought she. "He knows me, don't he? Oh, sir! for the love of Heaven won't you stop it?" she said, entreatingly.

"Run in the house, good mother. That is a wise woman," he advised.

Down in her heart, and as the very outcome of lip and brain she wanted to say, "You needn't 'mother' me, you murderous rascal!" but, remembering everything that was at stake, she crushed her wrath and buttoned it in as closely as she had Uncle John behind the door in the morning, and again, with swift gentleness, laid her hand on his arm.

He turned and looked at her. Vexed at her persistence, and extremely annoyed at intelligence that had just reached him from the North Bridge, he said, imperiously, "Get away! or you'll be trodden down by the horses!"

"I CAN'T go!" she cried, clasping his arm, and fairly clinging to it in her frenzy of excitement. "Oh stop the fire, quick, quick! or my house will burn!"

"I have no time to put out your fires," he said, carelessly, shaking loose from her hold and turning to meet a messenger with news.

Poor little woman! What could she do? The wind was rising, and the fire grew. Flame was creeping out in a little blue curl in a new place, under the rafter's edge, AND NOBODY CARED. That was what increased the pressing misery of it all. It was so unlike a common country alarm, where everybody rushed up and down the streets, crying "Fire! fire! f-i-r-e!" and went hurrying to and fro for pails of water to help put it out. Until that moment the little woman did not know how utterly deserted she was.

In very despair, she ran to her house, seized two pails, filled them with greater haste than she had ever drawn water before, and, regardless of Uncle John's imprecations, carried them forth, one in either hand, the water dripping carelessly down the side breadths of her fair silk gown, her silvery curls tossed and tumbled in white confusion, her pleasant face aflame with eagerness, and her clear eyes suffused with tears.

Thus equipped with facts and feeling, she once more appeared to Major Pitcairn.

"Have you a mother in old England?" she cried. "If so, for her sake, stop this fire."

Her words touched his heart.

"And if I do--?" he answered.

"THEN YOUR JOHNNY-CAKE ON MY HEARTH WON'T BURN UP," she said, with a quick little smile, adjusting her cap.

Major Pitcairn laughed, and two soldiers, at his command, seized the pails and made haste to the court-house, followed by many more.

For awhile the fire seemed victorious, but, by brave effort, it was finally overcome, and the court-house saved.

At a distance Joe Devins had noticed the smoke hovering like a little cloud, then sailing away still more like a cloud over the town; and he had made haste to the scene, arriving in time to venture on the roof, and do good service there.

After the fire was extinguished, he thought of Martha Moulton, and he could not help feeling a bit guilty at the consciousness that he had gone off and left her alone.

Going to the house he found her entertaining the king's troopers with the best food her humble store afforded.

She was so charmed with herself, and so utterly well pleased with the success of her pleading, that the little woman's nerves fairly quivered with jubilation; and best of all, the blue stocking was still safe in the well, for had she not watched with her own eyes every time the bucket was dipped to fetch up water for the fire, having, somehow, got rid of the vow she had taken regarding the drawing of the water.

As she saw the lad looking, with surprised countenance, into the room where the feast was going on, a fear crept up her own face and darted out from her eyes. It was, lest Joe Devins should spoil it all by ill-timed words.

She made haste to meet him, basket in hand.

"Here, Joe," she said, "fetch me some small wood, there's a good boy."

As she gave him the basket she was just in time to stop the rejoinder that was issuing from his lips.

In time to intercept his return she was at the wood-pile.

"Joe," she said, half-abashed before the truth that shone in the boy's eyes, "Joe," she repeated, "you know Major Pitcairn ordered the fire put out, TO PLEASE ME, because I begged him so, and, in return, what CAN I do but give them something to eat. Come and help me."

"I won't," responded Joe. "Their hands are red with blood. They've killed two men at the bridge."

"Who's killed?" she asked, trembling, but Joe would not tell her. He demanded to know what had been done with Uncle John.

"He's quiet enough, up-stairs," she replied, with a sudden spasm of feeling that she HAD neglected Uncle John shamefully; still, with the day, and the fire and everything, how could she help it? but, really, it did seem strange that he made no noise, with a hundred armed men coming and going through the house.

At least, that was what Joe thought, and, having deposited the basket of wood on the threshold of the kitchen door, he departed around the corner of the house. Presently he had climbed a pear-tree, dropped from one of its overhanging branches on the lean-to, raised a sash and crept into the window.

Slipping off his shoes, heavy with spring-mud, he proceeded to search for Uncle John. He was not in his own room; he was not in the guest-chamber; he was not in any one of the rooms.

On the floor, by the window in the hall, looking out upon the green, he found the broken cup and saucer that Martha Moulton had let fall. Having made a second round, in which he investigated every closet and penetrated into the spaces under beds, Joe thought of the garret.

Tramp, tramp went the heavy feet on the sanded floors below, drowning every possible sound from above; nevertheless, as the lad opened the door leading into the garret, he whispered cautiously: "Uncle John! Uncle John!"

All was silent above. Joe went up, and was startled by a groan. He had to stand a few seconds, to let the darkness grow into light, ere he could see; and, when he could discern outlines in the dimness, there was given to him the picture of Uncle John, lying helpless amid and upon the nubbins that had been piled over his strong box.

"Why, Uncle John, are you dead?" asked Joe, climbing over to his side.

"Is the house afire?" was the response.

"House afire? No! The confounded red-coats up and put it out."

"I thought they was going to let me burn to death up here!" groaned Uncle John.

"Can I help you up?" and Joe proffered two strong hands, rather black with toil and smoke.

"No, no! You can't help me. If the house isn't afire, I'll stand it till the fellows are gone, and then, Joe you fetch the doctor as quick as you can."

"YOU can't get a doctor for love nor money this night, Uncle John. There's too much work to be done in Lexington and Concord to-night for wounded and dying men; and there'll be more of 'em too afore a single red-coat sees Boston again. They'll be hunted down every step of the way. They've killed Captain Davis, from Acton."

"You don't say so!"

"Yes, they have, and--"

"I say, Joe Devins, go down and do-do something. There's my niece, a-feeding the murderers! I'll disown her. She shan't have a penny of my pounds, she shan't!"

Both Joe and Uncle John were compelled to remain in inaction, while below, the weary little woman acted the kind hostess to His Majesty's troops.

But now the feast was spent, and the soldiers were summoned to begin their painful march. Assembled on the green, all was ready, when Major Pitcairn, remembering the little woman who had ministered to his wants, returned to the house to say farewell.

'Twas but a step to her door, and but a moment since he had left it, but he found her crying; crying with joy, in the very chair where he had found her at prayers in the morning.

"I would like to say good-by," he said; "you've been very kind to me to-day."

With a quick dash or two of the dotted white apron (spotless no longer) to her eye, she arose. Major Pitcairn extended his hand, but she folded her own closely together, and said:

"I wish you a pleasant journey back to Boston, sir."

"Will you not shake hands with me before I go?"

"I can feed the enemy of my country, but shake hands with him, NEVER!"

For the first time that day, the little woman's love of country seemed to rise triumphant within her, and drown every impulse to selfishness; or was it the nearness to safety that she felt? Human conduct is the result of so many motives that it is sometimes impossible to name the compound, although on that occasion Martha Moulton labelled it "Patriotism."

"And yet I put out the fire for you," he said.

"For your mother's sake, in old England, it was, you remember, sir."

"I remember," said Major Pitcairn, with a sigh, as he turned away.

"And for HER sake I will shake hands with you," said Martha Moulton.

So he turned back, and across the threshold, in presence of the waiting troops, the commander of the expedition to Concord, and the only woman in the town, shook hands at parting.

Martha Moulton saw Major Pitcairn mount his horse; heard the order given for the march to begin,--the march of which you all have heard. You know what a sorry time the Red-coats had of it in getting back to Boston; how they were fought at every inch of the way, and waylaid from behind every convenient tree-trunk, and shot at from tree-tops, and aimed at from upper windows, and beseiged from behind stone walls, and, in short, made so miserable and harassed and overworn, that at last their depleted ranks, with the tongues of the men parched and hanging, were fain to lie down by the road-side and take what came next, even though it might be death. And then THE DEAD they left behind them!

Ah! there's nothing wholesome to mind or body about war, until long, long after it is over, and the earth has had time to hide the blood, and send it forth in sweet blooms of liberty, with forget-me-nots springing thick between.

The men of that day are long dead. The same soil holds regulars and minute-men. England, who over-ruled, and the provinces, that put out brave hands to seize their rights, are good friends to-day, and have shaken hands over many a threshold of hearty thought and kind deeds since that time.

The tree of Liberty grows yet, stately and fair, for the men of the Revolution planted it well and surely. God himself HATH given it increase. So we gather to-day, in this our story, a forget-me-not more, from the old town of Concord.

When the troops had marched away, the weary little woman laid aside her silken gown, resumed her homespun dress, and immediately began to think of getting Uncle John down-stairs again into his easy chair; but it required more aid than she could give to lift the fallen man. At last Joe Devins summoned returning neighbors, who came to the rescue, and the poor nubbins were left to the rats once more.

Joe climbed down the well and rescued the blue stocking, with its treasures unharmed, even to the precious watch, which watch was Martha Moulton's chief treasure, and one of very few in the town.

Martha Moulton was the heroine of the day. The house was beseiged by admiring men and women that night and for two or three days thereafter; but when, years later, she being older, and poorer, even to want, petitioned the General Court for a reward for the service she rendered in persuading Major Pitcairn to save the court-house from burning, there was granted to her only fifteen dollars, a poor little forget-me-not, it is true, but JUST ENOUGH to carry her story down the years, whereas, but for that, it might never have been wafted up and down the land.

Sweep, sweep, sweep! Up all this dirt and dust, For Mamma is busy today and help her I surely must. Everything now is spick and span; away to my play I will run. It will be such a 'sprise to Mamma to find all this work is done.

THE CONQUEST OF FAIRYLAND.

There reigned a king in the land of Persia, mighty and great was he grown, On the necks of the kings of the conquered earth he builded up his throne.

There sate a king on the throne of Persia; and he was grown so proud That all the life of the world was less to him than a passing cloud.

He reigned in glory: joy and sorrow lying between his hands. If he sighed a nation shook, his smile ripened the harvest of lands.

He was the saddest man beneath the everlasting sky, For all his glories had left him old, and the proudest king must die.

He who was even as God to all the nations of men, Must die as the merest peasant dies, and turn into earth again.

And his life with the fear of death was bitter and sick and accursed, As brackish water to drink of which is to be forever athirst.

The hateful years rolled on and on, but once it chanced at noon The drowsy court was thrilled to gladness, it echoed so sweet a tune.

Low as the lapping of tile sea, as the song of the lark is clear, Wild as the moaning of pine branches; the king was fain to hear.

"What is the song, and who is the singer?" he said; "before the throne Let him come, for the songs of the world are mine, and all but this are known."

Seven mighty kings went out the minstrel man to find: And all they found was a dead cyprus soughing in the wind.

And slower still, and sadder still the heavy winters rolled, And the burning summers waned away, and the king grew very old;

Dull, worn, feeble, bent; and once he thought, "to die Were rest, at least." And as he thought the music wandered by.

Into the presence of the king, singing, the singer came, And his face was like the spring in flower, his eyes were clear as flame.

"What is the song you play, and what the theme your praises sing? It is sweet; I knew not I owned a thing so sweet," said the weary king.

"I sing my country," said the singer, "a land that is sweeter than song." "Which of my kingdoms is your country? Thither would I along."

"Great, O king, is thy power, and the earth a footstool for thy feet; But my country is free, and my own country, and oh, my country is sweet!"

As he heard the eyes of the king grew young and alive with fire "Lo, is there left on the earth a thing to strive for, a thing to desire?

"Where is thy country? tell me, O singer, speak thine innermost heart! Leave thy music! speak plainly! Speak-forget thine art!"

The eyes of the singer shone as he sang, and his voice rang wild and free As the elemental wind or the uncontrollable sobs of the sea.

"O my distant home!" he sighed; "Oh, alas! away and afar I watch thee now as a lost sailor watches a shining star.

"Oh, that a wind would take me there! that a bird would set me down Where the golden streets shine red at sunset in my father's town!

"For only in dreams I see the faces of the women there, And fain would I hear them singing once, braiding their ropes of hair.

"Oh, I am thirsty, and long to drink of the river of Life, and I Am fain to find my own country, where no man shall die."

Out of the light of the throne the king looked down: as in the spring The green leaves burst from their dusky buds, so was hope in the eyes of the king.

"Lo," he said, "I will make thee great; I will make thee mighty in sway Even as I; but the name of thy country speak, and the place and the way."

"Oh, the way to my country is ever north till you pass the mouth of hell, Past the limbo of dreams and the desolate land where shadows dwell.

"And when you have reached the fount of wonder, you ford the waters wan To the land of elves and the land of fairies, enchanted Masinderan."

The singer ceased; and the lyre in his hand snapped, as a cord, in twain; And neither lyre nor singer was seen in the kingdom of Persia again.

And all the nobles gazed astounded; no man spoke a word Till the old king said: "Call out my armies; bring me hither a sword!"

As a little torrent swollen by snows is turned to a terrible stream, So the gathering voices of all his countries cried to the king in his dream.

Crying, "For thee, O our king, for thee we had freely and willingly died, Warriors, martyrs, what thou wilt; not that our lives betide

"The worth of a thought to the king, but rather because thy rod Is over our heads as over thine Is the changeless will of God.

"Rather for this we beseech thee, O master, for thine own sake refrain From the blasphemous madness of pride, from the fever of impious gain."

"You seek my death," the king thundered; "you cry, forbear to save The life of a king too old to frolic; let him sleep in the grave.

"But I will live for all your treason; and, by my own right hand! I will set out this day with you to conquer Fairyland."

Then all the nations paled aghast, for the battle to begin Was a war with God, and a war with death, and they knew the thing was sin.

Sick at heart they gathered together, but none denounced the wrong, For the will of God was unseen, unsaid, and the will of the king was strong.

So the air grew bright with spears, and the earth shook under the tread Of the mighty horses harnessed for battle; the standards flaunted red.

And the wind was loud with the blare of trumpets, and every house was void Of the strength and stay of the house, and the peace of the land destroyed.

And the growing corn was trodden under the weight of armed feet, And every woman in Persia cursed the sound of a song too sweet,

Cursed the insensate longing for life in the heart of a sick old man; But the king of Persia with all his armies marched on Masinderan.

Many a day they marched in the sun till their silver armour was lead To sink their bodies into the grave, and many a man fell dead.

And they passed the mouth of hell, and the shadowy country gray, Where the air is mist and the people mist and the rain more real than they.

And they came to the fount of wonder, and forded the waters wan, And the king of Persia and all his armies marched on Masinderan.

And they turned the rivers to blood, and the fields to a ravaged camp, And they neared the golden faery town, that burned in the dusk as a lamp.

And they stood and shouted for joy to see it stand so nigh, Given into their hands for spoil; and their hearts beat proud and high.

And the armies longed for the morrow, to conquer the shining town, For there was no death in the land, neither any to strike them down.

The hosts were many in numbers, mighty, and skilled in the strife, And they lusted for gold and conquest as the old king lusted for life.

And, gazing on the golden place, night took them unaware, And black and windy grew the skies, and black the eddying air

So long the night and black the night that fell upon their eyes, They quaked with fear, those mighty hosts; the sun would never rise.

Darkness and deafening sounds confused the black, tempestuous air, And no man saw his neighbor's face, nor heard his neighbor's prayer.

And wild with terror the raging armies fell on each other in fight, The ground was strewn with wounded men, mad in the horrible night

Mad with eternal pain, with darkness and stabbing blows Rained on all sides from invisible hands till the ground was red as a rose.

And, though he was longing for rest, none ventured to pause from the strife, Lest haply another wound be his to poison his hateful life

And the king entreated death; and for peace the armies prayed; But the gifts of God are everlasting, his word is not gainsaid;

Gold and battle are given the hosts, their boon is turned to a ban, And the curse of the king is to reign forever in conquered Masinderan. A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

Handy Spandy, Jack-a-Dandy, Loved plum cake and sugar candy; He bought some at a grocer's shop And out he come with a hop. hop, hop.