mselves, after
the fashion of their stalwart Anglo-Saxon forefathers. One of Farmer
Eaton's boys, named William, was born February 23, 1764, and was a
high-spirited, clever, reckless little chap, keeping his mother
continually in a state of anxiety on his account; indeed, if she had not
been so used to boys with their pranks and unlimited thirst for
adventures, I think Bill would have been the death of her, for she never
knew what he would be about next. For all his love of sport and out-door
amusement, the boy was so fond of reading that he nearly always managed
to conceal a book in his pocket when he went out to work in the fields
or woods, and often, when left alone, or when his companions stopped for
rest or meals, Bill would steal time to read. When his elders caught him
at it he would often get soundly scolded for not being better employed,
but the very next chance he would be at it again.

One Sunday, when he was ten years old, he was returning from church, and
passing a tree laden with tempting red cherries, climbed up in his usual
reckless fashion to help himself; but either the branch broke or he lost
his footing, for he fell to the ground with such violence that he
dislocated his shoulder, besides being so stunned that he lay senseless
for several days after he was picked up and carried home. The neighbors
came in to offer their services when they heard of the accident, for
though they no doubt shook their heads and remarked, "I told you so," "I
knew how it would be," they were, all the same, very kind to the poor
little chap who lay there, white and death-like, for so many long hours.

A neighbor, who was a tanner by trade, was sitting by his bed when at
last he opened his eyes. I suppose the tanner was glad enough to see the
boy come to life again; but all he said was, "Do you love cherries,
Bill?"

"Do you love _hides_?" spoke up Bill, as quick as a flash.

You see, he came to the full possession of his senses at once after his
long sleep, and wasn't going to let himself be taken at a disadvantage
by any tanner in the land.

When Eaton was twelve our country declared itself free and independent,
and all true patriots rose up to defend, by sword or whatever other
means was in their power, the sacred cause of liberty.

Our young friend Bill fairly burned with desire to go off and do
something great. His soul was on fire with patriotic ardor. How could he
stay quietly in Woodstock, and lead a humdrum li