low the flow of
expostulation, criticism, or denunciation, to go on with gratification
to her, and perfect immunity to himself.

But this was not getting back to George Washington and the early
struggles of the Republic. So I returned to the commander-in-chief, but
found, after one or two leading questions, that she was rather inclined
to resent his re-appearance on the stage. Her reminiscences here were
chiefly social and local, and more or less flavored with Perkins. We got
back as far as the Revolutionary epoch, or, rather, her impressions of
that epoch, when it was still fresh in the public mind. And here I came
upon an incident, purely personal and local, but, withal, so novel,
weird, and uncanny, that for a while I fear it quite displaced George
Washington in my mind, and tinged the autumnal fields beyond with a red
that was not of the sumach. I do not remember to have read of it in the
books. I do not know that it is entirely authentic. It was attested to
me by mother and daughter, as an uncontradicted tradition.

In the little field beyond, where the plough still turns up musket-balls
and cartridge-boxes, took place one of those irregular skirmishes
between the militiamen and Knyphausen's stragglers, that made the
retreat historical. A Hessian soldier, wounded in both legs and utterly
helpless, dragged himself to the cover of a hazel-copse, and lay there
hidden for two days. On the third day, maddened by thirst, he managed
to creep to the rail-fence of an adjoining farm-house, but found himself
unable to mount it or pass through. There was no one in the house but
a little girl of six or seven years. He called to her, and in a faint
voice asked for water. She returned to the house, as if to comply
with his request, but, mounting a chair, took from the chimney
a heavily-loaded Queen Anne musket, and, going to the door, took
deliberate aim at the helpless intruder, and fired. The man fell back
dead, without a groan. She replaced the musket, and, returning to the
fence, covered the body with boughs and leaves, until it was hidden. Two
or three days after, she related the occurrence in a careless, casual
way, and leading the way to the fence, with a piece of bread and butter
in her guileless little fingers, pointed out the result of her simple,
unsophisticated effort. The Hessian was decently buried, but I could not
find out what became of the little girl. Nobody seemed to remember. I
trust, that, in after-years, sh