neighbors forgot her, and the officers gave her some money to pay for
the costly service she had done them. Then they left the room, and after
some delay the three men set off; but Tabby was compelled to stay in her
hiding-place till the table was cleared, and the women deep in gossip,
as they washed dishes in the kitchen. Then the little spy crept out
softly, and raising the window with great care, ran away as fast as her
stiff limbs would carry her.
By the time she reached the Deacon's, however, and told her tale, the
Tories were well on their way, Mr. Bliss having provided them with
horses that his own flight might be the speedier.
So they escaped; but the warning was given, and Tabby received great
praise for her hour under the table. The town's-people hastened their
preparations, and had time to remove the most valuable stores to
neighboring towns; to mount their cannon and drill their minute-men; for
these resolute farmers meant to resist oppression, and the world knows
how well they did it when the hour came.
Such an early spring had not been known for years; and by the 19th of
April fruit trees were in bloom, winter grain was up, and the stately
elms that fringed the river and overarched the village streets were
budding fast. It seemed a pity that such a lovely world should be
disturbed by strife; but liberty was dearer than prosperity or peace,
and the people leaped from their beds when young Dr. Prescott came,
riding for his life, with the message Paul Revere brought from Boston in
the night:--
"Arm! arm! the British are coming!"
Like an electric spark the news ran from house to house, and men made
ready to fight, while the brave women bade them go, and did their best
to guard the treasure confided to their keeping. A little later, word
came that the British were at Lexington, and blood had been shed. Then
the farmers shouldered their guns, with few words but stern faces, and
by sunrise a hundred men stood ready, with good Parson Emerson at their
head. More men were coming in from the neighboring towns, and all felt
that the hour had arrived when patience ceased to be a virtue and
rebellion was just.
Great was the excitement everywhere; but at Captain David Brown's one
little heart beat high with hope and fear, as Tabby stood at the door,
looking across the river to the town, where drums were beating, bells
ringing, and people hurrying to and fro.
"I can't fight, but I _must_ see," she said; and catching up her cloak,
she ran over the North Bridge, promising her aunt to return and bring
her word as soon as the enemy appeared.
"What news? Are they coming?" called the people, from the Manse and the
few houses that then stood along that road. But Tabby could only shake
her head and run the faster, in her eagerness to see what was happening
on that memorable day. When she reached the middle of the town she found
that the little company had gone along the Lexington road to meet the
enemy. Nothing daunted, she hurried in that direction and, climbing a
high bank, waited to catch a glimpse of the British grenadiers, of whom
she had heard so much.
About seven o'clock they came, the sun glittering on the arms of eight
hundred English soldiers marching toward the hundred stout-hearted
farmers, who waited till they were within a few rods of them.
"Let us stand our ground; and if we die, let us die here," said brave
Parson Emerson, still among his people, ready for anything but
surrender.
"Nay," said a cautious Lincoln man, "it will not do for us to _begin_
the war."
So they reluctantly fell back to the town, the British following slowly,
being weary with their seven-mile march over the hills from Lexington.
Coming to a little brown house perched on the hillside, one of the
thirsty officers spied a well, with the bucket swinging at the end of
the long pole. Running up the bank, he was about to drink, when a girl,
who was crouching behind the well, sprang up, and with an energetic
gesture, flung the water in his face, crying:--
"That's the way we serve spies!"
Before Ensign De Bernicre--for it was he, acting as guide to the
enemy--could clear his eyes and dry his drenched face, Tabby was gone
over the hill with a laugh and a defiant gesture toward the red-coats
below.
In high feather at this exploit, she darted about the town, watching the
British at their work of destruction. They cut down and burnt the
liberty pole, broke open sixty barrels of flour, flung five hundred
pounds of balls into the mill-pond and wells, and set the court-house on
fire. Other parties were ordered to different quarters of the town to
ransack houses and destroy all the stores they found. Captain Parsons
was sent to take possession of the North Bridge, and De Bernicre led the
way, for he had taken notes on his former visit, and was a good guide.
As they marched, a little scarlet figure went flying on before them, and
vanished at the turn of the road. It was Tabby hastening home to warn
her aunt.
"Quick child, whip on this gown and cap and hurry into bed. These prying
fellows will surely have pity on a sick girl, and respect this room if
no other," said Mrs. Brown, briskly helping Tabby into a short
night-gown and round cap, and tucking her well up when she was laid
down, for between the plump feather-beds were hidden many muskets, the
most precious of their stores. This had been planned beforehand, and
Tabby was glad to rest and tell her tale while Aunty Brown put physic
bottles and glasses on the table, set some evil-smelling herbs to simmer
on the hearth, and, compromising with her conscience, concocted a nice
little story to tell the invaders.
Presently they came, and it was well for Tabby that the ensign remained
below to guard the doors while the men ransacked the house from garret
to cellar; for he might have recognized the saucy girl who had twice
maltreated him.
"These are feathers; lift the covers carefully or you'll be half
smothered, they fly about so," said Mrs. Brown, as the men came to some
casks of cartridges and flints, which she had artfully ripped up several
pillows to conceal.
Quite deceived, the men gladly passed on, leaving the very things they
most wanted to destroy. Coming to the bed-room, where more treasures of
the same valuable sort were hidden in various nooks and corners, the
dame held up her finger, saying, with an anxious glance toward Tabby:--
"Step softly, please. You wouldn't harm a poor, sick girl. The doctor
thinks it is small-pox, and a fright might kill her. I keep the chamber
as fresh as I can with yarbs, so I guess there isn't much danger of
catching it."
The men reluctantly looked in, saw a flushed face on the pillow (for
Tabby was red with running, and her black eyes wild with excitement),
took a sniff at the wormwood and motherwort, and with a hasty glance
into a closet or two where sundry clothes concealed hidden doors,
hastily retired to report the danger and get away as soon as possible.
They would have been much disgusted at the trick played upon them if
they had seen the sick girl fly out of bed and dance a jig of joy as
they tramped away to Barrett's Mills. But soon Tabby had no heart for
merriment, as she watched the minute-men gather by the bridge, saw the
British march down on the other side, and when their first volley killed
brave Isaac Davis and Abner Hosmer, of Acton, she heard Major Buttrick
give the order, "Fire, fellow-soldiers; for God's sake, fire!"
For a little while shots rang, smoke rose, shouts were heard, and red
and blue coats mingled in the struggle on the bridge. Then the British
fell back, leaving two dead soldiers behind them. These were buried
where they fell; and the bodies of the Acton men were sent home to their
poor wives, Concord's first martyrs for liberty.
No need to tell more of the story of that day; all children know it, and
many have made a pilgrimage to see the old monument set up where the
English fell, and the bronze Minute-Man, standing on his granite
pedestal to mark the spot where the brave Concord farmers fired the shot
that made the old North Bridge immortal.
We must follow Tabby, and tell how she got her table-cloth. When the
fight was over, the dead buried, the wounded cared for, and the
prisoners exchanged, the Tories were punished. Dr. Lee was confined to
his own farm, on penalty of being shot if he left it, and the property
of Daniel Bliss was confiscated by government. Some things were sold at
auction, and Captain Brown bought the fine cloth and gave it to Tabby,
saying heartily:--
"There, my girl, that belongs to you, and you may well be proud of it;
for, thanks to your quick wits and eyes and ears, we were not taken
unawares, but sent the red-coats back faster than they came."
And Tabby _was_ proud of it, keeping it carefully, displaying it with
immense satisfaction whenever she told the story, and spinning busily to
make a set of napkins to go with it. It covered the table when her
wedding supper was spread, was used at the christening of her first boy,
and for many a Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner through the happy years
of her married life.
Then it was preserved by her daughters, as a relic of their mother's
youth, and long after the old woman was gone, the well-worn cloth still
appeared on great occasions, till it grew too thin for anything but
careful keeping, to illustrate the story so proudly told by the
grandchildren, who found it hard to believe that the feeble old lady of
ninety could be the lively lass who played her little part in the
Revolution with such spirit.
In 1861, Tabby's table-cloth saw another war, and made an honorable end.
When men were called for, Concord responded "Here!" and sent a goodly
number, led by another brave Colonel Prescott. Barretts, Hosmers,
Melvins, Browns, and Wheelers stood shoulder to shoulder, as their
grandfathers stood that day to meet the British by the bridge. Mothers
said, "Go my son," as bravely as before, and sisters and sweethearts
smiled with wet eyes as the boys in blue marched away again, cheered on
by another noble Emerson. More than one of Tabby's descendants went,
some to fight, some to nurse; and for four long years the old town
worked and waited, hoped and prayed, burying the dear dead boys sent
home, nursing those who brought back honorable wounds, and sending more
to man the breaches made by the awful battles that filled both North and
South with a wilderness of graves.
The women knit and sewed Sundays as well as weekdays, to supply the call
for clothes; the men emptied their pockets freely, glad to give; and the
minister, after preaching like a Christian soldier, took off his coat
and packed boxes of comforts like a tender father.
"More lint and bandages called for, and I do believe we've torn and
picked up every old rag in the town," said one busy lady to another, as
several sat together making comfort-bags in the third year of the long
struggle.
"I have cleared my garret of nearly everything in it, and only wish I
had more to give," answered one of the patriotic Barrett mothers.
"We can't buy anything so soft and good as worn out sheets and
table-cloths. New ones wont do, or I'd cut up every one of mine," said a
newly married Wheeler, sewing for dear life, as she remembered the many
cousins gone to the war.
"I think I shall have to give our Revolutionary table-cloth. It's old
enough, and soft as silk, and I'm sure my blessed grandmother would
think that it couldn't make a better end," spoke up white-headed Madam
Hubbard; for Tabby Tarbell had married one of that numerous and worthy
race.
"Oh, you wouldn't cut up that famous cloth, would you?" cried the
younger woman.
"Yes, I will. It's in rags, and when I'm gone no one will care for it.
Folks don't seem to remember what the women did in those days, so it's
no use keeping relics of 'em," answered the old lady, who would have
owned herself mistaken if she could have looked forward to 1876, when
the town celebrated its centennial, and proudly exhibited the little
scissors with which Mrs. Barrett cut paper for cartridges, among other
ancient trophies of that earlier day.
So the ancient cloth was carefully made into a boxful of the finest lint
and softest squares to lay on wounds, and sent to one of the Concord
women who had gone as a nurse.
"Here's a treasure!" she said, as she came to it among other comforts
newly arrived from home. "Just what I want for my brave Rebel and poor
little Johnny Bullard."
The "brave Rebel" was a Southern man who had fought well and was badly
wounded in many ways, yet never complained; and in the midst of great
suffering was always so courteous, patient, and courageous, that the men
called him "our gentleman," and tried to show how much they respected so
gallant a foe. John Bullard was an English drummer-boy, who had been
through several battles, stoutly drumming away in spite of bullets and
cannon-balls; cheering many a camp-fire with his voice, for he sang like
a blackbird, and was always merry, always plucky, and so great a
favorite in his regiment, that all mourned for "little Johnny" when his
right arm was shot off at Gettysburg. It was thought he would die; but
he pulled through the worst of it, and was slowly struggling back to
health, still trying to be gay, and beginning to chirp feebly now and
then, like a convalescent bird.
"Here, Johnny, is some splendid lint for this poor arm, and some of the
softest compresses for Carrol's wound. He is asleep, so I'll begin with
you, and while I work I'll amuse you with the story of the old
table-cloth this lint came from," said Nurse Hunt, as she stood by the
bed where the thin, white face smiled at her, though the boy dreaded the
hard quarter of an hour he had to endure every day.
"Thanky, mum. We 'aven't 'ad a story for a good bit. I'm 'arty this
mornin', and think I'll be hup by this day week, won't I?"
"I hope so. Now shut your eyes and listen; then you wont mind the
twinges I give you, gentle as I try to be," answered the nurse,
beginning her painful task.
Then she told the story of Tabby's table-cloth, and the boy enjoyed it
immensely, laughing out at the slapping and the throwing water in the
ensign's face, and openly rejoicing when the red-coats got the worst of
it.
"As we've beaten all the rest of the world, I don't mind our 'aving bad
luck that time. We har' friends now, and I'll fight for you, mum, like a
British bull-dog, if I hever get the chance," said Johnny, when the tale
and dressing were ended.
"So you shall. I like to turn a brave enemy into a faithful friend, as I
hope we shall yet be able to do with our Southern brothers. I admire
their courage and their loyalty to what they believe to be right; and we
are all suffering the punishment we deserve for waiting till this sad
war came, instead of settling the trouble years ago, as we might have
done if we had loved honesty and honor more than money and power."
As she spoke, Miss Hunt turned to her other patient, and saw by the
expression of his face that he had heard both the tale and the talk. He
smiled, and said, "Good morning," as usual, but when she stooped to lay
a compress of the soft, wet damask on the angry wound in his breast, he
whispered, with a grateful look:--
"You _have_ changed one 'Southern brother' from an enemy into a friend.
Whether I live or die, I never can forget how generous and kind you have
all been to me."
"Thank you! It is worth months of anxiety and care to hear such words.
Let us shake hands, and do our best to make North and South as good
friends as England and America now are," said the nurse, offering her
hand.
"Me, too! I've got one 'and left, and I give it ye with all me 'art. God
bless ye, sir, and a lively getting hup for the two of us!" cried
Johnny, stretching across the narrow space that divided the beds, with a
beaming face and true English readiness to forgive a fallen foe when he
had proved a brave one.
The three hands met in a warm shake, and the act was a little lesson
more eloquent than words to the lookers-on; for the spirit of
brotherhood that should bind us all together worked the miracle of
linking these three by the frail threads spun a century ago.
So Tabby's table-cloth did make a beautiful and useful end at last.
[Illustration]
ELI'S EDUCATION
"My turn now," said Walt, as they assembled again, after a busy day
spent in snow-balling, statue-making, and tumbling in the drifts that
still continued to rise on all sides.
"Here is just the story for you and Geoff. You are getting ready for
college, after years of the best schooling, and it will do you good to
hear how hard some boys have had to work to get a little learning," said
Grandma, glancing at the slip that Walt drew from the basket which Aunt
Elinor held out to him, and from which Lotty had drawn the story of
"Tabby's Table Cloth."
"This is a true tale, and the man became famous for his wisdom, as well
as much loved and honored for his virtue, and interest in all good
things," added Aunt Elinor, as she began to read the story of
ELI'S EDUCATION.
Many years ago, a boy of sixteen sat in a little room in an old
farm-house up among the Connecticut hills, writing busily in a book
made of odd bits of paper stitched together, with a cover formed of two
thin boards. The lid of a blue chest was his desk, the end of a tallow
candle stuck into a potato was his lamp, a mixture of soot and vinegar
his ink, and a quill from the gray goose his pen. A "Webster's
Spelling-book," "Dilworth's New Guide to the English Tongue," "Daboll's
Arithmetic," and the "American Preceptor," stood on the chimney-piece
over his head, with the "Assembly Catechism," and New Testament, in the
place of honor. This was his library; and now and then a borrowed
"Pilgrim's Progress," "Fox's Book of Martyrs," or some stray volume,
gladdened his heart; for he passionately loved books, and scoured the
neighborhood for miles around to feed this steadily increasing hunger.
Every penny he could earn or save went to buy a song or a story from the
peddlers who occasionally climbed the hill to the solitary farm-house.
When others took a noon-spell, he read under the trees or by the fire.
He carried a book in his pocket, and studied as he went with the cows to
and from the pasture, and sat late in his little room, ciphering on an
old slate, or puzzling his young brain over some question which no one
could answer for him.
His father had no patience with him, called him a shiftless dreamer, and
threatened to burn the beloved books. But his mother defended him, for
he was her youngest and the pride of her heart; so she let him scribble
all over her floors before she scrubbed them up, dipped extra thick
candles for his use, saved every scrap of paper to swell his little
store, and firmly believed that he would turn out the great man of the
family. His brothers joked about his queer ways, but in his sisters he
found firm friends and tender comforters for all his woes. So he
struggled along, working on the farm in summer and in a clock shop
during the winter, with such brief spells of schooling as he could get
between whiles, improving even these poor opportunities so well that he
was letter-writer for all the young people in the neighborhood.
Now, he was writing in his journal very slowly, but very well, shaping
his letters with unusual grace and freedom; for the wide snow-banks were
his copy-books in winter, and on their white pages he had learned to
sweep splendid capitals or link syllables handsomely together. This is
what he wrote that night, with a sparkle in the blue eyes and a firm
folding of the lips that made the boyish face resolute and manly.
"I am set in my own mind that I get learning. I see not how, but my
will is strong, and mother hopes for to make a scholar of me. So,
please God, we shall do it."
Then he shut the little book and put it carefully away in the blue
chest, with pen and ink, as if they were very precious things; piously
said his prayers, and was soon asleep under the homespun coverlet,
dreaming splendid dreams, while a great bright star looked in at the low
window, as if waiting to show him the road to fortune.
And God did please to help the patient lad; only the next evening came
an opportunity he had never imagined. As he sat playing "Over the Hills
and Far Away" on the fiddle that he had himself made out of maple-wood,
with a bow strung from the tail of the old farm horse, a neighbor came
in to talk over the fall pork and cider, and tell the news.
"Ef you want ter go over the hills and far away, Eli, here's the chance.
I see a man down to Woodtick who was askin' ef I knew any likely young
chap who'd like to git 'scribers for a pious book he wants to sell. He'd
pay for the job when the names is got and the books give out. That's
ruther in your line, boy, so I calk'lated your daddy would spare you, as
you ain't much of a hand at shuckin' corn nor cartin' pummace."
"Haw! haw!" laughed the big brothers, Ambrose Vitruvius and Junius
Solomon, as neighbor Terry spoke with a sly twinkle in his eye.
But the sisters, Miranda and Pamela, smiled for joy, while the good
mother stopped her busy wheel to listen eagerly. Eli laid down his
fiddle and came to the hearth where the others sat, with such a
wide-awake expression on his usually thoughtful face that it was plain
that he liked the idea.
"I'll do it, if father'll let me," he said, looking wistfully at the
industrious man, who was shaving axe-handles for the winter
wood-chopping, after his day's work was over.
"Wal, I can spare you for a week, mebby. It's not time for the clock
shop yet, and sence you've heerd o' this, you won't do your chores
right, so you may as wal see what you can make of peddlin'."
"Thank you, sir; I'll give you all I get, to pay for my time," began
Eli, glowing with pleasure at the prospect of seeing a little of the
world; for one of his most cherished dreams was to cross the blue hills
that hemmed him in, and find what lay beyond.
"Guess I can afford to give you all you'll make this trip," answered his
father, in a tone that made the brothers laugh again.
"Boys, don't pester Eli. Every one hasn't a call to farmin', and it's
wal to foller the leadin's of Providence when they come along," said the
mother, stroking the smooth, brown head at her knee; for Eli always went
to her footstool with his sorrows and his joys.
So it was settled, and next day the boy, in his home-spun and home-made
Sunday best, set off to see his employer and secure the job. He got it,
and for three days trudged up and down the steep roads, calling at every
house with a sample of his book, the Rev. John Flavel's treatise on
"Keeping the Heart." Eli's winning face, modest manner, and earnest
voice served him well, and he got many names; for books were scarce in
those days, and a pious work was a treasure to many a good soul who
found it difficult to keep the heart strong and cheerful in troublous
times.
Then the books were to be delivered, and, anxious to save his small
earnings, Eli hired no horse to transport his load, but borrowed a
stout, green shawl from his mother, and, with his pack on his back,
marched bravely away to finish his task. His wages were spent in a new
prayer-book for his mother, smart handkerchief-pins for the faithful
sisters, and a good store of paper for himself.
This trip was so successful that he was seized with a strong desire to
try a more ambitious and extended one; for these glimpses of the world
showed him how much he had to learn, and how pleasantly he could pick up
knowledge in these flights.
"What be you a-brewdin' over now, boy? Gettin' ready for the clock shop?
It's 'most time for winter work, and Terry says you do pretty wal at
puttin' together," said the farmer, a day or two after the boy's return,
as they sat at dinner, all helping themselves from the large pewter
platter heaped with pork and vegetables.
"I was wishin' I could go South with Gad Upson. He's been twice with
clocks and notions, and wants a mate. Hoadley fits him out and pays him
a good share if he does well. Couldn't I go along? I hate that old shop,
and I know I can do something better than put together the insides of
cheap clocks."
Eli spoke eagerly, and gave his mother an imploring look which brought
her to second the motion at once, her consent having been already won.
The brothers stared as if Eli had proposed to go up in a balloon, for to
them the South seemed farther off than Africa does nowadays. The father
had evidently been secretly prepared, for he showed no surprise, and
merely paused a moment to look at his ambitious son with a glance in
which amusement and reproach were mingled.