rican Turtle 75
The Birthday of Our Nation 117
The Overthrow of the Statue of King George 127
Sleet and Snow 135
Patty Rutter: The Quaker Doll who slept in Independence Hall 151
Becca Blackstone's Turkeys at Valley Forge 159
How Two Little Stockings Saved Fort Safety 169
A Day and a Night in the Old Porter House 181

THE ONLY WOMAN IN THE TOWN.

One hundred years and one ago, in Boston, at ten of the clock one
April night, a church steeple had been climbed and a lantern hung
out.

At ten, the same night, in mid-river of the Charles, oarsmen two, with
passenger silent and grim, had seen the signal light out-swung, and
rowed with speed for the Charlestown shore.

At eleven, the moon was risen, and the grim passenger, Paul Revere,
had ridden up the Neck, encountered a foe, who opposed his ride into
the country, and, after a brief delay, had gone on, leaving a British
officer lying in a clay pit.

At midnight, a hundred ears had heard the flying horseman cry, "Up and
arm. The Regulars are coming out!"

You know the story well. You have heard how the wild alarm ran from
voice to voice and echoed beneath every roof, until the men of
Lexington and Concord were stirred and aroused with patriotic fear for
the safety of the public stores that had been committed to their
keeping.

You know how, long ere the chill April day began to dawn, they had
drawn, by horse power and by hand power, the cherished stores into
safe hiding-places in the depth of friendly forest-coverts.

There is one thing about that day that you have _not_ heard and I will
tell you now. It is, how one little woman staid in the town of
Concord, whence all the women save her had fled.

All the houses that were standing then, are very old-fashioned now,
but there was one dwelling-place on Concord Common that was
old-fashioned even then! It was the abode of Martha Moulton and "Uncle
John." Just who "Uncle John" was, is not known to the writer, but he
was probably Martha Moulton's uncle. The uncle, it appears by record,
was eighty-five years old; while the niece was _only_ three-score and
eleven.

Once and again that morning, a friendly hand had pulled the
latch-string at Martha Moulton's kitchen entrance and offered to
convey