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“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 court-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 homespun 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!”