 Chapter 34 of American History Stories, Volume 2. One of the saddest events of this sad year, 1778, was the massacre of Wyoming. Wyoming was a quiet little village in the Wyoming Valley along the Susquehanna River. These Wyoming settlers were very loyal people, hardly a family among them, but had sent a dear father or son to the army. All around them were the Tories who looked upon this peaceful little village with fierce hate. One summer evening these Tories got together six hundred Indians, and with howls and yells, shouts, and war-whoops, all swept down upon the little village. The women and children frightened, hurried within the walls of forty-forty the only stronghold they owned. One hardly dares to think how much more terrible still this might have been had not one Zebulun Butler, a brave young soldier, chance to come home on a furlough. He quickly mustered all the old men and boys into a little army. Then, finding their only hope lay in rushing forth to meet their foe in open field, they left the fort and went bravely out, led by their brave leader. It was a brief, deadly encounter. The foe five times their number broke savagely upon them. When at last the little band gave way, the Indians and the Tories, one hardly less bloodthirsty than the other, pursued them with unrelenting fury. There is no more brutal picture in all history than this massacre of the peaceful, loyal people of Wyoming. A description of it even is too horrible for children's ears, so we will ask you to read Campbell's poem of Gertrude of Wyoming. It is a famous poem, one you will often come across by and by, in your school life, and it is well you should remember that it has to do with the early history of your own people. 35 The Surrender of Burgoyne In this war of the Revolution you will always hear a great deal about the Surrender of Burgoyne and the Surrender of Cornwallis. These two British generals were at the head of large armies and had arranged most extensive plans for series of battles, which, had they been successful, would have ruined completely the American army. And instead of the grand history of independence, of progress and of growth which we now have, there would have been, I fear, a very sad ending for the Revolution, and a history sadder still of the years that followed. This general Burgoyne had been sent over from England with an army if picked men, great stores of firearms, and some of the finest brass cannon that had ever at that time been made. I fancy the colonist would have been much more afraid of this general and his soldiers had Burgoyne not done something, as soon as he reached this country, which was so ridiculous that it made the American officers and soldiers roar with laughter when they heard of it. You see, general Burgoyne was a very pompous sort of a man, much given to strutting and bragging. While he was in England he had written two or three comic plays for the theatre, and had, I suspect, quite a high opinion of his own composition. For as soon as ever he had settled himself here in America he wrote out a long, long proclamation, in which he talked to the colonist much as a big bully of a boy might talk to a very little boy. He promised a great many things to the Americans if they would lay down their arms and surrender at once, but if they did not there was no end to the awful things he threatened to do. He would destroy their cities, he would cut their throats, he would let the Indians loose upon them. Indeed, he would, judging from his threats, hardly leave the earth for them to walk upon. Now the colonists believed that the stillest waters run deepest, and so although Burgoyne was indeed a great general and had a powerful army the colonists were sharp enough to see that there was a great deal of wind and bluster about this Englishman after all. Then too he wound up this proclamation of his by signing his name with ten or fifteen big sounding titles, expecting the colonists would surely look with great reverence upon these. But the patriots had now outgrown any reverence they might once have had for English titles, and the newspapers all over the country made all sorts of fun of this proclamation, and said it was a bigger comedy than those he had written in England. Burgoyne's plan was to come down from Canada into New York State, get possession of the Hudson River, and sow him in the colonies of New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, that they would be compelled to surrender. As you already know Burgoyne felled in his plan in the end, but it was a terrible campaign for the patriots for all that, for Burgoyne engaged the Indians on his side, and wherever the Indians fought you know there was scalping and burning and murder on every side. At one time when General Herkimer was on his way with the company of about eight hundred patriots to help defend a poorly garrisoned fort, a party of these Indians aided by some cowardly Tories fell upon them and butchered them most savagely. Brave old General Herkimer fought like a tiger. When he had been shot in both legs and could no longer stand he sat down upon a stump still cheering his men on, while with the rifle he fired at the enemy as long as he could pull the trigger. At another time General Burgoyne sent a detachment of his men to attack the colonial army at Bennington. General Stark had just arrived there with an army from the New Hampshire militia. Now General Stark's wife Molly was a patriotic woman, and was well known and highly respected in her husband's army, and so when the British appeared General Stark said, boys the British are coming, there's a hard battle ahead. Beat them we must, or to-morrow morning Molly Stark will be a widow. It was indeed a close fight, but success attended the army of the General whose wife's name he had made the watchword. There was another terrible battle this time at Saratoga, in which General Gates exceeded in so breaking up Burgoyne's army that this proud British general was obliged to surrender. Both generals had fought bravely and skillfully, and although they were enemies in battle they respected each other as men. And when, after the surrender, Burgoyne gave up his sword to Gates he did so very courteously saying, the fortunes of war General Gates have made me your prisoner. General Gates, taking the sword, said with equal politeness, I shall always be glad to testify, General Burgoyne, that it was through no fault of yours that it happened so. I am afraid the newspapers again printed many jokes about the defeated Burgoyne as they recalled the extravagant threats he had made at the beginning of his campaign. These people too, in England, blamed him severely, which I think was rather unjust. For, in spite of all, he was a brave and skillful soldier. The only trouble was that he was on the wrong side of the truth, and the wrong side seldom succeeds in any battle. CHAPTER XXXVII At the very beginning Burgoyne was upset in his plans by a half-witted boy. To be sure, this was no credit to the boy, nor was it any discredit to Burgoyne. Still, in the latter days of the war, when Burgoyne had been conquered by the Americans and had been made to surrender, the colonists liked now and then to recall this little story as a joke. St. Ledger had been sent by Burgoyne to take a certain fort. Knowing this, Arnold was sent by the American General to hold the same fort against the attack. How the battle might have ended had Arnold and St. Ledger met, we cannot tell. But as the story goes, this is the way Arnold won the fort. He had with him a prisoner of a half-witted boy. He had been taken from some Tory family very likely, for he would not or could not understand that he was in the hands of the Whigs, and so would keep saying over and over in his foolish way, I Tory, I Tory. As the little fellow was homesick and miserable, Arnold was struck with the idea that perhaps he could make some use of him by offering him his freedom. So calling him to him, he said, My young lad, would you like to go home? The poor little fellow jumped about and uttered some strange sounds that meant to express his joy at the thought. Then Arnold explained to him that if he would go to the camp of St. Ledger and tell him that a great, big army of Americans was coming to attack him, he should be given his liberty. The boy understood, and away he went. He cut his clothes full of round holes to represent bullet holes, and rushed breathless into St. Ledger's camp. What is it, boy? Where are you from? Who are you? asked the British soldiers, frightened at his appearance. I cannot tell you how he did it, but he managed to make St. Ledger believe that a terrible army was bearing down upon him, and that he had better escape while he could. When St. Ledger asked him how many there were, he pointed to the leaves up the trees, as if to say no one could count them. The result was that St. Ledger and his men took to flight, not even taking time to take down their tents or pack their supplies. They say all things are fair in war. If so, I suppose this must have been fair. How does it seem to you, little boys and little girls? You will have to talk this over with your teacher, I think. CHAPTER XXXVIII. There was one brave patriot working away in the swampy country in South Carolina. This man was General Marion, and so wise was he and so brave, and succeeded in stealing such marches upon the enemies in this southern district, that he was called the Fox of the Southern Swamp. I shall not try to tell you of the successful raids he made and the successful battles he fought, because battles all sound pretty much alike to little folks, and you might grow tired of hearing them. If I can tell you of some of the stories of those times, which will help you to understand the kind of men and women these patriots were, how brave they were, and how much they were willing to suffer for the cause which seemed to them right. I know your teacher will be better satisfied than she would be to hear you repeat like parrots the names and dates of all the battles in our whole history. This General Marion had a camp in a swamp, among the forests entangled grasses and mosses, a place so hidden and so hard to enter that no one cared to attempt an attack upon him. From this place Marion and his men used to march forth to battle. At one time a British officer was brought into this camp to talk with Marion about some prisoners. After they had arranged matters, Marion invited the young officer to dine with him. The officer accepted, but when he was taken to the mess room and saw only a pine log for a table on which were heaped nothing but baked potatoes, he asked in astonishment. Is this all you have for dinner? This is all, answered General Marion, and we thought ourselves fortunate in having more potatoes than usual when we had a visitor to dine with us. You must have good pay to make up for such living, said the officer. On the contrary, answered Marion, I have never received a dollar, nor has one of my men. What on earth are you fighting for? For the love of liberty, answered the hero. The story says that the young officer went back to Charleston and resigned his position in the English army, saying he would not fight against men who fought from such motives and were willing to endure such hardships. End of Chapter 38 Chapter 39 of American History Stories, Volume 2 This looper-vox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 39 Song of Marion's Men Our band is few, but true and tried. Our leader Frank and Bold. The British soldier trembles when Marion's name is told. The fortress is the good greenwood, our tent the cypress tree. We know the forest round us, as seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, its glades of reedy grass, its safe and silent islands within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery that little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight a strange and sudden fear. When waking to their tents on fire they grasp their arms in vain, and they who stand to face us are beat to earth again, and they who fly in terror deem a mighty host behind, and hear the tramp of thousands upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release from danger and from toil. We talk the battle over and share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout as if a hunt were up, and woodland flowers were gathered to crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind that in the pin-top grieves, and slumbers sound and sweetly on beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon, the band that Marion leads, the glitter of their rifles, the scampering of their seeds, tis life to guide the fiery barb across the moonlit plain, tis life to fill the night wind that lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp, a moment and away, back to the pathless forest before the peep of day. Grave men they are by broad Santy, grave men with hoary hairs, their hearts are all with Marion, for Marion are their prayers, and lovely ladies greet our band with kindness welcoming, with smiles like those of summer and tears like those of spring. For them we wear these rusty arms and lay them down no more, till we have driven the Britons for ever from our shore. Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 40 The Women of South Carolina The women of South Carolina were not one step behind the men in bravery and patriotic spirit. In a certain battle at Cowpens, not a very romantic name, a certain General Tarleton was totally defeated by an American officer, Colonel Washington. Colonel Tarleton, who was, I think, not much of a gentleman, used to seize every opportunity to sneer at Colonel William Washington, whenever a certain patriotic woman, a great admirer of the brave young Washington, was present. Now as Tarleton bore a wound which young Washington had given him, and had, moreover, been chased like a puppy from the battlefield, one would think that Tarleton's good taste would have prevented him from saying much about it. But Tarleton had not very exquisite taste, I think. I should like to see this young friend of yours, said Tarleton one day to this lady. I hear he is a very common, mean-looking man. If you had taken time to look behind you at Cowpens, General Tarleton, you would have been sure to see him, returned the lady quickly. One would suppose, after this sharp reply, that General Tarleton would have said no more against Colonel Washington. But only a few days later, at a large dinner, at which this same lady was present, General Tarleton again said, I understand that this young Washington is a very ignorant man. I am told that he cannot even write his name. Possibly he cannot, said the lady, quick-witted as before. But, continued she, pointing to General Tarleton's wounded arm, he can make his mark as you yourself can testify. Another story is told of a South Carolina woman who had seven sons in the patriotic army. One day a British general stopped at her house and tried to show her how much better it would be for her sons if they would only join the British army. Join the British army, cried she, sooner than see one of my boys turn against his own country, would I go, this baby in my arms, and enlist under Marion's banner, and show my sons how to fight, and if need be, die, for the freedom of this land of ours. And these brave women of South Carolina not only encouraged their husbands and sons by brave words, but often acted the part of messengers in expeditions of trust and secrecy. Two brave women whose husbands were in the army, disguised themselves in the dress of men, and captured two British soldiers, compelled them to give up the messages they were carrying, and bore them to General Green, whose camp was not far distant. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of American History Stories, Vol. 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Vol. 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 41 Israel Putnam This brave general was born in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1718. He was only a farmer boy and so had very little chance to learn the many things about the wide, wide world that you boys and girls are learning every day. He was a plecty little fellow, though, and was the leader among the boys of his town in all sorts of things, mischief as well as other things, I have no doubt. At school he learned easily all there was to be taught him, and if he knew nothing but the three R's, that was not his fault, for that was all little folks were taught in those days. Do you know what people mean when they speak of the three R's? Perhaps I shall not tell you the story just right, but this is something like the way it is told. Once in a country village a school board was holding a meeting. One man, rather more educated than the rest, arose and said, I think, gentlemen, we might put a few more studies into our schools. I should like to see our boys and girls studying about the flowers and the stars. I should like to have them know about the different countries and the different people of this world. I move that a committee be appointed to see what can be done about making the course of study bigger and better and broader for our children. Then a hot discussion followed. One man said it was all bosh. Another said there was no need of knowing about countries or people that were thousands of miles away. Another said he had no money to waste on such foolishness. Another said the stars and flowers wouldn't help a boy to earn his bread and butter, half as much as potatoes and squashes would. At last one man arose and said, I don't care nothing about these newfangled notions and what's more I don't want to know about them. You and me was brought up in the district school where we learned our reading and writing and arithmetic. Mr. Chairman, move that we stick to the old way. The three R's was good enough for me and it's good enough for my boys. Yes, sir, the three R's. By that I mean reading and writing and arithmetic. Well, what has all this to do with Israel putting them? Not much, after all, perhaps, only to give you an idea of the kind of schools there used to be in those days. It was to this sort of school where they taught nothing but the three R's that Israel Putnam was sent to get his Larnan, as his old father used to call it. But as I said before he was a plucky boy and took the lead in all sorts of sports. He could climb like a squirrel, run like a hare, leap like a frog. He could, in short, do all sorts of things that boys admire to do. He was very generous and just, but he wouldn't take an insult from any other boy if he could help himself. One time, while he had a little lad, his father took him to Boston. As he stood admiring this new city, which to the little country boy looked so very, very big, another boy across the way caught out, Hello, country! Ain't it about time to milk the cows? Quick as a flash, the hot-headed lad fell upon the rude city boy and gave him a thrashing that lasted him for many a day. When Israel Putnam was a young man, living on a farm in Connecticut, he was very much troubled by wolf-thieving. Morning after morning he would find the number of his sheep and lambs lessened. His neighbors, too, often found their chickens and hens gone and only a few scattered feathers left to tell the story. One morning finding a lamb which was to the farmer the pride of his flock among the missing, he started forth, gun in hand. There is a time, said Israel to his neighbors, when even a wolf had better be taught that the way of transgressors is hard. I propose that we leave our farm-work for today and give this thief a good chase. Several of the farmers, ready I suspect for a good time, as well as anxious to catch the wolf, joined in a party. And with Israel, who was always full of dry, cute sayings, as we Yankees call it, at their head they started out. They were soon upon the track, and at last, with the aid of their keen-sinded dogs, found the wolf-sten. It was a deep hollow in a rock, the opening of which was so small that the farmers could only enter one by one, crawling on their hands and knees. Now we've lost him, said one farmer. Let's smoke him out, said another. So they built a fire of leaves and brush just inside the cave, but no wolf appeared. Set the dogs upon him, said another farmer, but the dogs came skulking out, yelping with pain. We're not going to be beaten in this way, said Putnam. I'll go in there myself, and so tying a rope round his legs that the men might draw him out, he crawled slowly in, his gun in one hand and a torch in the other. He soon saw the eyes of the wolf glaring at him from a corner of the cave. Bang! went the gun, and half blinded by the smoke and half deafened by the noise. Putnam was dragged out by the farmers. Reloading his gun, back he went and fired again, and again he was pulled out. For the third time he entered, and finding the animal was dead, he hauled her out by the ears while his companions pulled him by the rope round his legs. His clothes were all torn off his back and his face black with smoke and powder. But he had killed the wolf and kept her skin as a trophy. During the whole time of the revolution Israel Putnam was one of the foremost in every danger. After one battle he found that fourteen bullets had passed through his clothing, not one of which had injured him in the least. At another time when the fort was on fire he would not give up, but worked away at the burning timbers till his hands were burnt nearly to a crisp. At another time he was taken prisoner by the Indians and bound to a tree. The bullets and the arrows flew on every side of him. One officer shot at him for the fun of it, but neither bullet or arrow struck him, although many of them struck the tree to which he was bound. It seemed indeed as if he bore a charmed life. When the British began to land in New York, old Putt led one division of the Colonial Army out of the city by way of the Hudson River Road. He was to meet Washington not far up the river, and then together they intended to retreat. Now it happened that at just the time Putnam was going up the river road a British division was coming down. Mrs. Robert Murray, a good Quaker woman, who although she did not believe in war and fighting, was nevertheless a staunch friend of the colonists, learned of the danger and resolved to save General Putnam. The British Redcoats, marching nearer and nearer, came until her advanced guard were at her very gate. Going forth to meet them she saluted the officers and invited them to stop and eat lunch beneath her trees upon the lawn. The officers, tired and dusty with marching under the hot August sun, gladly accepted her seemingly generous hospitality. She brought forth fresh bread with sweet golden butter and gave them plenty of cold foaming milk to drink, cake and fruits, everything that her house or garden could afford. She talked with them, showed them about her mansion, and in every way attempted to keep them pleasantly occupied until she was sure General Putnam had passed in the road below. When at length the British division resumed its march, the sun had sunk nearer the west, the air was cooler, the men were refreshed and rested, and best of all General Putnam and his division had gone on far up the road and out of sight. At last toward the end of the war this daring general was taken very ill. So strong was his will that although helpless and often in great pain he lived on until the revolution was over. He was bold and daring, had no mercy on his enemy in battle, and when fighting fought as his soldiers used to say, like a very wildcat. Still, for all that, he was generous and had as kind a heart as ever beat. He was not ashamed to be gentle with his friends. Everyone who knew him loved him, and when at the good old age of seventy-two he died, he was mourned by all. Every honor was paid him by the country he had so loved and for which he had so bravely fought. CHAPTER 42 CHAPTER 42 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN One of the wisest men of the times was Benjamin Franklin. You have all heard about him, I presume. There are so many stories of his boyhood which no doubt you have read in your reading-book. He was a very poor boy, that is, as far as money goes, but he had something in his little head that made him richer than the richest boy that ever scampered with him across Boston Common. At ten years old he was taken from school to assist his father in his business of tallow candler and soap boiler. I was employed, he says, in cutting wicks for the candles, attending the shop and going on errands. Not liking this trade, however, Benjamin was apprenticed at the age of twelve to his brother James, a printer. Here he stayed for five years, but as he did not get along very well with his brother he determined to start out and seek his fortune. Here is an account of his journey as told by himself. My friend Collins agreed with the captain of a New York's loop for my passage to that city, so I sold some of my books to raise a little money, and as we had a fair wind, in three days I found myself in New York, near three hundred miles from home, a boy of but seventeen, without the least knowledge of any person in the place and with very little money in my pocket. I offered my service to the printer in the place, old Mr. William Bradford. He could give me no employment, having little to do, but says he, my son at Philadelphia has lately lost his principal man. If you go there, I believe he may employ you. Philadelphia was a hundred miles further. I set out, however, in a boat for Amboy, leaving my chest and things to follow me round the sea. From there I proceeded on foot, fifty miles to Burlington, where I was told I should find boats that would carry me the rest of the way to Philadelphia. It rained very hard all day. I was thoroughly soaked, and by noon a good deal tired, so I stopped at a port in, where I stayed all night, beginning now to wish that I had never left home. I cut so miserable a figure, too, that I found by the questions asked me I was suspected to be some runaway servant and in danger of being taken up on that suspicion. However, I proceeded the next day and got in the evening to Burlington. Walking there by the side of the river a boat came by, which I found was going towards Philadelphia. They took me in, and as there was no wind we rode all the way. We arrived at Philadelphia about nine o'clock on Sunday morning and landed at the Market Street Wharf. I have been the more particular in this description of my journey to Philadelphia and shall be so of my first entry into that city, that you may in your mind compare such unlikely beginnings with the figures I have since made there. I was in my working dress, my best clothes being to come round by sea. I was dirty from my journey. My pockets were stuffed out with shirts and stockings, and I knew no soul or where to look for lodging. I was fatigued with traveling, rowing, and want of rest. I was very hungry, and my whole stock of cash consisted of a Dutch dollar and about a shilling in copper. I walked up a street gazing about till near the Market House I met a boy with bread. I had made many a meal on bread, and inquiring where he had bought it I went immediately to the bakers he directed me to in Second Street and asked for a biscuit, intending such as we had in Boston. But they, it seems, were not made in Philadelphia. Then I asked for a three-penny loaf, and was told they had none such. So not knowing the difference of money, or the greater cheapness or the names of the bread, I bait him give me three-penny worth of any sort. He gave me, accordingly, three great puffy rolls. I was surprised at the quantity, but took it, and having no room in my pockets walked off with a roll under each arm and eating the other. Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fourth Street, passing by the door of Mr. Reed, my future wife's father. When she, standing at the door, saw me, and thought I made, as I certainly did, a most awkward and ridiculous appearance. I then turned and went down Chestnut Street, and part of Walnut Street, eating my roll all the way. Coming round I found myself again at Market Street wharf near the boat I came in, to which I went for a draft of the river water, and being filled with one of my rolls I gave the other two to a woman and her child, who came down the river in the boat with us, and were waiting to go farther. Thus refreshed I walked again up the street, which by this time had many clean-dressed people in it who were all walking the same way. I joined them, and thereby was led into a great meeting-house of the Quakers near the Market. I sat down among them, and after looking round a while and hearing nothing said, being very drowsy through labor and want of rest the preceding night, I fell fast asleep, and continued so till the meeting broke up, when one was kind enough to rouse me. This was, therefore, the first house I was in, or slept in, in Philadelphia. It's this Franklin that made the wonderful first discoveries in electricity, and he made them by means of a kite with a small thread, by which he found that he could bring down the lightning. End of Chapter 42. Chapter 43 of American History Stories, Volume 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2, by Mara L. Pratt. Chapter 43. Poor Richard's Almanac. You should know about poor Richard's Almanac children for the same reason you should know about George Washington's Hatchet. A hundred years ago, this was perhaps the foremost book in American literature. It was the work of our lightning hero, Benjamin Franklin. It was an almanac, not unlike the old farmer's almanac of today. And among the matter that is always to be found in almanacs, Franklin scattered all sorts of wise sayings or proverbs. To these he gave the name for Richard's sayings. Many of them you have heard over and over until very likely you are tired of them. Some of them, I know from the experience of long ago, are very aggravating to children. For example, isn't it enough to make any boy wish Franklin had stuck by his printing press and his kite and let literature alone, to have mama say, just as he is in the midst of the most exciting chapter, come, Johnny, it's time to go to bed. Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. Poor Richard's almanac for 1734 says, in speaking of the eclipse for the year, there will be but two. The first, April 22nd, the second, October 15th, both up the sun and both like old neighbor's scrape-alls generosity invisible. Franklin often put into his calendar weather predictions, but they were quite as likely to come out wrongly as do old prob's predictions now. When he was criticized for the inaccuracy of his predictions, he said good-naturedly. However, no one but will allow that we always hit the day of the month. As for the weather, I consider it will be of no service to anybody to know what weather is to be one thousand miles off. Therefore, I always set down exactly the weather my reader will have, wheresoever he may be, at the time. We only ask an allowance of a few days, and if there still be a mistake, set it down to the printer. The almanac of 1738 has a scolding preface which appears to be the work of Mistress Saunders. She says her husband had set out to visit an old stargazer of his acquaintance on the Potomac, and left her the almanac, sealed to send to the printer. She suspects some jests directed against her, burst the seal, and place havoc generally with the almanac. She says, looking over the months I find he has put in abundance a foul weather this year, and therefore I have scattered here and there where I could find room, fair, pleasant, etc., for the poor women to dry their clothes in. Franklin grew to be a highly educated man, and a very friendly man, too, for all he was so awkward and ungainly on his first morning in Philadelphia. Years later, when he went to England and to France in behalf of his country, his wit and his knowledge and his fine manners were the delight of the court. And this was a very fortunate thing for America, you may be sure, and for this reason these old European countries with all their elegance and wealth and blue blood and court society had formed an idea that Americans were all awkward clodhoppers. Horny handed tillers of the soil they were used to calling them, and they had the idea, I suppose, that the country had not a single, cultured, educated person upon its face. And so it was that when Franklin appeared before them he carried everybody by surprise, and many an Englishman and many a Frenchman who had supposed we knew nothing in America except to dig in the earth turned about and began to think that perhaps we were somebodies over here after all. Franklin was never dizzyed by the flattering attention he received in these countries. He never forgot that he was there to plead for America, and plead he did, wisely and well, many a time rendering her a service that she could never repay. In every position of honor, in every trying time when wisdom and caution were needed, Franklin was sure to be called upon by his countrymen, and never did he fail them. When at last he died, at the age of eighty-two, not only did twenty thousand of his own countrymen come to do him honor in America, but in the English and French courts as well, was every possible tribute paid to the memory of this great man. Chapter forty-three. Chapter forty-four of American History Stories, volume two. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, volume two. By Mara L. Pratt. Chapter forty-four. Arnold the Trader and Andre the Spy. One of the most daring men in the patriotic army for a time was Benedict Arnold. He was brilliant, daring, but cowardly with all. Mean spirited, jealous, and treacherous. His meaner qualities had not shown themselves very much in his military life, and as he had really been very brave and had been of great service to the country, Washington put him in command at West Point, one of the most important military posts in the whole country. But the mean-hearted Arnold had already planned to betray the post into the hands of the British, and Sir Henry Clinton, a British officer, had promised to give him ten thousand pounds in English gold for his treacherous deed. General Clinton sent a major Andre to West Point to visit Arnold and make definite arrangements for the betrayal. He reached the American lines, met Arnold, and received papers from Arnold in which his whole plans were written. Putting these papers within his stockings, he started back to the British camp. He had passed the American lines and had reached Terrytown on the Hudson. Before nightfall he would be in the camp at New York, and the plan for the surrender would be in Clinton's hands. Almost free from apprehension of danger, he rode on. Suddenly three men appeared in his path. Without producing his pass, he asked them, Where do you belong? Down below, answered one. Down below meant New York, and Andre was thrown off his guard by the answer. I belong there also, he said. I am a British officer on important business. Do not detain me. Then you are our prisoner, answered the men. Andre then produced his pass. But as by his own confession he was a British officer, it availed nothing. He offered his watch, his purse, and more valuable than either, he offered to deliver to them next day a cargo of English dry goods if they would let him pass. They were unmoved by his bribes and already had begun to search him. They searched pockets, saddlebags, his hat. They even ripped open the linings of his coat. The prisoner stood nearly naked in the road, yet no paper had been found. At length they pulled off his boots. His boots were empty, but they heard the rustle of paper when they were drawn off. The stockings came last, and in his stockings under the soles of his feet were found, in Arnold's handwriting, the treasonable papers, with a plan of the fort, the way to enter it, everything in short, that would make it easy for Clinton to get possession. Andre was at once taken to the nearest officer and given up to him as a prisoner. Andre, true to Arnold even now, asked that he might be permitted to send a line to him. As the papers had not been read, Andre's request was granted, and Arnold received a note which told him of Andre's arrest. Of course, Arnold knew that his life was now in danger, and so, hurrying from the fort, he leaped a precipice now called Trader's Hill and rode to the nearest boat landing. Thus he escaped to the British lines where he put himself under the protection of Clinton. This unfortunate Andre was sentenced to be hanged. Clinton did all in his power to save the young man, who was by no means as black-hearted as Arnold. But it was the army law, and nothing could be done. Washington tried to capture Arnold, intending then to release Andre and hang him instead. The plan failed, however, and Andre was doomed to be executed. Andre wrote a very manly letter to Washington, asking that he might be shot like a soldier, rather than be hanged like a dog. Washington laid this letter before Andre's judges, but they would not hear of any other death than hanging for the unfortunate spy. Have you forgotten, said they, how the British hanged our brave Nathan Hale, the noble Nathan Hale whose last words were, I regret that I have put one life to give for my country? Have you forgotten that they would not allow him to send one word to his mother, would not allow him to speak with his old minister? No, said they. Andre must die as Hale did, on the gallows. Andre met death like a brave man. He hoped to the last that he might be shot and so die a soldier's death. And so when he saw the gallows awaiting him, he gave a start, shuttered, and said, I am not afraid to die, but I hate this way of dying. Seeing that all was ready for him, he stepped into the wagon, bandaged his own eyes, fastened the rope about his neck, and said, I pray you to hear me witness that I meet my fate like a brave man. Thus ended Major Andre's life, a tragedy which is one of the most touching of this whole war. Arnold, during the remainder of the war, fought on the English side, and at its close, since no one in America had any respect for him, he went to live in England. Even there he was held in contempt by the very ones to whom he had sold himself. So that since he was a proud man to the end, we know he must have suffered most keenly for his dastardly act. At one time, while he was living in England, a gentleman who was about to come to America on a visit asked Arnold to give him some letters of introduction to some of the leading families in America. Arnold's reply shows how bitterly he was paying for having sold his own soul. He said, Alas, in all that great country which gave me birth, there is not one man whom I can call friend. End of Chapter 44 Chapter 45 of American History Stories, Volume 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 45 Surrender of Cornwallis After the surrender of Burgoyne there was, I think, never quite such deep despair in the hearts of the Americans. Still the British were by no means weak. There were Clinton and Cornwallis with large and powerful armies yet to be defeated. At last came the final great battle between Cornwallis's troops and those of Washington at Yorktown. Cornwallis had been very busy fortifying this town into which he had withdrawn his forces. He had dug trenches and had thrown up earthworks all around the city to keep away Washington's army. Cornwallis's army had now grown much smaller than the Americans had any idea of. Indeed, he had only seven thousand men, one thousand of whom were Negro slaves. Washington's army was nearly sixteen thousand, all well-trained, and three thousand of them were picked men from the Virginia militia. Clinton had promised, however, to send aid in a week's time, surely, and so Cornwallis felt sure that if he could hold out until then he should defeat Washington. On September 28th, 1781, the American army marched up and encamped one mile from Yorktown. Cornwallis withdrew all his forces into the city to wait for Clinton's aid. The Americans, however, had no thought of waiting. At once the batteries began their terrible work against the besieged city. Gun after gun, which the British had placed upon their walls, fell from the hands of the brave Britain who held it. The ditches were filled with fragments of the shattered walls, and heaped with the bodies of the dead soldiers. The American forces drew nearer and nearer every night under the cover of entrenchments which they threw up in the darkness. On the evening of the 14th of October they had come so close that Washington ordered an immediate attack, and accordingly two columns were formed, one French, the other American, to rush upon the city from the right and from the left. A hot battle ensued. Cornwallis, giving up all hope now of aid from Clinton and finding himself surrounded on every side, declared all defense useless and gave up the struggle. The general whom Washington appointed to take possession of the defeated army was one who, at a previous battle, had been defeated by Cornwallis and had been made to surrender his troops to him. Cornwallis had at that time been very severe with the general, and now he meted out to Cornwallis the same measure of severity. The French and American armies were drawn up in two lines, and between them the conquered army passed. When they came to stack their arms, the men, most of them, maintained a sullen silence, shading their faces with their hats. Some threw their guns with violence upon the ground. Some of the officers wept outright at giving up their arms, while others wore a look of haughty defiance and refused to look upon their conquerors. Washington and all his officers showed the utmost kindness to their captives. Even Cornwallis, in his report to Clinton, speaks of this and mentions with great warmth the kindness of the French officers, which he hopes will be remembered in future warfare. But Cornwallis was so deeply humiliated by his conquest that he could hardly appreciate the courtesy of Washington. Once when they were conversing together, Cornwallis stood with his head bare. "'You had better be covered from cold, my lord,' said Washington politely. "'It does not matter what becomes of this head now,' answered Cornwallis, putting his hand to his brow. With this surrender of Cornwallis the war was really at an end. The power of the English army was broken. There were battles in other parts of the country after this, but all felt that peace was at hand. And when, at two o'clock in the morning, the news of Washington's great victory reached Philadelphia, the people were awakened by the watchman's cry. Cornwallis is taken. Cornwallis is taken. Lights flashed through the houses, and soon the streets were thronged with crowds eager to learn the glad news. Some were speechless with delight. Many wept, and the old doorkeeper of Congress died of joy. Congress met at an early hour, and that afternoon marched in solemn procession to church to return thanks to God. As soon as possible the British army embarked in their vessels, leaving New York once more a free city. Then indeed there was great rejoicing. There was a great show of fireworks on Bowling Green, where you remember had once stood the lead in statue of King George III. A week later Washington called together all his officers to bid them farewell, and thank them for their ever-ready aid and helpful courage during the terrible war. These brave men who had stood side by side in the bloody battle, facing death together for seven long years, met now together in silence and sadness. When all were present, Washington raised his glass and drank to the health of them all. Then he said, and his voice trembled, and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke. I cannot come to each of you to take my leave of you, but I shall be glad if each man will come and take me by the hand. Then General Knox, a man whom Washington loved, came forward and with tears in his eyes attempted to speak. Though he could not say one word, Washington understood, and with tears in his own eyes drew his friend's head down upon his shoulder and kissed him. Then each officer came forward to take his leave of his much-loved commander, and the bravest men, the most warlike, men who without one tremor had faced the cannon's mouth, men who without a murmur had borne the sufferings of these terrible years, were not ashamed on that day to let the tears run down their rough, sun-burned faces as they said goodbye to Washington. Sometimes I fear we get almost tired of hearing of Washington so much. I confess I often did when I was a child at school. There was the hatchet story of his childhood, the story of his wonderful journey when he was only twenty-one, and the old, old titles of First President and Father of his country. Yes, I did sometimes say that I was tired of hearing about him. But when I grew older, and I came at last upon a history that told me more about the real character of the man, other than so much about the battles he fought and the victories he won, then I came to respect the great heart of the man. He was so brave and daring, and yet always so gentle, so charitable. Although he could dash into the thickest of the fight, yet when the battle was over and the enemy were taken, you never hear of his blustering about as Burgoyne did, or bullying those who had fallen into his hands as Cornwallis did at the South, or Colonel Prescott at Newport. When a battle was over, he never thought he must celebrate it by getting drunk and making a brood of himself. No, whether in the camp or in the drawing-room, whether with friends or with foes, whether conquered or conquering, Washington always thought it worthwhile to be a gentleman. I do not mean by that an aristocrat, not that, but a real gentleman, a gentle man, dates to remember. Revolution began 1775, ended 1781. Battle of Lexington, April 19, 1775. Battle of Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775. Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776. End of Chapter 45. Chapter 46 of American History Stories, Volume 2. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt. Chapter 46. Anecdote of Burgoyne. Nothing, perhaps, helped the colonists on to victory more than the conceit and consequent unwillingness to learn of the British generals. After Bunker Hill, General Gage was, as we know, shut up in the town of Boston by Washington's troops. As generals Howe, Clinton, and Burgoyne were selling up the harbor, an outward-bound vessel held them, saying, Your British troops are under siege. Washington's troops surround the city. How many are there, called Burgoyne? Ten thousand colonists to five thousand British. What? exclaimed Burgoyne, puffing himself like a vain frog. Do you mean to say that ten thousand country clods are keeping under siege five thousand British troops? Just let us get there, and we'll make elbow room. Boston people did not forget this boast, and a few months later, when Burgoyne and his army were marched as prisoners of war into Cambridge, an old apple-woman, perched with her basket on a fence, made great sport by crying as he passed. Make way there, elbow room, elbow room. You remember that it was Burgoyne's troops that used the old south as a writing school. Nothing so angered the Boston people as this, and it is said that when after his surrender Burgoyne was walking with other generals along Washington Street, he said, as he came to the province house, there is the former residence of the governor. Yes, shouted a voice in the crowd, but their opposite is the writing school. End of Chapter 46 Chapter 47 of American History Stories, Volume 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 47 Nancy Hart Nancy Hart was known throughout the south in revolutionary times as the giantess and the heroine of Virginia. She lived in the wild woods and supported herself and her children by hunting, fishing, and trapping. Nancy was not handsome, as she stood over six feet in height, her mop of red hair bundled into a big coil, and her crooked eyes staring and winking as was their custom. But for all her uncouth appearance, one who knew her said, her voice was quiet and soft, and if she had the bravery and courage of a man, she had beneath it all the warm, tender heart of a woman. She was a fierce supporter of the Whig Party from the very outset. One day six British soldiers, pursuing deserters, came to her cabin for food. While they were eating, she hid their guns, drove away their horses, locked her doors, and found a way to send word to her neighbors. I have trapped six Tories, come and help me. During one winter, dressed as a man, she used often to go to the British camp, and with her sharp, clear perception, she would learn what was going on within and carry the news to the Whigs. One day she met a little pale-faced British soldier. Taking his gun from him, she marched him on before her into the Georgian camp. The Georgian colonel had great confidence in her power and wisdom, so much so that he once put her in charge of a fort filled with women and children. Nancy proved before the colonels' return that she was equal to the occasion. A company of skirmishers attacked it. Nancy, in uniform, forced the frightened women to put on their husbands' clothes and present themselves upon the walls. She herself kept up, meanwhile, a steady firing from the old cannon. I understood the soldiers had gone with Colonel Clark, but the fort seems only too well manned. We may as well march, said their leader. When the war was over, a few squatters, as they were called, came into the country, not far from Nancy's cabin. Nancy fled into the wilderness of Kentucky. So many neighbors, said she, leave me no air to breathe. End of Chapter 47 Chapter 48 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 48 Lafayette During this war, the French were our firm allies against the English. One Frenchman, Marquis de Lafayette, was so much in sympathy with us, that noblemen that he was, he left his home and his country to join our army and fight for our cause. He was young, only nineteen years of age, wealthy and blessed with everything that should bind his heart to his own home. But so great was his sympathy with the struggling colonies, that he was willing to give up all and come to America. I have always held the cause of America dear, said he. Now I go to serve it personally. When he arrived, the first act of generosity was to supply clothing and arms to the South Carolina troops, then in great distress. He wrote it once to Washington, saying, The moment I heard of America, I loved her. The moment I heard she was fighting for liberty, I burned with a desire to bleed for her. Lafayette was so long in this country and so much heart and soul with us in our fight for independence, that whenever he referred to the Revolution after his return to France, he spoke of himself as an American. One evening, in 1824, while visiting Boston, Mrs. Josiah Quincy said to him, The American Cockade was black and white. Was it not, General? Yes, madam, he replied, It was black at first, but when the French came and joined us, we added the white in compliment to them. At the siege of Yorktown, in the attack which hastened to surrender Cornwallis, Lafayette and his American division captured one redoubt some minutes before the French carried the redoubt which they commanded. You don't remember me, General, cried an old soldier, pressing through the crowd at the State House to welcome Lafayette on his arrival in Boston. The General looked at him keenly, holding the hand of the old man, who added, I was close to you when we stormed our redoubt at Yorktown. I was just behind Captain Smith. You remember Captain Smith? He was shot through the head just as he mounted the redoubt. Yes, yes, I remember, answered Lafayette, his face lightening up. Poor Captain Smith, but we beat the French. We beat the French. At the surrender of Cornwallis, the American troops were drawn up on the right, and the French troops on the left of the road, along which the British army marched in solemn silence. Lafayette, noticing that the English soldiers looked only at the Frenchmen on the left and ignored the American light infantry, the pride of his heart, and being determined to bring their eyes to the right, ordered the band to strike up, Yankee Doodle. Then said he, narrating the story, they did look at us, but were not very well pleased. End of Chapter 48 Chapter 49 of American History Stories, Volume 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 49 The Punning Parsons At the beginning of the war, the pastor of the Holly Street Church, Boston, was Matthew Biles. He was a stanchatory, as many of his brothers were wigs. No matter what rebukes or what threats were hurled at him, he would not be crushed. His fire of sarcasm was hot as ever, and his fund of humor never failed him. At last he was removed from his pastret, and a guard placed over him. Sir, said he, as the officer paced back and forth, how nobly I am guarded. Later the guard was removed, and then later still replaced. See now, said Matthew, how carefully I am regarded. And again, when the guard was removed, for good and all, this impressable old man cried out, Behold, I have been guarded, regarded, and now I am disregarded. Once while the sentinel was pacing up and down in front of his premises, the doctor persuaded him on an errand, and while he was absent he shouldered the musket and kept guard over himself, much to the amusement of passers-by. He used to call the sentinel his observatory. The early history of Boston is full of stories of this odd, fun-loving parson. In early Boston poetry are found the following verses. Here's Punning Biles provokes our smiles. A man of stately parts, he visits folks to crack his jokes, which never mend their hearts. With strutting gait and wig so great he walks along the streets and throws out wit, or what's like it, to every one he meets. Provost Cunningham Among the last things of the revolution that the colonists loved to tell were these two stories of Provost Cunningham of the British troops. In Murray Street, New York City, stood a little tavern called Day's Tavern. Day had raised above his building the new American flag. Cunningham, hardly yet ready to surrender his command, seeing this flag marched up to the tavern door. Come, you cur, he shouted to Mr. Day. I give you two minutes to haul down that rag. I'll have no such striped rag as that, flying in the face of his majesty's forces. There it is, and there it shall stay, said Day, quietly but firmly. Cunningham turned to his guard. Arrest that man, he ordered, and as for this thing here I'll haul it down myself. And seizing the halyards he began to lower the flag. The crowd broke into fierce murmurs, uncertain what to do. But in the midst of the tumult the door of the tavern flew open, and forth sallied Mrs. Day, armed with her trusty broom. Hands off that flag, you villain, and drop my husband, she cried, and before the astonished Cunningham could realize the situation, the broom came down, thwack, thwack, upon his powdered wig. How the powder flew from the stiff white wig, and how, amidst jeers and laughter, the defeated provost marshal withdrew from the unequal conquest, and fled before the sweep of Mrs. Day's all-conquering broom. Another incident is told of the same day. Sir Guy Carlton, commander-in-chief of all his majesty's forces in the colonies, stood at the foot of the Flagstaff on the northern bastion of Fort George. Before him filed the departing troops of his king. As the commander-in-chief passed down to the boats, to the strains of marshal music, the Red Cross of St. George, England's royal flag, came fluttering down from its high staff on the northern bastion, and the last of the rear-guard wheeled toward the ship. But Cunningham, the provost marshal, still angered by the scene at Day's tavern, declared roundly that no rebel flag should go up that staff inside of King George's men. Come, lively now you blue jackets, he shouted, turning to some of the sailors from the fleet. Unreath the halyards, quick, slush down the pole, knock off the stepping cleats. Then let them run their flag up if they can. His orders were quickly obeyed, and the marshal left the city. In a few minutes, Colonel Jackson, halting before the flag-staff, ordered up the stars and stripes. The halyards are cut, Colonel, reported the color sergeant. The cleats are gone, and the pole is slashed. A mean trick indeed, exclaimed the indignant Colonel. Who will climb the staff and reel the halyards for the stars and stripes? I want no money for the job, said a young sailor lad, as he tried it manfully once, twice thrice, each time slipping down covered with slush and shane. If you'll but saw me up some cleats, I'll run that flag to the top in spite of all the tories from the soaps to Sandy Hook. Tying the halyards round his waist and filling his jacket pockets with cleats and nails, he worked his way up the flag pole, nailing as he went. And now he reached the top. Now the halyards are reefed, and as the beautiful flag goes up the staff a mighty cheer is heard. And a round of thirteen guns salutes the stars and stripes and the brave soldier lad who did the gallant deed. End of Chapter 50 Chapter 51 of American History Stories, Volume 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 51 Words only to the song, America, or My Country Tis of Thee. Music may be found in the text. My Country Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty, Of Thee I sing, Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From every mountainside, Let freedom ring. My Native Country Thee, Land of the Noble Free, Thy name I love. I love Thy rocks and reels, Thy woods and templeed hills, My heart with rapture thrills, Like that above. Let music swell the breeze, And ring from all the trees, Sweet freedom song. Let mortal tongues awake, Let all that breathe partake, Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong. Our Father's God to Thee, Author of Liberty, To Thee we sing. Long may our land be bright with freedom's holy light, Protect us by Thy might, Great God, our King. End of Chapter 51 Chapter 52 of American History Stories, Volume 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 52 General Joseph Warren's Address June 17th, 1775 Stand! The ground's your own, my braves. Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still! What's the mercy despots feel? Hear it in that battle, Peel! Read it on yon bristling still. Ask it, ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Will ye to your homes retire? Look behind you, there a fire, And before you, see who have done it. From the veil on they come, And will ye quail. Lead in rain and iron hail, Let their welcome be. In the God of battles trust, Die we may and die we must. Oh, where can dust to dust be consigned so well? As where heaven its dues shall shed On the martyred Patriots' bed, And the rocks shall raise their head Of his deeds to tell. John Pierpont End of Chapter 52 Chapter 53 of American History Stories, Volume 2 This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Volume 2 By Mara L. Pratt Chapter 53 My Country I love my country's pine-clad hills, Her thousand bright and gushing reels, Her sunshine and her storms, Her rough and rugged rocks that rear Their hoary heads high in the air In wild, fantastic forms. I love her rivers deep and wide, Those mighty streams that seaward glide, To seek the ocean's breast, Her smiling fields, her pleasant veils, Her shady dels, her flowery dels, The haunts of peaceful rest. Her forest and her valley's fair, Her flowers that scent the morning air, Have all their charms for me. But more I love my country's name, Those words that echo deathless fame, The land of liberty. I see the living tide roll on, It crowns with fiery towers, The icy capes of Labrador, The Spaniard's land of flowers. It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the northern showers, From eastern rock to sunset wave, The continent is ours. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. American History Stories, Vol. 2 by Mara L. Pratt Chapter 54. Memory Gems. Land of the West. Beneath the heaven there's not a fairer, lovelier climb, Nor one to which was ever given A destiny more high, sublime. W. D. Gallacher. Our country, tis a glorious land, With broad arms stretched from shore to shore. The broad Pacific chafes her strand, She hears the dark Atlantic roar, And nurtured on her ample breast, How many a goodly prospect flies In nature's wildest, grandeur chest Enameled with the loveliest dyes. W. J. Pabody. Then, too, sail on, O ship of state, O union, strong and great. Humanity with all its fears, With all its hopes of future wars, Is hanging breathless on thy fate. We know what master laid thy kill. Land of the forest and the rock, Of dark blue lake and mighty river, Of mountains reared on high to mock The storm's career and lightning's shock. My own green land for ever. O never may a son of thine, Wherever his wandering feet incline, Forget the sky that bent above His childhood like a dream of love. W. Hidia. END OF CHAPTER 54 END OF AMERICAN HISTORY STORIES, VOL. 2 By Mara L. Pratt