Fritz Davis played his
hand-organ. Sam handed the flag to me, and I put Sandy's brown hand on
it, and we waved it, and started cheers for the _Arrow_, as loud as we
could. When we rowed ashore, the boys put Sandy and me on their
shoulders, and rode us up to the house. Polly waved the Yarrow flag, and
Fritz ought to have played the "Conquering Hero," but he made a mistake,
and played the "Cruel War." Mr. May says he has no ear. That isn't the
matter though, for he has two, and big ones, too.

When we were changing our clothes, we four talked it all over. "By
thunder! Bob, I thought we had lost when you ate those corn balls, after
all that pie." I never saw Sandy so excited. He's a minister's son, and
pretty calm.

"Stuff! Bob has it in him, and nothing he eats makes any odds." Sam
thinks, because my father is a sailor, I can row. But father never rows
a stroke.

"Well, Sam, the next one, don't let us go into training. I've been
hungry ever since we began." Poor Nate had had a hard time of it,
because he and I have the biggest appetites at school, and he didn't
like rare beef, so he ate mighty little. He says he is always hungry,
excepting Thanksgiving afternoons.

"When shall we try again, boys?"

"Fourth of July; and I'll get my father to give a prize," and Sam hit on
the thing we all wanted--to try it again.

Mr. May invited all the boys and girls on our side of the river to stay
and have lemonade and cake. Sam bought all the corn balls Pat had left,
to celebrate the opening race and Mr. May's birthday. That's the way Mr.
May served the sneaking Wilsons and their five-cent crowd. But Sam heard
they said the cake was molasses gingerbread and the lemonade bitter, and
we are going to make the mean sneaks take back every word the next time
they bring the milk.

Mick said it was as well conducted a race as he ever saw; and Mr. May
said his birthday never had been so honored before; and Sandy and I want
to row just such another the coming Fourth of July.

THE LAST BATTLE OF THE REVOLUTION.

BY BENSON J. LOSSING.

Dr. Alexander Anderson, the father of wood-engraving in this country,
died in Jersey City, in 1870, a few weeks before his ninety-fifth
birthday. He was born in New York two days after the skirmish at
Lexington, and had vivid recollections of some of the closing incidents
of the Revolution in that city. From his lips the writer heard many
narratives of those stirring scenes. One of them was an a