Chapter IV (2)

Unfortunately there was no other door by which Brinton could leave the room. What was worse, there was no closet in which he could hide. The soldiers were now so close at hand that he could hear their voices, and a glance through the window showed him that two of them were going around to the back of the house, as if to cut off any possible escape in that direction.

And his mother would not be back until six o’clock. Instinctively his eyes sought the face of the tall time-piece in the corner. It was just three; and he could hear the soldiers’ steps on the front porch!

The clock!

Surely there was room within its generous case for a very small boy. In less time than it takes to write it Brinton was inside, and had turned the button with which the door was fastened. As he pressed himself close against the door, so that there should be room for the pendulum to swing behind him, he heard the corporal enter the room. He knew it must be the corporal, because he ordered the other man to go upstairs and look around there, while he searched the room on the other side of the hall.

Brinton could hear the footsteps of the men as they walked about the house, and their voices as they talked to each other. Then all was quiet for a long while. He was just on the point of peeping out when all four men entered the room.

“Well,” said a voice that he recognized as the corporal’s, “it is plain there is no one at ’ome. Me own himpression is that the bird’s flown. ’E’s probably started back for camp, and the wife and the kid with ’im. I don’t believe in payink no hattention to w’at them Tories says, nohow, goink back on their own neighbors--and kin, too, like as not. It’s just to curry favor with the hofficers, it’s me own hopinion. ’Ow did ’e know the Major was comink ’ome to-day, anyhow?”

Nobody answered him. Perhaps he didn’t expect any one to.

The Major! Brinton’s own father! He was coming home! This, then, was the surprise that his mother had said she would bring him when she went off with Towser in the morning to go to Colonel Shepard’s. And now those redcoats were going to sit there and wait until he came, and then--Brinton did not know what would happen, whether he would be shot on the spot, or merely put in prison for the rest of his life.

Oh, if he could only get out and run to meet his father and warn him! But the men seemed to give no signs of leaving the room.

“Perhaps he hasn’t come at all yet,” suggested one of the privates.

“Perhaps ’e hasn’t,” answered the voice of the corporal; “but w’y, then, wouldn’t his folks be ’ere a-waitink for ’im? ’Owever, I’ll give ’im hevery chance. It’s now five-and-twenty minutes after three. I’ll give ’im huntil six, but if ’e doesn’t turn hup by then, we’ll start away for the shore without ’im.”

“Six o’clock!” thought the boy in the clock. The very time his mother had told him she was going to be home again “with something very nice for him.” And now she and his brave papa would walk right into the arms of these dreadful English soldiers, and he could not stop them!

_Whang!_

What a noise! It startled Brinton so much that he nearly knocked the clock over; and then he realized that it was only the clock striking half-past three.

Half-past three! He had been in there only half an hour, and already he was so tired he could hardly stand up. How could he ever endure it until four, until half-past four, five, six?

“If only something, some accident even, will happen to detain papa and mamma!” he thought. But how much more likely, it occurred to him, that his father, having but a short leave of absence, would hasten, and arrive before six.

“Tick-tock,” went the clock.

“How slow, how very slow!” thought Brinton, and he wished there were only some way of hurrying up the time, so that the soldiers would go away.

Still the soldiers stayed in the room, all but one, who had gone into the kitchen to watch from there.

“Tick-tock,” went the clock, and “whang--whang--whang--whang!” Only four o’clock. Brinton began to fear that he could not hold out much longer.

“Tick-tock,” went the clock. Each swing of the pendulum marked one second, Brinton’s mother had told him. If he could only make it swing quicker, so that the seconds would fly a little faster!

“Why not try to?” Brinton was on the point of breaking down. He was desperate. He felt that he must do something. He took hold of the pendulum and gave it a little push. It yielded readily to his pressure. None of the soldiers seemed to notice it. He gave it another push. The result was the same. Brinton began to pick up courage, and he pushed the pendulum to and fro, to and fro, to and fro.

He tried to keep it swinging at a perfectly even rate, and apparently he succeeded. At any rate, the soldiers appeared to notice nothing different. Yet Brinton was sure that he was causing the old clock to tick off its seconds at a considerably livelier gait than usual. Half-past four came almost before he knew it, but by five o’clock Brinton began to realize that he was very, very tired. He had been standing two hours already in that cramped, dark, close case, and he had pushed the pendulum first with one hand and then with the other in that narrow space until both felt sore and lame. Yet now that he had once begun, he did not dare leave off, and still it did not seem possible that he could keep it up.

The soldiers had kept very quiet for a long time. Brinton thought that two of them must be napping.

At five o’clock the soldier who was awake aroused the corporal and the other private, whom the corporal sent to relieve the man on guard in the kitchen.

“I must ’ave slept mighty sound,” remarked the corporal. “I’d never believe I’d been asleep an hour, if I didn’t see it hon the clock.”

“No soigns av any wan yit,” reported the man who had been in the kitchen, whom Brinton judged to be an Irishman. “Be’s ye going to wait till six?”

“Yes,” answered the corporal. “But no longer.”

Then they began talking about the British fleet that was cruising in Long Island Sound, and about the ship on which they were temporarily quartered until they could join the main body of the army, and how a neighbor of Brinton’s father’s and mother’s had been down at the store when a ship’s boat had put in for water, and how he had told the officer in charge that Major Hall, Brinton’s father, was expected home for a few hours that day, and what a fine opportunity it would be to make an important capture.

The clock struck half-past five.

“H’m!” grunted the corporal. “It doesn’t seem that late; but, you know, you can’t tell anythink about anythink in this blarsted country.”

Brinton now began to be very much afraid that his father would come before the soldiers left. He wanted to move the pendulum faster and faster, but after what the corporal had said he did not dare to. Then, when the men lapsed into silence, it suddenly came over Brinton how dreadfully weary he was, how all his bones ached, and how much, how very much, he wanted to cry. But he felt that his father’s only chance of safety lay in his keeping the pendulum swinging to and fro, to and fro.

At last, however, came the welcome sound of the corporal’s voice bidding the men get ready to start.

Whang--whang--whang--whang--whang--whang!

“Fall in!” ordered the corporal. “Forward, march!”

As the sound of their footsteps died away, Brinton, all of a tremble, opened the door of the clock and stumbled out. He knelt at the window and watched the retreating forms of the redcoats. As they disappeared down the road he heard a noise behind him, and jumped up with a start.

There stood his father!

The next instant Brinton was sobbing in his arms.

Brinton’s mother came into the room. “Dear me!” she said; “what ever can be the matter with the clock? It’s half an hour fast.”

GENERAL GAGE AND THE BOSTON BOYS[R]

By SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE

A very short story, showing a British general’s admiration for
American boys who were not afraid to stand up for their rights.

Perhaps you have heard that even in these old times the Boston boys were in the habit of coasting on the Common. They would build hills of snow and slide swiftly down to the Frog Pond. Well, the English soldiers had their camps on the Common, and from mere love of mischief would, when the boys had gone to school, destroy their coasting-ground. Incensed at having their sport thus meanly prevented, a delegation of boys went to General Gage about it. When shown into his presence he asked, with surprise, why so many children had come to see him.

“We come, sir,” said the young spokesman, with a flushed face, “to ask a redress of our grievances.”

“What!” said the general, “have your fathers been teaching you rebellion, and sent you here to utter it?”

“Nobody sent us, sir,” replied the brave little fellow. “We have never injured or insulted your soldiers, but they have trodden down our snow-hills, and broken the ice on our skating-ground. We complained, and they called us young rebels, and told us to help ourselves if we could. Yesterday our works were destroyed for the third time, and now,” said the lad, with flashing eyes, “we will bear it no longer.”

General Gage looked at the boys with undisguised admiration. Then, turning to an officer who stood near, he exclaimed:

“Good heavens, the very children draw in a love of liberty with the air they breathe.” To the lads he then said:

“You may go, my brave boys; and be assured that if any of my troops hereafter molest you, they shall be severely punished.”

WASHINGTON AND THE SPY[S]

By JAMES FENIMORE COOPER

In this Revolutionary story of Cooper’s, the Spy was one of
Washington’s most faithful helpers. The following pages tell of their
last meeting, shortly before the close of the war.

The commencement of the year was passed, on the part of the Americans, in making great preparations, in conjunction with their allies, to bring the war to a close. In the south, Greene and Rawdon made a bloody campaign that was highly honorable to the troops of the latter, but which, by terminating entirely to the advantage of the former, proved him to be the better general of the two.

New York was the point that was threatened by the allied armies; and Washington, by exciting a constant apprehension for the safety of that city, prevented such reënforcements from being sent to Cornwallis as would have enabled him to improve his success.

At length, as autumn approached, every indication was given that the final moment had arrived.

The French forces drew near to the royal lines, passing through the Neutral Ground, and threatened an attack in the direction of Kingsbridge, while large bodies of Americans were acting in concert. By hovering around the British posts, and drawing nigh in the Jerseys, they seemed to threaten the royal forces from that quarter also. The preparations partook of the nature of both a siege and a storm. But Sir Henry Clinton, in the possession of intercepted letters from Washington, rested securely within his lines, and cautiously disregarded the solicitations of Cornwallis for succor.

It was at the close of a stormy day in the month of September that a large assemblage of officers was collected near the door of a building that was situated in the heart of the American troops, who held the Jerseys. The age, the dress, and the dignity of deportment of most of these warriors indicated them to be of high rank; but to one in particular was paid a deference and obedience that announced him to be of the highest. His dress was plain, but it bore the usual military distinctions of command. He was mounted on a noble animal, of a deep bay, and a group of young men, in gayer attire, evidently awaited his pleasure, and did his bidding. Many a hat was lifted as its owner addressed this officer; and when he spoke, a profound attention, exceeding the respect of mere professional etiquette, was exhibited on every countenance. At length the General raised his own hat, and bowed gravely to all around him. The salute was returned, and the party dispersed, leaving the officer without a single attendant, except his body-servants and one aide-de-camp. Dismounting, he stepped back a few paces, and for a moment viewed the condition of his horse with the eye of one who well understood the animal, and then, casting a brief but expressive glance at his aide, he retired into the building, followed by that gentleman.

On entering an apartment that was apparently fitted for his reception, he took a seat, and continued for a long time in a thoughtful attitude, like one in the habit of communing much with himself. During this silence the aide-de-camp stood in expectation of his orders. At length the General raised his eyes, and spoke in those low, placid tones that seemed natural to him:

“Has the man whom I wished to see arrived, sir?”

“He waits the pleasure of your Excellency.”

“I will receive him here, and alone, if you please.”

The aide bowed and withdrew. In a few minutes the door again opened, and a figure, gliding into the apartment, stood modestly at a distance from the General, without speaking. His entrance was unheard by the officer, who sat gazing at the fire, still absorbed in his own meditations. Several minutes passed, when he spoke to himself in an undertone:

“To-morrow we must raise the curtain, and expose our plans. May heaven prosper them!”

A slight movement made by the stranger caught his ear, and he turned his head, and saw that he was not alone. He pointed silently to the fire, toward which the figure advanced, although the multitude of his garments, which seemed more calculated for disguise than comfort, rendered its warmth unnecessary. A second mild and courteous gesture motioned to a vacant chair, but the stranger refused it with a modest acknowledgment. Another pause followed, and continued for some time. At length the officer arose, and opening a desk that was laid upon the table near which he sat, took from it a small but apparently heavy bag.

“Harvey Birch,” he said, turning to the stranger, “the time has arrived when our connection must cease; henceforth and forever we must be strangers.”

The peddler dropped the folds of the greatcoat that concealed his features, and gazed for a moment earnestly at the face of the speaker; then dropping his head upon his bosom, he said meekly:

“If it be your Excellency’s pleasure.”

“It is necessary. Since I have filled the station which I now hold, it has become my duty to know many men, who, like yourself, have been my instruments in procuring intelligence. You have I trusted more than all; I early saw in you a regard to truth and principle, that, I am pleased to say, has never deceived me--you alone know my secret agents in the city, and on your fidelity depend, not only their fortunes, but their lives.”

He paused, as if to reflect, in order that full justice might be done to the peddler, and then continued:

“I believe you are one of the very few that I have employed who have acted faithfully to our cause; and, while you have passed as a spy of the enemy, have never given intelligence that you were not permitted to divulge. To me and to me only of all the world, you seem to have acted with a strong attachment to the liberties of America.”

During this address Harvey gradually raised his head from his bosom, until it reached the highest point of elevation; a faint tinge gathered in his cheeks, and, as the officer concluded, it was diffused over his whole countenance in a deep glow, while he stood proudly swelling with his emotions, but with eyes that modestly sought the feet of the speaker.

“It is now my duty to pay you for these services; hitherto you have postponed receiving your reward, and the debt has become a heavy one--I wish not to undervalue your dangers: here are a hundred doubloons; you will remember the poverty of our country, and attribute to it the smallness of your pay.”

The peddler raised his eyes to the countenance of the speaker, but, as the other held forth the money, he moved back, as if refusing the bag.

“It is not much for your services and risks, I acknowledge,” continued the General, “but it is all that I have to offer; at the end of the campaign it may be in my power to increase it.”

“Does your Excellency think that I have exposed my life, and blasted my character, for money?”

“If not for money, what then?”

“What has brought your Excellency into the field? For what do you daily and hourly expose your precious life to battle and the halter? What is there about me to mourn, when such men as you risk their all for our country? No, no, no, not a dollar of your gold will I touch; poor America has need of it all!”

The bag dropped from the hand of the officer, and fell at the feet of the peddler, where it lay neglected during the remainder of the interview. The officer looked steadily at the face of his companion, and continued:

“There are many motives which might govern me that to you are unknown. Our situations are different; I am known as the leader of armies--but you must descend into the grave with the reputation of a foe to your native land. Remember that the veil which conceals your true character cannot be raised in years--perhaps never.”

Birch again lowered his face, but there was no yielding of the soul in the movement.

“You will soon be old; the prime of your days is already past; what have you to subsist on?”

“These!” said the peddler, stretching forth his hands that were already embrowned with toil.

“But those may fail you; take enough to secure a support to your age. Remember your risks and cares. I have told you that the characters of men who are much esteemed in life depend on your secrecy; what pledge can I give them of your fidelity?”

“Tell them,” said Birch, advancing, and unconsciously resting one foot on the bag, “tell them that I would not take the gold!”

The composed features of the officer relaxed into a smile of benevolence, and he grasped the hand of the peddler firmly.

“Now, indeed, I know you; and although the same reasons which have hitherto compelled me to expose your valuable life will still exist, and prevent my openly asserting your character, in private I can always be your friend; fail not to apply to me when in want or suffering, and so long as God giveth to me, so long will I freely share with a man who feels so nobly and acts so well. If sickness or want should ever assail you, and peace once more smile upon our efforts, seek the gate of him whom you have so often met as Harper, and he will not blush to acknowledge you in his true character.”

“It is little that I need in this life,” said Harvey; “so long as God gives me health and honest industry, I can never want in this country; but to know that your Excellency is my friend is a blessing that I prize more than all the gold of England’s treasury.”

The officer stood for a few moments in the attitude of intense thought. He then drew to him the desk, and wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, and gave it to the peddler.

“That Providence destines this country to some great and glorious fate I must believe, while I witness the patriotism that pervades the bosoms of her lowest citizens,” he said. “It must be dreadful to a mind like yours to descend into the grave, branded as a foe to liberty; but you already know the lives that would be sacrificed, should your real character be revealed. It is impossible to do you justice now, but I fearlessly intrust you with this certificate, should we never meet again, it may be serviceable to your children.”

“Children!” exclaimed the peddler; “can I give to a family the infamy of my name!”

The officer gazed with pain at the strong emotion he exhibited and he made a slight movement toward the gold; but it was arrested by the expression of his companion’s face. Harvey saw the intention, and shook his head, as he continued more mildly:

“It is, indeed, a treasure that your Excellency gives me; it is safe, too. There are men living who could say that my life was nothing to me, compared to your secrets. The paper that I told you was lost I swallowed when taken last by the Virginians. It was the only time I ever deceived your Excellency, and it shall be the last; yes, this is, indeed, a treasure to me; perhaps,” he continued, with a melancholy smile, “it may be known after my death who was my friend; but if it should not, there are none to grieve for me.”

“Remember,” said the officer, with strong emotion, “that in me you will always have a secret friend; but openly I cannot know you.”

“I know it, I know it,” said Birch; “I knew it when I took the service. ’Tis probably the last time I shall ever see your Excellency. May God pour down His choicest blessings on your head!” He paused, and moved toward the door. The officer followed him with eyes that expressed deep interest. Once more the peddler turned, and seemed to gaze on the placid but commanding features of the General with regret and reverence, and then, bowing low, he withdrew.

The armies of America and France were led by their illustrious commander against the enemy under Cornwallis, and terminated a campaign in triumph that had commenced in difficulties. Great Britain soon after became disgusted with the war; and the independence of the States was acknowledged.

THREE WASHINGTON ANECDOTES

Adapted from M. L. WEEMS

The original story of little George Washington and his hatchet,
together with two other doubtful anecdotes not so well known.

On a fine morning in the fall of 1737 Mr. Washington, taking little George by the hand, went to walk with him in the orchard, promising to show him a fine sight. On arriving at the orchard, a fine sight indeed was presented. The whole earth, as far as could be seen, was strewed with fruit, and yet the trees were bending under the weight of apples which hung in clusters like grapes, and vainly strove to hide their blushing cheeks behind the green leaves. “Now, George,” said his father, “look here, my son! Don’t you remember when a good cousin of yours brought you that fine large apple last spring, how hardly I could prevail on you to divide with your brothers and sisters; though I promised you that if you would but do it God Almighty would give you plenty of apples this fall?”

Poor George could not say a word, but hanging down his head, looked quite confused, while with his little naked toes he scratched in the soft ground. “Now look up, my son,” continued his father, “look up, George, and see there how richly the blessed God has made good my promise to you. Wherever you turn your eyes you see the trees loaded with fine fruit, many of them indeed breaking down; while the ground is covered with mellow apples, more than you could eat, my son, in all your lifetime.”

George looked in silence on the wide wilderness of fruit. He marked the busy humming bees, and heard the gay notes of birds; then, lifting his eyes filled with shining moisture, to his father, he softly said, “Well, Pa, only forgive me this time, and see if I ever be so stingy any more.”

* * * * *

When George was about six years old he was made the wealthy master of a _hatchet_, of which, like most little boys, he was immoderately fond; and was constantly going about chopping everything that came in his way. One day, in the garden, where he often amused himself hacking his mother’s pea-sticks, he unluckily tried the edge of his hatchet on the body of a beautiful young English cherry tree, which he barked so terribly that I don’t believe the tree ever got the better of it. The next morning, the old gentleman, finding out what had befallen his tree, which, by the by, was a great favorite, came into the house; and with much warmth asked for the mischievous author, declaring at the same time that he would not have taken five guineas for his tree. Nobody could tell him anything about it. Presently George and his hatchet made their appearance. “George,” said his father, “do you know who killed that beautiful little cherry tree yonder in the garden?” This was a tough question, and George staggered under it for a moment; but quickly recovered himself, and looking at his father, with the sweet face of youth brightened with the inexpressible charm of all-conquering truth, he bravely cried out, “I can’t tell a lie, Pa, you know I can’t tell a lie. I did cut it with my hatchet.”

“Run to my arms, you dearest boy,” cried his father; “such an act in my son is worth more than a thousand trees, though blossomed with silver, and their fruits of purest gold.”

* * * * *

To startle George into a lively sense of his Maker, his father fell upon the following very curious but impressive expedient:

One day he went into the garden and prepared a little bed of finely pulverized earth, on which he wrote George’s name at full, in large letters, then strewing in plenty of cabbage seed, he covered them up, and smoothed all over nicely with the roller. This bed he purposely prepared close alongside a gooseberry walk, which happening at this time to be well hung with ripe fruit, he knew would be honored with George’s visits pretty regularly every day. Not many mornings had passed away before in came George, with eyes wild rolling and his little cheeks ready to burst with great news.

“Oh, Pa! come here, come here!”

“What’s the matter, my son? What’s the matter?”

“Oh, come here, I tell you, Pa: come here, and I’ll show you such a sight as you never saw in all your lifetime!”

The old gentleman, suspecting what George would be at, gave him his hand, which he seized with great eagerness, and tugging him along through the garden, led him point blank to the bed whereon was inscribed, in large letters, and in all the freshness of newly sprung plants, the full name of

GEORGE WASHINGTON

“There, Pa!” said George, quite in an ecstasy of astonishment, “did you ever see such a sight in all your lifetime?”

“Why, it seems like a curious affair, sure enough, George!”

“But, Pa, who did make it there? Who did make it there?”

“It grew there by chance, I suppose, my son.”

“By chance, Pa! Oh, no! no! It never did grow there by chance, Pa. Indeed that it never did!”

“Why not, my son?”

“Why, Pa, did you ever see anybody’s name in a plant bed before?”

“Well, but George, such a thing might happen, though you never saw it before.”

“Yes, Pa; but I did never see the little plants grow up so as to make one single letter of my name before. Now, how could they grow up so as to make _all_ the letters of my name, and then standing one after another, to spell _my_ name so exactly, and all so neat and even, too, at top and bottom! Oh, Pa, you must not say chance did all this. Indeed, _somebody_ did it; and I dare say now, Pa, _you_ did it just to scare me, because I am your little boy.”

His father smiled, and said, “Well, George, you have guessed right. I indeed did it; but not to scare you, my son, but to teach you a great thing which I wish you to understand. I want, my son, to introduce you to your true Father.”

“Aye! I know well enough whom you mean, Pa. You mean God Almighty, don’t you?”

“Yes, my son, I mean Him indeed. He is your true Father, George, and as my son could not believe that chance had made and put together so exactly the letters of his name (though only sixteen) then how can he believe that chance could have made and put together all those millions and millions of things that are now so exactly fitted to his good.”

WHEN GEORGE THE THIRD WAS KING[T]

By ELBRIDGE S. BROOKS

How a Philadelphia boy watched the Declaration of Independence in the
making and celebrated the first Fourth of July on the Eighth.

Philadelphia in July! Not even the most loyal boy or girl of that good old Quaker town but must admit that Philadelphia in July _is_ a hot place.

“Warm and sunshiny,” were the words that Mr. John Nixon, in his daily journal for the year 1776, placed against the early days of July, but I am inclined to think that young Joe Nixon was nearer the fact when he called it “broiling hot.”

Very possibly, however, this slight exaggeration on the part of young Joe was due to the fact that he was very busy and therefore very warm. Not that he had anything of especial importance to do. Not always those who are busiest have the most to do; but you see there was a great deal to hear and see in Philadelphia town in the early days of July in the year 1776 and young Joe Nixon, like a true American boy, felt it his duty to be on hand when anything of importance was on foot.

And so he was continually on the go between his uncle’s big house on the Water Street, the room of the Committee of Inspection on Second Street, the parade-ground of the “Quaker Blues” on the city common, and the big brick State House on Chestnut Street.

For young Joe Nixon was a privileged character and duly felt his importance. His uncle, Mr. John Nixon, was a member of the Committee of Safety, and better still, young Joe was a particular favorite of Mr. David Rittenhouse who “had charge of the public clock in the State House Square.” This put him on good terms with a still more influential acquaintance--the doorkeeper of the Continental Congress, then in daily session in the Assembly chamber of the State House.

Young Joe was a quick-witted lad and like all the rest of the race of boys dearly loved to watch and listen even though he could not always understand. Seated by the side of his friend the doorkeeper, he found it very interesting and sometimes highly exciting to follow the proceedings of the bewigged and earnest gentlemen who were talking, discussing, and sometimes getting quite angry with one another on the floor of the Congress. Joe only knew in a general sort of way what all this talk and discussion meant. But one thing he was certain of, as were all the boys and girls in the colonies--and that was that there was a “jolly row” on hand between the colonies and the King. He knew, too, that, away off toward Boston-town there had been two or three fights with the King’s soldiers, in which the troops of the colonies by no means had the worst of it. And he knew, most of all, that it was mightily hard just now for a boy to get hold of anything new or nice to eat or to wear or to play with and that, somehow, this was all the fault of King George the Third, and that the colonies did not propose to stand this sort of thing any longer.

So he had made the most of his acquaintance with the doorkeeper of the Congress and had witnessed most of the important events that had taken place during that lovely Philadelphia June.

He had looked with all the awe of a small boy of twelve upon the fifty or more gentlemen--the delegates to the Congress--who, representing the thirteen colonies, were ranged in a half-circle on either side of Mr. Hancock, the President. But I think he admired, even more, the “elegant standard, suspended in the Congress Room,” over the door of entrance at which he sat with his friend the doorkeeper, and which was “a yellow flag with a lively representation of a rattlesnake in the middle in the attitude of going to strike, and these words underneath: ‘Don’t tread on me!’”

He had been in the Congress Room so often that he knew most of the delegates by sight and name: that gentleman in the big chair behind the heavy mahogany table and the great silver inkstand--the gentleman with the scarlet coat and the black velvet breeches--was Mr. John Hancock, the President of the Congress--“Rosy John,” the Tory boys called him, much to young Joe’s ireful indignation; that gentleman in the long-waisted white cloth coat, scarlet vest and breeches, and white silk hose, was Mr. Jefferson of Virginia; that gentleman in the long buff coat and embroidered silk vest was, as of course every Philadelphia boy knew, the great Doctor Franklin; and there, too, were Mr. Adams and Mr. Gerry of Massachusetts, Mr. Sherman of Connecticut, Mr. Clinton of New York, Mr. Stockton of New Jersey, Mr. Carroll of Maryland, Mr. Lee of Virginia, Mr. Rutledge of South Carolina, and many others whose faces and whose voices had now grown familiar. Even his boyish mind, thoughtless of the present and careless of the future though it was, had felt the excitement of the moment when on Friday, June 7th, Mr. Richard Henry Lee of the Virginia colony had risen in his place and, “amidst breathless silence,” had read to the Congress this notable resolution:

“_Resolved_, that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States, that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved.”

Then Mr. John Adams of Massachusetts seconded the resolution, Mr. Thomson, the secretary, made the official entry in the Journal, the Congress, with but few words, postponed its consideration until the next day, and young Joe Nixon adjourned with the delegates, like them, half-dazed and half-jubilant.

So, through the long June days, the Congress argued and debated and hesitated while young Joe Nixon--a true type of the restless Young America that is ever in a hurry for action and results--watched and wished and wondered, not thinking of what might be in the future save that King George was to be thrown overboard and the colonies were to set up for a Nation.

At last, on June 28th, a committee, consisting of Mr. Jefferson of Virginia, Mr. Adams of Massachusetts, Doctor Franklin of Pennsylvania, Mr. Sherman of Connecticut, and Mr. Livingston of New York, presented to the Congress a long paper which young Joe understood was called a Declaration of Independence. And although he thought it was splendid and full of the most mightily strong blows against King George, much to the lad’s disgust the Congress did not seem to go into ecstasies over it, but hummed and hawed and deliberated until July 2d, when Mr. Lee’s original resolution was put to vote, carried by the voice of every colony except New York, and the United Colonies were declared to be Free and Independent States.

Young Joe Nixon, had he dared, would have tossed his little three-cornered hat in the air with a loud hurrah, but the gentlemen of the Congress he thought seemed strangely quiet about it all. He did not see what their wiser heads comprehended, that the vote of the Congress on that second of July meant years of struggle against a mighty power--sorrow and privation and, perhaps, after all, only defeat and, to the leaders, the disgraceful death of traitors. He saw only the glowing colors of victory and excitement as young folks are apt to, and as it is right they should.

And yet that very night, as the Congress adjourned, portly Mr. John Adams, with whom the lad was quite a favorite, noticed the ill-concealed exultation of the boy and laying a hand upon his head said to him: “A great day this, my young friend; a great day, is it not?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” replied young Joe with energy, “I’m so glad it passed, sir.”

“And so am I, my lad,” said Mr. Adams, with almost equal enthusiasm; “you are a bright and seemly little lad and will not soon forget this day, I’ll be bound. So mark my words, my lad. The second of July, 1776, will be the most memorable day in all the history of America. It will be celebrated ere you grow to manhood, and by succeeding generations, as the great anniversary festival, commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty, from one end of the continent to the other, from this time forward for evermore.”

“Yes, sir,” said Joe most respectfully. He did not comprehend all the meaning of Mr. Adams’s solemn words, but he was quite as confident as was that gentleman that it was a day the anniversaries of which would mean in future plenty of fun and jubilee.

Good Mother Nixon could get but little work from her Joe on the following morning. And though, in her peaceful Quaker way, she bade him beware of too much glorying in all the strife and warfare that seemed afoot, I rather suspect that even her placid face flushed with quiet enthusiasm as she besought her boy to remember that right was always right, and that it was nobler and manlier to boldly face whatever might betide than to be as were some men in their Quaker town who, so she said, “loved too much their money and their ease, and did but make conscience a convenience, instead of being sincerely and religiously scrupulous of bearing arms.” All of which meant that there were some craven folk in that day of manly protest against tyranny who, to save themselves from annoyance, pretended to be Quakers and “non-combatants,” when they were only skulking cowards. And all such every honest Quaker utterly detested.

But young Joe Nixon, too full of the excitement of the moment, paid but little regard to his good mother’s words, inasmuch as they did not apply to his case; and, hot and panting, fearful lest he should miss something new, dashed up to the State House and slipped in beside his friend the doorkeeper.

The Congress was already in session. Mr. Jefferson’s paper called the “Declaration respecting Independence” had been again taken up for consideration, and was being soberly debated, paragraph by paragraph.

Frequent repetitions had made Joe familiar with some of the phrases in this remarkable paper. Even his young heart beat high as he heard some of those ringing sentences--about all men being created equal and being “endowed with the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”; how that “whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it”; that “the history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations,” that “a prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant is unfit to be the ruler of a free people”; that “we must, therefore, hold the British people, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends”; that “we, the representatives of the United States of America in general Congress assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare that these united colonies are and of right ought to be free and independent States”; and, lastly, that “for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor.”

Joe, as I have said, had felt his young heart glow and his young pulse beat under the enthusiasm of these ringing declarations and all this debating and questioning appeared to him as fearfully slow and faint-hearted; he wondered why, since the Congress had already passed Mr. Lee’s resolution of Independence, they should so hesitate over Mr. Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence; and, quite frequently, he felt compelled to dash out into the hot and sunny street and work off his impatience in a wild and purposeless “go-as-you-please” around what was called “Mr. Rittenhouse’s Observatory” in the centre of the square.

The day dragged on and so did the debate. Even Mr. Jefferson lost patience and, confessing that he was “writhing under” all this talk, needed all of Doctor Franklin’s philosophy and example to calm him down again. So it is not to be wondered at that, late in the afternoon, Joe Nixon, enthusiastic young patriot though he was, grew wearied with the talk and the delay and determined to go home. But just as he was leaving the building there dashed into the State House yard a big chestnut horse covered with foam and dust. Its rider, a fine, well-built man in dust-stained travelling cloak, sprang from the saddle and, dropping the bridle-rein into Joe’s ready hand with a quick, “Here, my lad, take my nag to the City Tavern stables, will you?” hurried without further words into the Congress room.

Joe’s impatience changed to burning curiosity again and, transferring his panting charge to another ready lad for attention, he, too, hurried into the hall and asked his friend the doorkeeper who this newcomer might be.

“Why, lad, ’tis Mr. Cæsar Rodney, don’t you know,” replied the doorkeeper. “The delegate from the Counties upon Delaware whom they sent for by special post only yesterday, since his colony is divided in action and his vote is needful to carry the Declaration through.”

“And did he ride from home to-day?” inquired Joe.

“Surely, boy,” said the doorkeeper, “clean from the County of Kent, eighty miles away. ’Twas a gallant day’s ride and a fair day’s work, for by it is independence won.”

It was even as he said. Rodney’s glorious ride secured the vote of Delaware for the Declaration and late that very night of Wednesday, the third of July, by a majority vote of the States--as the colonies now called themselves--the immortal paper that we know as the Declaration of Independence passed the Congress.

But before it was handed to the secretary to be engrossed, or copied so that it might be signed by all the delegates, Mr. Hancock, as president of the Congress, affixed to it his bold signature that we all now know so well. And young Joe Nixon had, actually, to stuff his hat into his mouth to stifle the hurrah that did so want to burst out when Mr. Hancock, rising from his seat, said in his most decided tones:

“There! John Bull can read my name without spectacles. Now let him double the price on my head, for _this_ is my defiance.”

Then the Congress adjourned and young Joe went home, completely tired out with the day’s anxiety and excitement. And though on that notable night of the third of July a nation had been born, Philadelphia lay quietly asleep knowing little or nothing of the great happening.

Next day--the first Fourth of July ever specially known to Americans--Joe was about the only privileged character who, slipping into the secret session heard, from his seat by the side of his friend the doorkeeper, the order given by Mr. Hancock as president of the Congress that “copies of the Declaration be sent to the several assemblies, conventions, and committees or Councils of Safety, and to the several commanding officers of the Continental troops; that it be proclaimed in each of the United States and at the head of the army.”

This was all that was done on the Fourth of July, 1776, as young Joe Nixon could testify. But the printed copies of the Declaration prepared for transmission to the several States and to the army and signed by Mr. Hancock, the president of the Congress, and by Mr. Thomson, the secretary, all bore the heading: “In Congress, July 4, 1776,” and thus that date has come down to us as the one to be especially remembered.

That very night Joe heard, at his uncle’s big house on the Water Street, that the Committee of Safety in Philadelphia--of which, as I have said, Mr. John Nixon was a member--had ordered that “the Sheriff of Philadelphia read or cause to be read and proclaimed at the State House, in the city of Philadelphia, on Monday the 8th day of July instant, at 12 o’clock at noon of this same day, the Declaration of the Representatives of the United States of America, and that he cause all his officers and the constables of the said city to attend to the reading thereof.”

Here was a new treat in store for young Joe; and when he learned that the Worshipful Sheriff had designated his uncle, Mr. John Nixon, as the reader, Joe knew that this meant a front seat for him and was appropriately jubilant.

The day came. Monday, the eighth of July, 1776. “A warm and sunshiny morning” again reads the truthful journal, and twelve o’clock, noon, must have been hot indeed. But not all the heat of a Philadelphia July could wither the ardor of such patriots as young Joe Nixon. He was therefore a very “live” portion of the procession which, forming at the hall of the Committee of Inspection in Second Street, joined the Committee of Safety at their lodge, and, to the stirring sounds of fife and drum, marched into the State House square. Out from the rear door of the State House came the Congress and other dignitaries and then, standing upon the balcony of Mr. Rittenhouse’s astronomical observatory just south of the State House, Mr. John Nixon in a voice both loud and clear read to the assembled throng the paper which declared the United States of America “Free and Independent.”

The reader concluded with the glorious words: “We mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor,” and, as his voice ceased, the listening throng, so the record says, “broke out into cheers and repeated huzzas.” Then the Royal arms were torn down from above the seats of the King’s Judges in the State House, and Joe, like a wild young Indian, danced frantically around the bonfire which destroyed these “insignia of Royalty.”

Again, at five o’clock, the Declaration was read to the troops then present in the town, and the evening was given up to bonfires and fireworks which you may be certain young Joe enjoyed to his full content.

And peal upon peal, sounding above all the shouts and the hurrahing, rang out loud and clear, at both the noon reading and the night’s celebration, the joyous clang of the big bell of the State House telling the glad tidings of freedom, as well befitted a bell on whose brazen rim men had read for twenty-four years the almost prophetic motto:

“_Proclaim liberty through all the land to all the inhabitants thereof._”

To his dying day Joe Nixon never forgot the glory and exultation of that jubilant first Independence Day--the eighth of July, 1776.

One other notable scene also lived long in his memory--a day and a date new to many of us who have always supposed that the Declaration of Independence was passed, signed, and proclaimed on the Fourth of July. It was the morning of Tuesday, the second of August, that same historic summer of 1776. From his customary seat by the doorkeeper Joe saw Mr. Thomson, the secretary of the Congress, lay upon the president’s table a great sheet of parchment. And on this sheet carefully and beautifully copied was the Declaration of Independence. Then, one by one, beginning with Mr. Hancock the president, the delegates to the Congress signed the great paper and by that act sent their names down to posterity--famous and honored forever.

Of the fifty-six signers of the Declaration not all affixed their names to the document on that notable second of August. Absentees and new-comers added their names as they joined the Congress, and not until the fourth day of November, 1776, was the last signature affixed.

Names and dates go for but little when a great deed is done. The deed itself is of more importance than either names or dates. But to us of this second century of the Republic there is both interest and pleasure in re-telling the story of liberty and following out by dates, altogether new to most of us, the real progress of the historic document that made us a nation.

Instead of one “Fourth of July,” you see, we have really four--The Second of July, upon which Mr. Lee’s Resolution of Independence was passed by the Congress; the Third of July, upon which the Declaration itself was passed; the Fourth of July which witnessed the order for its proclamation, and the Second of August upon which it was actually signed by the members of the Congress.

The original document to which these names were signed still exists, grown worn and yellow with age; the Liberty Bell that rang out the joyous news of freedom on the sunny noon and the starlit night of the eventful eighth of July is now cracked and voiceless; the signers themselves are now only names and memories; but their work lives in the power and glory of the great nation which they founded, and every true American girl and boy honors the memory and applauds the courage of those devoted men. And upon each recurring Fourth of July every girl and boy in the land is as joyous and jubilant a young patriot as was even young Joe Nixon when, with bonfire and rude, old-time fireworks, with hurrah and shout and song he celebrated, in the days when George the Third was king, the first Fourth of July on the Eighth.

THEIR FLAG DAY[U]

By HERBERT O. MCCRILLIS

A grandfather tells a group of patriotic little Americans how _his_
grandfather was a redcoat at Lexington.

Toot! Toot! Rub-a-dub-dub! came from down the street, and it made Grandpa Sturdy, who sat dozing in the sun, start up suddenly and look to see what gallant soldiers were coming.

First came Captain Tommy Rankin, acting as drum-major, with his sister’s muff worn for a fur hat, and an umbrella for a baton. Behind him came a troop of children wearing all sorts of military decorations--helmets, epaulets, and paper caps. One boy carried a large flag, and one of the girls was singing through a comb.

Grandpa rose and went out to the gate as they came near. Then, just as they came close, he took off his hat and gave them a military salute--for grandpa was a soldier once--and held up his hand for them to stop just a moment.

“Company, halt!” commanded Tommy, in a loud tone. “Parade, rest! Salute! Attention!” And they obeyed.

“What company is this?” said grandpa smilingly.

“We are the minute-men, grandpa,” said Tommy. “We are going out to Concord to keep Flag Day. Our teacher was going to have a celebration to-day, but she is sick, so we have made a procession, and are going to march by her house to show her how we can remember the flag.”

“That’s right,” said grandpa, saluting the flag. “I can do that if my grandfather was what we call a redcoat.”

“Your grandfather a redcoat?” cried all the boys in a breath. “Did he ever tell you anything about it?”

“Oh, yes, he told us about going to America to fight the rebels, and what a lot of British soldiers there were in Boston, who all laughed at the idea of the plain country farmers and workmen being able to fight the king’s own fine troops; and granddad thought so with all the rest, he said. Well, they found out that day that the rebels could fight, after all. Let me see, what day was that, boys?”

“April 19, 1775,” said Tommy, echoed by the others.