Ethel Morton at Sweetbriar Lodge Part 18

"From dusk till dawn the livelong night She kept the tallow dips alight, And fast her nimble fingers flew To sew the stars upon the blue.

With weary eyes and aching head She st.i.tched the stripes of white and red, And when the day came up the stair Complete across a carven chair Hung Betsy's battle flag.

"Like the shadows in the evening gray The Continentals filed away, With broken boots and ragged coats, But hoa.r.s.e defiance in their throats; They bore the marks of want and cold, And some were lame and some were old, And some with wounds untended bled, But floating bravely overhead Was Betsy's battle flag.

"When fell the battle's leaden rain, The soldier hushed his moan of pain And raised his dying head to see King George's troopers turn and flee.

Their charging column reeled and broke, And vanished in the rolling smoke, Before the glory of the stars, The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars Of Betsy's battle flag.

"The simple stone of Betsy Ross Is covered now with mold and moss, But still her deathless banner flies, And keeps the color of the skies, A nation thrills, a nation bleeds, A nation follows where it leads, And every man is proud to yield His life upon a crimson field For Betsy's battle flag."

"When was it that Was.h.i.+ngton made his historic visit to Betsy?" asked Roger of Helen.

"That was in June of 1776. A year later, on the fourteenth of June, 1777, Congress adopted the Stars and Stripes as our flag."

"That's why June 14th is celebrated as Flag Day, I suppose," said Ethel Blue.

"I think our flag has more meaning to it than any other flag in the world," declared Roger. "The thirteen stripes mean the thirteen original colonies, don't they?"

"There were thirteen stars at the beginning. They've added a star for every new state that has joined the Union."

"It certainly does make your heart beat to look at it, especially when you happen to come on it suddenly as Miss Bates said in those verses of hers that we had in our Peace Day Program on Lincoln's Birthday."

"A Russian sea-captain once told me it looked to him like a mosaic," Mrs.

Morton said.

"But every piece of the mosaic is full of meaning," said Ethel Blue, "and mosaics make beautiful pictures any way."

"There was a sad time ahead for Philadelphia in spite of Was.h.i.+ngton's successes at Trenton and Princeton," said Helen, taking up her story once more. "The Americans were successful in Vermont and northern New York, but in September, 1777, they were defeated at Brandywine Creek, and the British marched into Philadelphia a fortnight later and took possession of the town."

"Wasn't it about that time that the American army spent the winter at Valley Forge?" asked Margaret. "I seem to remember something about their living in a great deal of distress, such as the soldiers in Europe are enduring now."

"This was the time," confirmed Helen. "Grandfather has a few lines of Reed's here telling about it."

"Such was the winter's awful sight, For many a dreary day and night, What time our country's hope forlorn, Of every needed comfort shorn, Lay housed within a buried tent, Where every keen blast found a rent, And oft the snow was seen to sift Along the floor its piling drift, Or, mocking the scant blanket's fold, Across the night-couch frequent rolled; Where every path by a soldier beat, Or every track where a sentinel stood, Still held the print of naked feet, And oft the crimson stains of blood; Where Famine held her spectral court, And joined by all her fierce allies; She ever loved a camp or fort Beleaguered by the wintry skies,-- But chiefly when Disease is by, To sink frame and dim the eye, Until, with seeking forehead bent, In martial garments cold and damp, Pale Death patrols from tent to tent, To count the charnels of the camp.

Such was the winter that prevailed Within the crowded, frozen gorge; Such were the horrors that a.s.sailed The patriot band at Valley Forge."

"How long did the British hold the city?" asked Tom, after he had shaken his head over the Americans' troubles.

"Six or eight months," said Helen, "and you can imagine what a thrilling time it was for American girls like Sweet P. I can fancy them walking daintily along the street turning their heads aside when a British officer pa.s.sed them, as if he were too far beneath their notice for them even to glance at."

They all laughed at the picture that Helen's words drew.

"When Sir Henry Clinton evacuated Philadelphia in the middle of June, he started for New York. Was.h.i.+ngton followed him but did not win in the skirmish which they fought at Monmouth, New Jersey. The Indians on the western frontier had joined the British, and there was some terrible fighting there. Our fleet, as a general thing, was successful on the ocean. Clinton stayed for more than a year in New York City. Was.h.i.+ngton established himself just above the city where he could keep an eye on him."

"Wasn't that the time when my old friend, Anthony Wayne, stirred up a little excitement up the Hudson?" asked Roger.

"Yes, it was then he took Stony Point, which we saw when we went up the river to West Point. There was fighting in New Jersey and in the South, and the British seemed to be getting tired out."

"It was at the end of several sharply fought fields that Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown in Virginia, wasn't it?" inquired Roger.

Tom looked at him with exaggerated respect.

"It certainly is a great thing to be related to the Army and Navy. Here's Helen, a walking 'History of the Revolution,' and old Roger actually remembering something about Cornwallis's surrender!"

"Bah!" acknowledged Roger.

"They tell a story about the way that Philadelphia heard the news of the surrender," interposed the caretaker of the Betsy Ross house, who had been listening to the conversation. "There was an old German watchman walking the streets, and calling the hours through the night, as was the custom then. He cried out; 'Bast dree o'clock and Cornvallis ist daken.'

People who had turned over in bed growling when they had been awakened by him before, were only too thankful to hear his hoa.r.s.e voice croaking out the good news."

"That was in October, 1781," went on Helen, after nodding her thanks to the caretaker for his addition to the story. "It took a good many months for the British to leave the country, for transportation was a difficult matter at that time."

"I'll bet you the Americans were thankful to have peace," exclaimed James.

"It sounds to me very much as if the British were, too," said Roger. "Any country must be grateful for a rest from such long distress."

"Grandfather's poetry is by Freneau this time," said Helen. "I'm going to read you only two stanzas of it."

"The great unequal conflict past, The Britons banished from our sh.o.r.e, Peace, heaven-descended, comes at last, And hostile nations rage no more; From fields of death the weary swain Returning, seeks his native plain.

In every vale she smiles serene, Freedom's bright stars more radiant rise, New charms she adds to every scene, Her brighter sun illumes our skies.

Remotest realms admiring stand, And hail the HERO of our Land."

"Who is the Hero?" inquired Tom. "Was.h.i.+ngton, I suppose."

"Yes, indeed," said Helen. "These verses were written when he was traveling through Philadelphia on his way to Mt. Vernon."

"I know enough American history to tell you that he didn't stay there long," said Tom, proud of being able to bring forward one sure piece of information. "He was made President on his war record. That I do know."

They all applauded this contribution. The care-taker of the house again could not resist joining the conversation.

"The five years after the signing of the Treaty of Peace in 1783 were very critical years," he said. "The new country had almost no money and no definite policy, now that they had cut themselves free from England.

Somebody proposed a Federal Convention and it met here in Philadelphia in 1787."

"What did they want to do this time?" asked Margaret.

"Now they had to draw up some sort of Const.i.tution for the new country.

Was.h.i.+ngton was chosen President of the Convention and they worked from May until September in planning the Const.i.tution, which they nick-named the 'New Roof.'"

"Yes, I know about that," cried Helen. "Grandfather gave me a poem about that. He thought we'd be especially interested in it on account of Dorothy knowing so much about the building of a house,"--and she read them the old poem called 'The New Roof,' by Francis Hopkinson, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.

Come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools, Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules; Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line, And plenty of pins of American pine: _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,_ _Our government firm, and our citizens free._

Come, up with _the plates_, lay them firm on the wall, Like the people at large, they're the ground-work of all; Examine them well, and see that they're sound, Let no rotten part in our building be found: _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _A government firm, and our citizens free._

Now hand up the _girders_, lay each in its place, Between them the _joists_, must divide all the s.p.a.ce; Like a.s.semblymen _these_ should lie level along, Like _girders_, our senate prove loyal and strong: _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _A government firm over citizens free._

The rafters now frame; your _king-posts_ and _braces_, And drive your pins home, to keep all in their places; Let wisdom and strength in the fabric combine, And your pins be all made of American pine: _For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be_ _A government firm over citizens free._