way—a tall, straight figure in gray crinoline—between the pink clouds
that the apple blooms made, and then out of sight.
Small Patience Arnold, a little brown-eyed lass who had seen eight
summers in the quaint, white-walled town of Lexington, watched her
mother. Then she leaned back in the stiff, wooden chair that was so much
too high for her, drawing a weary little sigh. It was very dull, indeed,
and stupid to stay in the bare kitchen. All outdoors, the first bees,
the robins, and the perfume of the apple trees called her. Oh, if she
might only drop her sewing to the floor, and run out to the garden,
darting in and out among the trees like a bluebird in her straight frock
of indigo-dyed homespun. If she might only sing in her sweet, clear
voice, above the hum of bees and birds, the songs that her mother
knew—the songs of merry old England where every one was happy, and
everything was gay!
But, no, she must not go. There was the square of rough cloth in her
hand, and the sticky needle, and the thread that would knot in spite of
Patience’s care. Every little girl in Lexington had finished a sampler,
and some of them two, by the time they were nine. She must hurry, for
the afternoon was wearing away. Soon the sun would drop behind the
orchard. Such a long name it was to sew—Patience Arnold.
Patience took up her needle again and began to count the stitches and
embroider the letters, P. A. T. There were so many of the letters, and
they were very crooked, for all the world like the new minutemen whom
her father drilled on the village green when it was dusk. No one saw the
minutemen march and countermarch, and no one could hear their feet in
the soft grass. Patience laughed to herself, a merry little trill of a
laugh, as she bent over the letters of her work.
“You are Mistress Anderson’s lad who has such long legs and thinks he
will be the captain of the militia some day.”
Patience pointed to the A.
“And you—” She put her needle in the T.
But a long shadow lay across the doorsill. There were other shadows on
the grass outside. Where had they come from? Why, the orchard was full
of soldiers. One stood, even now, in front of Patience—a most gallant
gentleman in scarlet broadcloth and gold lace, holding his cocked hat in
his hand and smiling down at the little girl.
“So the bumpkins of this little town of Lexington, too, have taken upon
themselves the gentle art of soldiering. It is high time that his
Majesty interfered.”
The man seemed to speak to himself. Then he bent so low over the little
girl in her straight-backed chair that the gilt fringe which dangled
from his epaulets brushed Patience’s cheek.
“Such a pretty little lass, and so industrious, as she sits alone in
this great house—”
He paused, watching Patience’s trembling little brown fingers. She was
frightened by this emissary of the King. Then he continued, “I would ask
shelter for my men.”
He pointed to a score of soldiers in red coats who swarmed the dooryard
now, laughing, brawling, and trampling on Mistress Arnold’s beds of
savory herbs.
“The day is warm, and we have had a long march from Boston town. I would
that my men might lie and rest a space on the cool hay of your barn, my
little lady. We have tried the door, but we find it barred, and the key
is missing from the padlock. Will you give me the key, little maid?”
Patience bent lower over her work as the last words came from the man’s
lips. Reaching in her homespun pocket for the key which her mother had
given her, she clasped it in her hand and held it underneath the sampler
as she stitched the letters once more. For a second she did not speak.
It seemed as if her throat was burning. Her lips were dry with fear.
Then she looked up, smiling a wistful little smile.
“No, kind sir. I can not give you the key.”
“Oho, so the little lady is stubborn.”
The man crossed to the door and motioned to the waiting soldiers
outside. In a second they had obeyed his summons, swarming Mistress
Brewster’s clean kitchen and covering the spotless floor with the dust
of the high road.
“Search the house!” commanded their leader. “Yonder stubborn girl is
tongue-tied, and stubborn. She will neither give up the key, nor tell me
where it is. Overturn the chests of drawers; tear up the carpets, break
down the doors, spare nothing, I say, but bring me the key of yonder
barn.”
No sooner were the words spoken than the work of pillage began. Sounds
of doors and hinges wrenched from their places, the tramp of rough boots
on the floor above her head, the rattle of chests told the frightened
little Patience that the work of searching the house had begun. It
seemed to her that the key would burn its way straight through her palm,
so hot it was. Her hands trembled, and her eyes filled with tears so
that she could scarcely see her needle. But still she stitched, never
leaving her chair, nor lifting her white little face.
The soldier who had given the command remained in the kitchen pacing
restlessly up and down, his arms folded, and a frown deepening on his
forehead.
“P. A. T. I. E. N.”—Patience was nearing the edge of the sampler, and it
was with difficulty that she stitched because of the key that lay
underneath the cloth. The letters were, indeed, crooked and straggling,
and lacking the precision of even those that spelled the text. There was
no sound in the room, now, save the ticking of a tall clock and the
tread of the soldier’s feet.
Suddenly the soldier in command stopped in front of Patience’s chair and
laid a heavy hand on her little bare, brown arm. He spoke, and the words
were full of anger.
“Enough of this nonsense! Give me the key, I say. I will have it!”
[Illustration: “‘GIVE ME THE KEY I SAY’”]
Patience slipped out of her chair and down to the floor, holding her
sampler, covering the hidden key, as high as the man’s eyes. He loosed
his grasp upon her arm, looking at her in wonder. Such a little lass, in
her straight blue frock, and not as tall as his own little girl in
England. She had the same soft eyes, though, and the same low, sweet
voice.
“I would gladly give you what you wish, sir,” she began bravely, “but I
promised my mother I would deliver the key to no one until she returned.
Look!” She held the sampler still higher. “I am stitching my name. Is it
not a stupid task on such a pretty day?”
“_A soft answer turneth away wrath._” The man read the text at the top
of the sampler. Then he looked out of the window and farther than the
apple trees.
“It is indeed neatly stitched, little lass,” he said. “My own Elizabeth
is even now making her sampler, and wetting it with tears until I return
to her, overseas.”
He gave a quick command to his men, who filed down the stairs, empty
handed, and into the garden. Then he raised his hat in salute, and
followed them as they marched slowly down the road and farther than
Patience could see.
“My little girl—my Patience—are you safe?”
It was Mistress Arnold who ran across the orchard and into the kitchen,
clasping the trembling little lass in her arms. “We saw the red coats
from Mistress Brewster’s window and knew that they had been here. But
you are unharmed—and the guns—the powder?”
“I spoiled my sampler, mother,” Patience gave a sobbing laugh as she
held up her work with the crookedly stitched ending, and the unfinished
name. “It is as you feared. I started my name too near the border and
there is no room to finish it, but”—she held out the precious bit of
iron, “here is the key.”
Sampler
A Soft Answer
Turneth Away Wrath
ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQ
RSTUVWXYZ123456789
Patience Arnold
THE STAR LADY
From Tabitha Wells, aged ten, at Philadelphia, in the year 1776, to her
cousin John Bradford, at Boston—a letter.
“My Dear John:
“It does seem more than a month ago that I said good-bye to you, and you
took your long journey home again. Your visit was a bright spot in these
troubled times. Do you remember the pair of robins that we watched
building their nest in grandmother’s old apple tree. They have raised
their brood of young ones now and the little birds have flown away. The
old birds still live in the apple tree, though, and each day at sunrise
and sunset they sing as if all the world were gay instead of fallen into
this sad Revolution. And the early apples are as red as the coat of a
British soldier and are dropping all over the grass of the garden.
“Grandmother gave me a pewter canister that used to hold tea—she knew it
would be a long time before we have any more tea to put in it. I have
filled it full of apples, one layer of fruit and then one of leaves to
keep them from bruising. It is as sweet smelling as our garden, John,
where you played with me so many happy days this spring. It is for you;
the apples shall go to you by the next packet.
“But here I am writing you of such everyday matters as robins and
apples, and wasting paper which is rising in price, and using up one of
my grandfather’s best quill pens and his ink stone. I had other things
in mind to tell you, John, when I started this letter—things of far
greater importance.
“Strange happenings have come to your cousin Tabitha Wells in
Philadelphia since she said goodbye to you, John. I feel as if I, a
little girl of only ten summers, and not as learned as I should be, were
of a part with these great and stirring times in the Colonies.
“To wit, as the barristers say. And now, my dear John, I will tell my
story.
“I mind that we played so much at home when you visited me, John, that I
had no time to take you to the little upholstery shop on Arch Street,
near grandmother’s house, which is my special delight.
“It is kept by one Mistress Betsy Ross, not much more than a grown-up
girl. They say she is little past twenty in years, and she has a great
pleasure in letting me visit and watch her at work. Her husband was a
brave young patriot of our Colonies and was but a brief space since
killed. Mrs. Betsy always helped him in his shop and now that he will be
there no longer, and she being most skillful with her needle, she is
carrying on the work of the shop herself.
“When I have finished wiping the dinner service for grandmother, I often
ask leave to go down for the rest of the afternoon to the shop of
Mistress Betsy. I mind that we are both of us lonely; I, the only child
in so quiet a house as this in which my father left me when he joined
the army; and she a slim, sweet lady, all alone in her shop.
“Such pretty stuffs as she has, John! If you were a girl your eyes would
stick out for envy, and your fingers ache for scissors and needle. She
gave me a bit of yellow satin brocade, picked out with a pattern of
butterflies. I made a court dress of it for my wooden doll—although
grandmother says such finery is not for a doll even in these days.
“But here I am letting my quill go wandering again, John. It is not of
my doll that I am minded to write you, but of the important thing that
happened in the shop of Mistress Betsy Ross this summer time. I was
there, John. I saw it with my own eyes.
“Mistress Betsy was fitting new covers to grandmother’s best
fiddle-backed chairs, and I had come down to her shop to see if they
were done. It chanced that they were, but I lingered a while for
Mistress Betsy was busying herself at what she likes best to do. She was
stitching a flag.
“You know, of course, John, that each of our American Colonies has its
own flag, each of a different design, although they all favor the same
colors, red, and white, and blue. Such days as these, when troops are
marching to war, there is need of many flags, and so Mistress Betsy is
as busy stitching them as she is in making her furniture covers. So
quick and deft, she is, John.
“I wish you could but see how neatly she sews together the colors, and
stitches on the designs. No scrap of cloth is wasted, and each flag that
Mistress Betsy makes is quite perfect in shape and pattern. I mind that
the packet had just brought Mistress Betsy some bundles of fresh stuff
for her flag-making, red and blue, and she was looking it over as she
spoke to me:
“‘Tabitha, child,’ Mistress Betsy said to me, ‘it would save me much
time and work if I had one pattern for a flag. It tries my patience
sorely to keep in my thoughts and at my fingers’ ends the patterns of
thirteen.’
“‘So think I.’ The voice of a man surprised us, and we looked up to see
a very grand gentleman standing in the door of the shop and looking at
us. ‘I heard your speech just now, Mistress Ross,’ he said, ‘and it is
even upon such an errand that I come to you. The Continental Congress is
of a mind to adopt one flag that will be the flag of freedom and the
emblem of the brave; one banner for the Colonies. The fame of your fine
needlework has come to our ears, Mistress Ross, and we are here to
consult with you in the matter.’
“The gentleman, very fine indeed in his blue broadcloth and gold lace,
stepped into the little shop now, and behind him were other gentlemen in
the uniform of the Colonies.
“I confess, John, that I was a bit awed, and I hid myself behind
Mistress Betsy’s tall clock, where I could hear but not be seen. You see
I was in my linsey-woolsey frock, not dressed for company. Mistress
Betsy wore her long working apron over her chintz short gown, but she
curtsied with great ease.
[Illustration: “‘I COULD HEAR BUT NOT BE SEEN’”]
“‘You honor me, Mr. Washington,’ Mistress Betsy said. ‘I have been long
of a desire to put my needle into one flag, and one only. What might be
your wishes and that of the Congress in the pattern of this flag?’
“So this was the great Mr. Washington! My heart went pit-a-pat, John, as
loudly it seemed to me as sounded the ticking of the clock. I tried to
hold it quiet as I listened to Mr. Washington’s every word.
“‘We have not made any fixed design for an American flag, Mistress
Ross,’ Mr. Washington said. ‘We feel that all the thirteen colonies
should, in some way, have notice in it, and I have a great desire that
there should be stars.’
“He took a quill from Mistress Betsy’s secretary and began making
drawings on a piece of paper. Mistress Betsy looked over his shoulder
and watched his long fingers, trying to see what manner of a flag he was
designing.
“‘See, Mistress Ross,’ Mr. Washington said, ‘I should like stars like
this one.’ He held up his drawing.
“Mistress Betsy took the drawing and looked at it, turning it first one
way, and then the other. I came out from behind the clock and looked,
too, for I was of a curious mind about this new flag. Oh, John, if you
could have seen the strange, crooked star that Mr. Washington had drawn!
He is a great soldier and statesman, without doubt, but he is not a
draughtsman. I saw Mistress Betsy’s eyes twinkle, but she was quite
sober and respectful when she spoke.
“‘You have your eyes on your men, Mr. Washington, during your night
marches, not on the stars. Your star is drawn with six points, and it
should have only five points. May I be so bold as to show you how to
make a five-pointed star?’
“Then Mistress Betsy picked up a scrap of white cloth, folded it deftly
into five parts, made one snip with her scissors and opened it. There
was a perfect star with five points!
“Mr. Washington took it, and as he looked at it his stern face changed,
and he smiled. Then he bowed as he turned to go.
“‘Well done, Mistress Ross,’ he said. ‘I have the idea of an American
flag in my mind, but you have it in your fingers. Put your wits to the
task of designing a flag to submit to the Congress, and I hope that the
Colonies will see fit to adopt it. Good afternoon, Mistress of Flags!’
and Mr. Washington and his gentlemen had gone.
“Oh, John, how excited we were then! Mistress Ross took my hands in hers
and she danced like a girl with me about the shop. Then she sat down in
her big wooden rocking chair and took me in her lap. She put her arms
around me and pulled my head close to hers. I thought she was going to
cry as she spoke:
“‘Tabitha Wells,’ she said. ‘The chance has come to me to do something
for my country. My husband died for the Colonies, but I, who must live,
may perhaps make the flag that will wave in remembrance of him and of
all the other patriots!’
“And I, knowing how she felt, could only hug her, not speaking because
of a great choking in my throat.
“But we soon realized that it was not a time for tears, but for doing.
Mistress Betsy jumped up, and thrust her hands deep into her colored
stuffs.
“‘Only three colors for the flag of our country, Tabitha,’ she said,
‘red for the blood of her patriots, and blue for her truth, and white
for her purity. But now, for the design?’ She laid the pieces of cloth
together and tried them this way, and that.
“Oh, how we puzzled our minds, John, over that flag. Or Mistress Betsy
did, while I looked on, and clapped my hands in pride for her. I forgot
the time. It grew late, and grandfather had to come for me, but I went
again the next day to Mistress Betsy’s shop, and for many days to watch
her plan the pattern of our one flag.
“You see, my dear John, it was no easy task. Mr. Washington had said
that he was of a mind to have the thirteen Colonies represented in it.
Mistress Betsy, herself, was always of a mind to make her needlework
good to look at because of its simplicity. So she cut, and stitched, and
ripped, and then stitched again. It was a weary work and lasted through
the burning of many candles, but at last Mistress Betsy finished her
flag.
“Oh, John, if you could but see it! It is plain, which the better shows
its bright colors of red, and white, and blue. It has seven long red
stripes and six long white stripes, making thirteen in all, for the
thirteen colonies. As I look at the stripes they mind me of the long way
our Colonies are taking to their freedom. Then, in one corner of the
flag is a large piece of blue cloth, and sewed to it with Mistress
Betsy’s tiny stitches are thirteen stars. The stars are for our
Colonies, too. Like stars, they will shine.
“And now comes the amazing part of this letter, which has tried you, I
fear, with all its quill scratching. Mr. Washington is so greatly
pleased with Mistress Betsy’s endeavor to carry out his wishes that her
flag is to be adopted by the Congress. It will be our American flag
forever, and ever. I, Tabitha Wells, know the sweet lady who made it. I
can scarcely wait for my father to come home to tell him about it. The
flag of our Union, John, and made here in Philadelphia and in the shop
of my Mistress Betsy. I am going to call her my Star Lady after this.
[Illustration: COLONIAL SPINNING WHEEL AND CLOCK]
“Your patience has been tried, dear John, I fear, in reading this long
letter. I have had trouble with my quill, which would not travel over
the paper as fast as my thoughts come. I hear that you are having
stirring times in Boston, and I pray that you are safe, and well. I
shall count the days until your letter comes.
“As soon as I can I will have a small flag made for you in the Star
Lady’s shop. Perhaps I can send it by the same packet as the apples. So,
you will remember Philadelphia well, John, by the fruit of our garden
and by the first American flag.
“Your cousin,
“Tabitha Wells.”
THE FLAG OF THEIR REGIMENT
Prudence looked up from her sewing. It was a pleasant place to work, out
there in the morning sunshine that trickled through the big white
pillars of the broad piazza. The wide street was overarched by the leafy
branches of the spreading elms, but the houses that lined the streets
were strangely empty of life.
It was in Philadelphia in the long, long-ago time of the Revolution.
Prudence was a quaint, demure little Colonist girl. In all her eleven
years she had known nothing save the daily routine of the simple home;
the scouring of floors, the polishing of copper kettles and brass
andirons and mahogany chairs, the making of huge loaves of bread and
yellow butter and round cheeses, the bleaching of linen, and the
patching together of gay blocks of colored cloth to make log-cabin and
morning-star bed quilts.
Sometimes there was a quilting bee or donation party at the minister’s
to attend. These, with their feasts of rich preserves and pound cake,
and the children’s table set after the grown-ups had finished, were
wonderful parties for Prudence. Usually, though, her days were very much
alike. She helped her mother and studied her lessons from school books
in queer wooden covers, and stitched her sampler when the studying was
done.
[Illustration: COLONIAL SILVER]
It was not a cross-stitch sampler, though, that Prudence was working on
so busily now. Her needle flew in and out as she stitched together with
even small stitches some long straight strips of red calico and white
cotton. In her lap lay some star-shaped pieces of plain white cotton
calico. The edges were neatly turned in and basted ready for sewing upon
a square of blue calico cloth that Prudence had just cut.
“Put up your work! It’s too pleasant a day to sew.”
Prudence looked up and saw a boy standing in front of her—her neighbor,
William Brewster. The hair of each of these little Philadelphia children
was cut short and square. They had the same round, rosy faces.
Prudence’s short-sleeved, short-waisted frock and William’s ruffled
shirt were both cut from the same cloth. It was green and white checked
gingham from Deacon Wells’ store. From beneath William’s long trousers
and Prudence’s skirt showed the same stout shoes with copper tips on the
toes.
William ran up the steps of the piazza and pulled Prudence’s sewing.
“Oh, William!” Prudence gasped. “Be careful; you’ll soil the white
cotton I fear. What ails your hands? I never saw them so stained before
in all my life.”
William dropped down on the top step and held up his two brown hands in
the sunlight, laughing merrily.
“You are indeed right, Prudence,” he said. “My hands need a dose of my
mother’s good soft soap, but”—the boy’s voice dropped to a whisper—“all
this morning I have been busy digging holes in the orchard.”
“Why?” Prudence’s blue eyes were wide with wonder. William got up now
and looked all about him to see that no one was listening. Then he
whispered in Prudence’s ear.
“For burying the silver,” he explained. “We packed it all in a strong
box; my grandmother’s teaspoons, the silver cake basket with the design
of strawberries around the edge, and the sugar tongs. We buried them
all; oh, very deeply.”
“Was it necessary, William?” Prudence’s eyes were frightened as she
spoke. “I know that my mother, before she had to take to her bed with
the ague, planned to hide our silver in the well that is dried out.
Are—are the Red Coats coming through Philadelphia soon?”
“They do say that they are coming. I am very fearful,” William answered.
Then, as Prudence’s pink cheeks grew a little pale at the thought, the
boy pointed to her sewing.
“What are you stitching, Prudence? Surely you are not going to dress
yourself in these gaudy colors? It would scarcely be right in these hard
times.”
Prudence laughed, shaking out the strips of scarlet and white that
filled her lap.
“No, indeed, William. Dark colors and plain frocks must be worn by us
children of the war. I am making a flag. Our great, beautiful stars and
stripes of the Colonies went to our regiment with father and your
brother John. But I went down to the flag shop of Mrs. Betty Ross not
long ago, and I stood awhile on the threshold, watching how she and her
maids cut and sewed their red, white, and blue cloth together. I said to
myself, ‘why not make your own flag, Prudence Williams? You have ten
fingers and a piece bag up in the attic.’ And here it is, all done but
sewing on the little white stars.”
“Oh, Prudence!” William’s eyes shone.
“It is wonderful! How did you ever measure and sew it so well? I always
did say that you are the most clever girl with your needle of any in
town.”
“It _is_ carefully made,” Prudence assented, “but that is because I
thought of my regiment with every stitch. And I wished that I might
march in the regiment beside my father, waving my flag, and shouting for
the independence of our dear Colonies at every step. Oh, it is hard,
William, to be a girl in this time of the Revolution, with nothing to do
but sit at home.”
[Illustration: “‘IT IS HARD, WILLIAM, TO BE A GIRL ... WITH NOTHING TO
DO BUT SIT AT HOME’”]
“That it is,” William said, “but now let’s go in the house and delve in
your cooky crock, Prudence. Perhaps your cook has filled it with her
good caraway cakes,” and the two little neighbors disappeared through
the great white door of the old house.