HEY were sitting by the great blazing wood-
fire. It was July, but there was an east wind
‘and the night was chilly. Besides, Mrs. Heath had
a piece of fresh pork to roast. Squire Blake had
“killed” the day before—that was the term used
to signify the slaughter of any domestic animal for
food —and had distributed the “fresh” to various
families in town, and Mrs. Heath wanted hers for.
the early breakfast. Meat was the only thing to be
had in plenty — meat and berries. Wheat and corn,
and vegetables even, were scarce. There had been
a long winter, and then, too, every family had sent
early in the season all they could possibly spare to
the Continental army. As to sugar and tea and
molasses, it was many a day since they had had
even the taste of them.
The piece of pork was suspended from the ceiling
by a stout string, and slowly revolved before the fire,
Dorothy or Arthur giving it a fresh start when it
showed signs of stopping. There was a settle at
right angles with the fireplace, and, here the little
cooks sat, Dorothy in the corner nearest the fire,
and Arthur curled up on the floor at her feet, where
he could look up the chimney and see the moon,
almost at the full, drifting through the sky. At
the opposite corner sat Abram, the hired man and

    
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
   

     
 
   

wa at oe Nard 9g merc ene cs ‘ :
rust “RED a. PGR een ee, z -—cT
COLE LLC wnt fo et eds — ne
if Ei a

 
 

A HERO.

(A Story of the American Revolution.)

 

By Mrs, Frances A. HuMPHREY

faithful keeper of the family in the absence of its
head, at work on an axe helve, while Bathsheba,
or “Basha,” as she was briefly and affectionately
called, was spinning in one corner of the room just
within range of the firelight.

There was no other light — the firelight being suffi-
cient for their needs—and it was necessary to
economize in candles, for any day a raid from the
royal army might take away both cattle and sheep,
and then where would the tallow come from for
the annual fall candle-making? There was a rumor
— Abram had brought it home that very day —that
the royal army were advancing, and red coats might
make their appearance in Hartland at any time.
Arthur and Dorothy were talking about it, as they
turned the roasting fork.

_“Wish I was a man,” said Arthur, glancing
towards his mother, who was sitting in a low splint
chair knitting stockings for her boy’s winter wear.
“T’d like to shoot a red coat.”

“OQ Arty!” exclaimed Dorothy reproachfully;
“you're always thinking of shooting! Now / should
like to nurse a sick soldier and wait upon him.
Poor soldiers! it was dreadful what papa wrote to
mamma about them.”

“Would you nurse a red coat?” asked Arthur,

indignantly. | 117