"Something about the Battle of Hampden?" Grandma took off her spectacles
and wiped them reflectively "It seems to me already I have told you
everything worth telling; but there!" in a sudden burst of recollection,
"did I ever tell you about Aunt Polly Shedd's Brigade? That was quite an
affair to those of us that belonged to it!"
"Oh, no! do tell us about it!" called out the three childish voices in
chorus; and Grandma only waited to knit by the seam needle.
"I've told you all about it so many times that I don't need to describe
again that dreadful morning when the British man-of-war came up the
river and, dropping her anchor just opposite our little village of
Hampden, sent troops ashore to take possession of the place in the
King's name. So what I am going to tell you now is how, and where, we
youngsters spent the three days that the British occupied our houses. I
was about twelve years old at the time. I remember that it was just as
we were getting up from the breakfast-table that one of our neighbors,
Sol Grant, old General Grant's youngest son, rushed in without knocking,
his face as white as a sheet, and his cap on hind-side before, and
called out hurriedly:
"'Mr. Swett, if you love your family, for God's sake find a place of
safety for 'em! The British are coming ashore--three boat-loads of 'em,
armed to the teeth--and they won't spare man, woman nor child!
"Mother's face grew very pale, but she stepped quietly around, with her
baby on her arm, close to where father was standing, and laid one hand
on his arm, while she said, in a firm, clear voice:
"'MY place is with you, Benjamin, but we must think of some place of
safety for the children. Where can they go?'
"Sol was just rushing out of the door as unceremoniously as he had
rushed in, but he stopped when he heard her ask that, long enough to
say:
"'I forgot to tell you that Aunt Polly Shedd will take all the children
put in her charge out to Old Gubtil's; that's so out of the way they
won't be disturbed, 'specially as the old man's a Tory himself.'
"Mother kissed us all round, with a smile on her face that couldn't
quite hide the tears with which her dear eyes were filled, and as she
hastily bundled us in whatever garment came to hand, she bade us be
good children, and make Aunt Polly and the Gubtils as little trouble as
possible. Then we followed father out-of-doors and into the school-house
yard where a score or more of children were already gathered--still
as mice for intense terror. Aunt Polly, in her big green calash, and
a pillow-case of valuables under one arm, was bustling to and fro,
speaking an encouraging or admonitory word, as the case might be, and
wearing upon her pinched, freckled little face such a reassuring smile
that I soon felt my own courage rise and, dashing back the tears that
had filled my eyes a moment before, I busied myself in pinning little
Sally's blanket more closely about her neck and setting the faded
sunbonnet upon the tangled curls that had not yet had their customary
morning's dressing.
"'Come, children,' called out Aunt Polly cheerily, 'you're all here now,
and we'll start right off. I'll go ahead, an' all you little ones had
best keep close to me; the bigger ones can come along behind.'
"Obedient to her order we started, following her steps across the road
by the beeches, and up by the grocery store where a crowd of excited men
were congregated, talking loudly with wild gesticulations, while farther
down, toward the shore, we could catch glimpses, through the thick
morning fog, of the blue uniforms of our militia company that had been
summoned in hot haste to defend the town. As we filed past, I remember I
heard one of the men on the grocery steps speak:
"'I tell you they won't leave one stone on another if they get
possession of the town, and they'll impress all the able-bodied men and
all the big boys into the King's service besides.'
"A cold shiver ran over me and I caught so hard at little Sally's hand
that the child cried out with pain, and Aunt Polly said anxiously:
"'Hurry up, dears! 'Tain't much more'n a mile out to Gubtil's, and
you'll have a good nice chance to rest after we get there.'
"Just then the martial music of a fife and drum announced the landing of
the enemy's troops, and I tell you it quickened the lagging footsteps
of even the youngest child into a run, and we just flew, helter-skelter,
over the rough, little-used road that led to the Gubtil farm. Aunt
Polly's gentle tones were unheeded. All she could do was to carry the
weakest in her arms over all the worst places, with a word of cheer, now
and then, to some child who was not too much frightened to heed it.
"What a haven of safety the low, unpainted old farm-house looked to us,
as we rushed, pell-mell, into the dooryard, never noticing, in our own
relief, the ungracious scowl with which the master and mistress of the
house regarded our advent.
"Aunt Polly soon explained matters, taking care to assure the
inhospitable pair that our parents would amply recompense them for the
trouble and expense we must, of course, be to them.
"The farmer held a whispered consultation with his wife, and I remember
well his harsh, loud tones as he came back to Aunt Polly:
"'They'll HAVE to stay, I s'pose; there don't seem no help for it now.
There's pertaters in the cellar, an' they can roast an' eat what they
want. I'll give 'em salt an' what milk an' brown bread they want, an'
that's what they'll have to live on for the present. As for housin' 'em,
the boys can sleep on the hay in the barn, an' the girls can camp down
on rugs an' comforters on the kitchen floor, that's the best I can do,
an' if they ain't satisfied they can go furder.'
"I remember just how he looked down at the troubled, childish faces
upturned to his own, as if half hoping we might conclude to wander
yet farther away from our imperilled homes; but Aunt Polly hastened to
answer:
"'Oh, we'll get along nicely with milk for the little ones, and potatoes
and salt for the big boys and girls, and we won't trouble you any more
nor any longer than we can help, Mr. Gubtil.'
"She stood upon the door-stone beside him as she spoke, a little,
bent, slightly deformed figure, with a face shrivelled and faded like a
winter-russet apple in spring-time, and a dress patched and darned
till one scarcely could tell what the original was like, in a striking
contrast to the tall, broad-shouldered, hale old man, whose iron frame
had defied the storms of more than seventy winters; but I remember how
he seemed to me a mere pigmy by the side of the generous, large-hearted
woman whose tones and gestures had a protectiveness, a strength born of
love and pity, that reassured us trembling little fugitives in spite of
our ungracious reception. We felt that Aunt Polly would take care of us,
let what would come.
"The hours dragged slowly away. Aunt Polly told us that the distant
firing meant that our men had not retreated without an effort to defend
the village. When this firing ceased, we began to watch and hope that
some message would come from our fathers and mothers. But none came. We
wondered among our little selves if they all had been put to death by
the British, and even the oldest among us shed some dreary tears.
"Dan Parsons, who was the biggest boy among us and of an adventurous
turn, went in the gathering twilight gloom down as near the village as
he dared. He came shivering back to us with such tales of vague horror
that our very hearts stopped beating while we listened.
"'I crep' along under the shadder of the alders and black-berry bushes,'
he began, ''til I got close ter De'con Milleses house. 'Twas as still
as death 'round there, but jest as I turned the corner by the barn I see
somethin' gray a-flappin' and a-flutterin' jest inside the barn door. I
stopped, kind o' wonderin' what it could be, when all at once I thought
I should 'a' dropped, for it came over me like a flash that it might
be'--
"'What, what, Dan?' cried a score of frightened voices; and Dan replied
solemnly:
"'THE OLD DEACON'S SKULP!'
"'Oh dear! oh dear!' sobbed the terrified chorus.
"Aunt Polly could do nothing with us; and little Dolly Miles, the
deacon's granddaughter, burst into a series of wild lamentations that
called Farmer Gubtil to the door to know the cause of the commotion.
"'What's all this hullabaloo about?' he asked crossly; and when he had
heard the story he seized Dan and shook him till his teeth chattered.
"'What do you mean by tellin' such stuff an' scarin' these young ones
ter death?' he demanded.
"Dan wriggled himself from his grasp and looked sulkily defiant:
"'I didn't say 'TWAS that,' he muttered. 'I said it MIGHT be, an'
p'r'aps 'twas; or it might 'a' been the deacon's old mare switchin' 'er
tail ter keep off the flies. I'm sure I don't know which 'twas. But
girls are always a-squealin' at nothin'.'
"And with this parting fling at us tearful ones, Dan turned in the
direction of the barn; but I was too anxious to hear from father and
mother to let him go without a word more. 'Dan,' I whispered with my
hand on his arm, 'did you see or hear anything of OUR folks?'
"'No!' was the rather grump reply; 'after what I saw at the deacon's I
didn't want ter ventur' furder, but from there I could see 'em lightin'
fires in the village, an' I don't doubt by this time that most o' the
houses is in flames.'
"With this comforting assurance Dan went off to his bed upon the haymow,
and I crept back into the house and laid my tired head down upon Aunt
Polly's motherly lap, where, between my sobs, I managed to tell what Dan
had told me.
"Aunt Polly laid a caressing hand upon my hair: 'La, child,' said she
soothingly, 'don't you worry yourself a bit over Dan Parson's stories.
That boy was BORN to tell stories. The Britishers are bad enough,
but they ain't heathen savages, an' if the town has surrendered, as I
calc'late it has, the settlers will be treated like prisoners o' war.
There won't be no sculpin' nor burnin' o' houses--no, dear. And now,'
giving me a little reassuring pat, 'you're all tired out, an' ought
ter be asleep. I'll make up a bed on this rug with a cushion under your
head, an' my big plaid shawl over you, an' you'll sleep jest as sound as
if you was ter home in your own trundle-bed.'
"Little Sally shared my rug and shawl, and Aunt Polly, gently refusing
the ungracious civility of the old couple, who had offered her the use
of their spare bedroom, after seeing every little, tired form made as
comfortable as possible with quilts and blankets from the farmwife's
stores, laid herself down upon the floor beside us, after commending
herself and us to the God she loved and trusted, raised her head and
spoke to us once more in her sweet, hopeful, quavering old tones:
"'Good night, dears! Go to sleep and don't be a bit afraid. I shouldn't
wonder if your folks come for you in the mornin'.'
"What comfort there was in her words! And even the very little ones, who
had never been away from their mothers a night before in their lives,
stopped their low sobbing and nestled down to sleep, sure that God and
Aunt Polly would let no harm come to them.
"The next day passed slowly and anxiously for us all. From a stray
traveller Aunt Polly learned that the village was still in the hands of
the British and--what was no little comfort to us--that no violence had
been done to the place or its inhabitants. Some of the older boys were
for venturing to return, but Aunt Polly held them back with her prudent
arguments. If their parents had considered it safe for them to come home
they would have sent for them. The British, she said, had been known to
impress boys, as well as men, into service, and the wisest way was to
keep out of their sight.
"The gentle, motherly advice prevailed, and even Dan Parsons contented
himself with climbing the tallest trees in the vicinity, from which
he could see the chimneys of several of the nearest houses. From these
pinnacles he would call out to us at intervals:
"'The smoke comin' out o' Deacon Mileses chimly has a queer look,
somethin' like burnin' feathers I shouldn't wonder a mite if them
Britishers was burnin' up his furnitoor! Sam Kelly's folks hain't had
a spark o' fire in their fireplace to-day. Poor critters! Mebbe there
ain't nobody left ter want one.'
"With these dismal surmises, Dan managed to keep our forlorn little
flock as uncomfortable as even he could wish; and as the second night
drew on, I suppose the homesickness of the smaller ones must have been
pitiful to see. Aunt Polly patted and cuddled the forlorn little things
to the best of her ability, but it was past midnight before the last
weary, sobbing baby was fairly asleep, while all night long one or
another would start up terrified from some frightful dream, to be
soothed into quiet by the patient motherly tenderness of their wakeful
protector.
"Next morning the brow of the farmer wore an ominous frown, and his
wife, as she distributed to each the scant measure of brown bread and
milk remarked, grudgingly, that she should think 'twas 'bout time that
her house was cleared of a crowd o' hungry, squallin' young ones; and
then Mr. Gubtil took out his account-book and wrote down the name of
each child, with an estimate of the amount of bread, milk and potatoes
consumed by each. He did this with the audible remark that 'if folks
thought he was a-feedin' an' a-housin' their young ones for nothin'
they'd find themselves mightily mistaken.'
"The third morning dragged slowly away. Dinner was over and still no
message for us forlorn little ones. At last Aunt Polly slowly arose
from her seat upon the doorstep, with the light of a strong, courageous
resolve on her little face.
"Children!' she called loudly, and after we had gathered at her call,
she spoke to us with an encouraging smile:
"'I've made up my mind that 'twon't be best for us to stay here another
night. We're in the way, and the little ones would be better off at home
with their mothers. We know that the fightin' is all over, and I don't
believe the English soldiers'll be bad enough to hurt a lot o' little
helpless children, 'specially if they're under a flag o' truce.'
"Here she drew a handkerchif from her pocket. This she fastened
carefully to a stick. Then putting it into the hands of my brother Ben,
a well-grown lad of twelve, she went on with her directions:
"'We'll form in procession, just as we came, and you, Benjie, may march
at the head with this white flag a-wavin' to let them know that we come
in peace. I'll follow next with the biggest boys, and the girls, with
the little ones, must keep behind where it's safest.'
"Perhaps it was the contagion of Aunt Polly's cheerful courage, but
more likely it was the blessed hope of seeing home and father and mother
again, that made the little folks so prompt to obey her directions. We
formed ourselves in line in less time than it takes to tell about it;
we elder girls took charge of the wee ones who were so rejoiced to leave
the inhospitable roof of the Gubtils' that they forgot all their fears
of the terrible English, and trotted along as blithely over the deserted
road as if not a fear had ever terrified their childish hearts, and as
if English soldiers were still simply those far-off monsters that had
served as bugbears to frighten them now and then into obedience to
maternal authority.
"The Gubtils watched us off without a word of encouragement or
friendliness. Aunt Polly walked close behind the flag-bearer with a
firm step, but I could see that she was very pale, and when we came to
descend the little hill that led into the village, and when just at
its foot, where then stood the grocery of old Penn Parker, we caught a
glimpse of the scarlet uniforms of several soldiers loafing about--then
even we children could see that her steps faltered; and I remember I
thought she was fearful of some violence.
"But the next moment she was walking steadily along again as if no
thought of danger or retreat had ever entered her mind; and as we came
opposite the grocery and
and wiped them reflectively "It seems to me already I have told you
everything worth telling; but there!" in a sudden burst of recollection,
"did I ever tell you about Aunt Polly Shedd's Brigade? That was quite an
affair to those of us that belonged to it!"
"Oh, no! do tell us about it!" called out the three childish voices in
chorus; and Grandma only waited to knit by the seam needle.
"I've told you all about it so many times that I don't need to describe
again that dreadful morning when the British man-of-war came up the
river and, dropping her anchor just opposite our little village of
Hampden, sent troops ashore to take possession of the place in the
King's name. So what I am going to tell you now is how, and where, we
youngsters spent the three days that the British occupied our houses. I
was about twelve years old at the time. I remember that it was just as
we were getting up from the breakfast-table that one of our neighbors,
Sol Grant, old General Grant's youngest son, rushed in without knocking,
his face as white as a sheet, and his cap on hind-side before, and
called out hurriedly:
"'Mr. Swett, if you love your family, for God's sake find a place of
safety for 'em! The British are coming ashore--three boat-loads of 'em,
armed to the teeth--and they won't spare man, woman nor child!
"Mother's face grew very pale, but she stepped quietly around, with her
baby on her arm, close to where father was standing, and laid one hand
on his arm, while she said, in a firm, clear voice:
"'MY place is with you, Benjamin, but we must think of some place of
safety for the children. Where can they go?'
"Sol was just rushing out of the door as unceremoniously as he had
rushed in, but he stopped when he heard her ask that, long enough to
say:
"'I forgot to tell you that Aunt Polly Shedd will take all the children
put in her charge out to Old Gubtil's; that's so out of the way they
won't be disturbed, 'specially as the old man's a Tory himself.'
"Mother kissed us all round, with a smile on her face that couldn't
quite hide the tears with which her dear eyes were filled, and as she
hastily bundled us in whatever garment came to hand, she bade us be
good children, and make Aunt Polly and the Gubtils as little trouble as
possible. Then we followed father out-of-doors and into the school-house
yard where a score or more of children were already gathered--still
as mice for intense terror. Aunt Polly, in her big green calash, and
a pillow-case of valuables under one arm, was bustling to and fro,
speaking an encouraging or admonitory word, as the case might be, and
wearing upon her pinched, freckled little face such a reassuring smile
that I soon felt my own courage rise and, dashing back the tears that
had filled my eyes a moment before, I busied myself in pinning little
Sally's blanket more closely about her neck and setting the faded
sunbonnet upon the tangled curls that had not yet had their customary
morning's dressing.
"'Come, children,' called out Aunt Polly cheerily, 'you're all here now,
and we'll start right off. I'll go ahead, an' all you little ones had
best keep close to me; the bigger ones can come along behind.'
"Obedient to her order we started, following her steps across the road
by the beeches, and up by the grocery store where a crowd of excited men
were congregated, talking loudly with wild gesticulations, while farther
down, toward the shore, we could catch glimpses, through the thick
morning fog, of the blue uniforms of our militia company that had been
summoned in hot haste to defend the town. As we filed past, I remember I
heard one of the men on the grocery steps speak:
"'I tell you they won't leave one stone on another if they get
possession of the town, and they'll impress all the able-bodied men and
all the big boys into the King's service besides.'
"A cold shiver ran over me and I caught so hard at little Sally's hand
that the child cried out with pain, and Aunt Polly said anxiously:
"'Hurry up, dears! 'Tain't much more'n a mile out to Gubtil's, and
you'll have a good nice chance to rest after we get there.'
"Just then the martial music of a fife and drum announced the landing of
the enemy's troops, and I tell you it quickened the lagging footsteps
of even the youngest child into a run, and we just flew, helter-skelter,
over the rough, little-used road that led to the Gubtil farm. Aunt
Polly's gentle tones were unheeded. All she could do was to carry the
weakest in her arms over all the worst places, with a word of cheer, now
and then, to some child who was not too much frightened to heed it.
"What a haven of safety the low, unpainted old farm-house looked to us,
as we rushed, pell-mell, into the dooryard, never noticing, in our own
relief, the ungracious scowl with which the master and mistress of the
house regarded our advent.
"Aunt Polly soon explained matters, taking care to assure the
inhospitable pair that our parents would amply recompense them for the
trouble and expense we must, of course, be to them.
"The farmer held a whispered consultation with his wife, and I remember
well his harsh, loud tones as he came back to Aunt Polly:
"'They'll HAVE to stay, I s'pose; there don't seem no help for it now.
There's pertaters in the cellar, an' they can roast an' eat what they
want. I'll give 'em salt an' what milk an' brown bread they want, an'
that's what they'll have to live on for the present. As for housin' 'em,
the boys can sleep on the hay in the barn, an' the girls can camp down
on rugs an' comforters on the kitchen floor, that's the best I can do,
an' if they ain't satisfied they can go furder.'
"I remember just how he looked down at the troubled, childish faces
upturned to his own, as if half hoping we might conclude to wander
yet farther away from our imperilled homes; but Aunt Polly hastened to
answer:
"'Oh, we'll get along nicely with milk for the little ones, and potatoes
and salt for the big boys and girls, and we won't trouble you any more
nor any longer than we can help, Mr. Gubtil.'
"She stood upon the door-stone beside him as she spoke, a little,
bent, slightly deformed figure, with a face shrivelled and faded like a
winter-russet apple in spring-time, and a dress patched and darned
till one scarcely could tell what the original was like, in a striking
contrast to the tall, broad-shouldered, hale old man, whose iron frame
had defied the storms of more than seventy winters; but I remember how
he seemed to me a mere pigmy by the side of the generous, large-hearted
woman whose tones and gestures had a protectiveness, a strength born of
love and pity, that reassured us trembling little fugitives in spite of
our ungracious reception. We felt that Aunt Polly would take care of us,
let what would come.
"The hours dragged slowly away. Aunt Polly told us that the distant
firing meant that our men had not retreated without an effort to defend
the village. When this firing ceased, we began to watch and hope that
some message would come from our fathers and mothers. But none came. We
wondered among our little selves if they all had been put to death by
the British, and even the oldest among us shed some dreary tears.
"Dan Parsons, who was the biggest boy among us and of an adventurous
turn, went in the gathering twilight gloom down as near the village as
he dared. He came shivering back to us with such tales of vague horror
that our very hearts stopped beating while we listened.
"'I crep' along under the shadder of the alders and black-berry bushes,'
he began, ''til I got close ter De'con Milleses house. 'Twas as still
as death 'round there, but jest as I turned the corner by the barn I see
somethin' gray a-flappin' and a-flutterin' jest inside the barn door. I
stopped, kind o' wonderin' what it could be, when all at once I thought
I should 'a' dropped, for it came over me like a flash that it might
be'--
"'What, what, Dan?' cried a score of frightened voices; and Dan replied
solemnly:
"'THE OLD DEACON'S SKULP!'
"'Oh dear! oh dear!' sobbed the terrified chorus.
"Aunt Polly could do nothing with us; and little Dolly Miles, the
deacon's granddaughter, burst into a series of wild lamentations that
called Farmer Gubtil to the door to know the cause of the commotion.
"'What's all this hullabaloo about?' he asked crossly; and when he had
heard the story he seized Dan and shook him till his teeth chattered.
"'What do you mean by tellin' such stuff an' scarin' these young ones
ter death?' he demanded.
"Dan wriggled himself from his grasp and looked sulkily defiant:
"'I didn't say 'TWAS that,' he muttered. 'I said it MIGHT be, an'
p'r'aps 'twas; or it might 'a' been the deacon's old mare switchin' 'er
tail ter keep off the flies. I'm sure I don't know which 'twas. But
girls are always a-squealin' at nothin'.'
"And with this parting fling at us tearful ones, Dan turned in the
direction of the barn; but I was too anxious to hear from father and
mother to let him go without a word more. 'Dan,' I whispered with my
hand on his arm, 'did you see or hear anything of OUR folks?'
"'No!' was the rather grump reply; 'after what I saw at the deacon's I
didn't want ter ventur' furder, but from there I could see 'em lightin'
fires in the village, an' I don't doubt by this time that most o' the
houses is in flames.'
"With this comforting assurance Dan went off to his bed upon the haymow,
and I crept back into the house and laid my tired head down upon Aunt
Polly's motherly lap, where, between my sobs, I managed to tell what Dan
had told me.
"Aunt Polly laid a caressing hand upon my hair: 'La, child,' said she
soothingly, 'don't you worry yourself a bit over Dan Parson's stories.
That boy was BORN to tell stories. The Britishers are bad enough,
but they ain't heathen savages, an' if the town has surrendered, as I
calc'late it has, the settlers will be treated like prisoners o' war.
There won't be no sculpin' nor burnin' o' houses--no, dear. And now,'
giving me a little reassuring pat, 'you're all tired out, an' ought
ter be asleep. I'll make up a bed on this rug with a cushion under your
head, an' my big plaid shawl over you, an' you'll sleep jest as sound as
if you was ter home in your own trundle-bed.'
"Little Sally shared my rug and shawl, and Aunt Polly, gently refusing
the ungracious civility of the old couple, who had offered her the use
of their spare bedroom, after seeing every little, tired form made as
comfortable as possible with quilts and blankets from the farmwife's
stores, laid herself down upon the floor beside us, after commending
herself and us to the God she loved and trusted, raised her head and
spoke to us once more in her sweet, hopeful, quavering old tones:
"'Good night, dears! Go to sleep and don't be a bit afraid. I shouldn't
wonder if your folks come for you in the mornin'.'
"What comfort there was in her words! And even the very little ones, who
had never been away from their mothers a night before in their lives,
stopped their low sobbing and nestled down to sleep, sure that God and
Aunt Polly would let no harm come to them.
"The next day passed slowly and anxiously for us all. From a stray
traveller Aunt Polly learned that the village was still in the hands of
the British and--what was no little comfort to us--that no violence had
been done to the place or its inhabitants. Some of the older boys were
for venturing to return, but Aunt Polly held them back with her prudent
arguments. If their parents had considered it safe for them to come home
they would have sent for them. The British, she said, had been known to
impress boys, as well as men, into service, and the wisest way was to
keep out of their sight.
"The gentle, motherly advice prevailed, and even Dan Parsons contented
himself with climbing the tallest trees in the vicinity, from which
he could see the chimneys of several of the nearest houses. From these
pinnacles he would call out to us at intervals:
"'The smoke comin' out o' Deacon Mileses chimly has a queer look,
somethin' like burnin' feathers I shouldn't wonder a mite if them
Britishers was burnin' up his furnitoor! Sam Kelly's folks hain't had
a spark o' fire in their fireplace to-day. Poor critters! Mebbe there
ain't nobody left ter want one.'
"With these dismal surmises, Dan managed to keep our forlorn little
flock as uncomfortable as even he could wish; and as the second night
drew on, I suppose the homesickness of the smaller ones must have been
pitiful to see. Aunt Polly patted and cuddled the forlorn little things
to the best of her ability, but it was past midnight before the last
weary, sobbing baby was fairly asleep, while all night long one or
another would start up terrified from some frightful dream, to be
soothed into quiet by the patient motherly tenderness of their wakeful
protector.
"Next morning the brow of the farmer wore an ominous frown, and his
wife, as she distributed to each the scant measure of brown bread and
milk remarked, grudgingly, that she should think 'twas 'bout time that
her house was cleared of a crowd o' hungry, squallin' young ones; and
then Mr. Gubtil took out his account-book and wrote down the name of
each child, with an estimate of the amount of bread, milk and potatoes
consumed by each. He did this with the audible remark that 'if folks
thought he was a-feedin' an' a-housin' their young ones for nothin'
they'd find themselves mightily mistaken.'
"The third morning dragged slowly away. Dinner was over and still no
message for us forlorn little ones. At last Aunt Polly slowly arose
from her seat upon the doorstep, with the light of a strong, courageous
resolve on her little face.
"Children!' she called loudly, and after we had gathered at her call,
she spoke to us with an encouraging smile:
"'I've made up my mind that 'twon't be best for us to stay here another
night. We're in the way, and the little ones would be better off at home
with their mothers. We know that the fightin' is all over, and I don't
believe the English soldiers'll be bad enough to hurt a lot o' little
helpless children, 'specially if they're under a flag o' truce.'
"Here she drew a handkerchif from her pocket. This she fastened
carefully to a stick. Then putting it into the hands of my brother Ben,
a well-grown lad of twelve, she went on with her directions:
"'We'll form in procession, just as we came, and you, Benjie, may march
at the head with this white flag a-wavin' to let them know that we come
in peace. I'll follow next with the biggest boys, and the girls, with
the little ones, must keep behind where it's safest.'
"Perhaps it was the contagion of Aunt Polly's cheerful courage, but
more likely it was the blessed hope of seeing home and father and mother
again, that made the little folks so prompt to obey her directions. We
formed ourselves in line in less time than it takes to tell about it;
we elder girls took charge of the wee ones who were so rejoiced to leave
the inhospitable roof of the Gubtils' that they forgot all their fears
of the terrible English, and trotted along as blithely over the deserted
road as if not a fear had ever terrified their childish hearts, and as
if English soldiers were still simply those far-off monsters that had
served as bugbears to frighten them now and then into obedience to
maternal authority.
"The Gubtils watched us off without a word of encouragement or
friendliness. Aunt Polly walked close behind the flag-bearer with a
firm step, but I could see that she was very pale, and when we came to
descend the little hill that led into the village, and when just at
its foot, where then stood the grocery of old Penn Parker, we caught a
glimpse of the scarlet uniforms of several soldiers loafing about--then
even we children could see that her steps faltered; and I remember I
thought she was fearful of some violence.
"But the next moment she was walking steadily along again as if no
thought of danger or retreat had ever entered her mind; and as we came
opposite the grocery and