"This, my little Dick, is a fine holiday for us," exclaimed Mrs. Waldron as she lifted her baby from his hooded crib. "Your father has promised an outing, and you shall go with us to the farm far up the river. Some day, my little boy, you shall gather the strawberries there yourself, and play in the hay, and hunt for eggs."

As she tossed her baby while she chatted, he seemed to be caught in mid-air by the tall soldierly gentleman who had entered. After a moment of play, Mrs. Waldron turned soberly to her husband.

"Now, Richard, will you use every argument possible to persuade Madam Ursula Cutt to return with us to Portsmouth? The French have so stirred the Indians in the East that it is not safe for her to remain on that remote farm."

"She has insisted," protested Col. Waldron, "that the haying must be done first. Until the crop is safely stored, it will be hard to start her. However, the weather has been warm and dry, so it may even now be done. Our boat is ready, can you go soon?"

It was a wonderful July day in 1694. Mrs. Waldron followed her husband down the garden slope to the sparkling river and had already passed little Dick into his arms while she stepped into the boat. A servant, hurrying over the arbored path, announced—

"Your friends from the Manor have arrived and are waiting to see you."

"Oh, Richard," came in disappointed tones from Mrs. Waldron, "we cannot take our trip. They have come so far we must offer them at least a day's hospitality."

Regretfully they turned and cordially received their guests. The plans for entertainment crowded out all thought of the river trip and a day on the farm.

The farm two miles up the river belonged to Madam Ursula Cutt. It was a busy place, while the Waldrons were detained at home that July morning. Madam Cutt was over-seeing her household affairs as well as keeping a watchful eye on the hay-makers at work in the field. The maid at the washtub remarked, as her mistress stepped to the door with basket and scissors to gather flowers.

"Dover has felt the fury of the Indians. They may yet come down the river!"

"It may be well for us to move into town as soon as the haying is done," Madam Cutt replied, and passed on to the garden.

The maid rinsed the white linen and lifting a basketful stepped out to spread it on the grass to dry. With the awful fear of Indians still on her mind, she peered through the trees to the river, half expecting to see the dreaded creatures bounding up the bank.

The clothes were spread on the green when her piercing gaze caught a strange movement of the water. A second look discerned the curve of a canoe. Madam Cutt was off in the flower garden. The hay-makers were in the fields. There was scarcely a moment in which to find shelter. Darting into the grape arbor, the maid then crept behind bushes and through uncut grass to the river slope around the bend. At last she was hidden from the farm-site. On she sped with all haste toward the town. There was a gap of water to be crossed. She found a boat and pulled at the oars in the direction of Portsmouth.

While the Waldrons and their guests in the Portsmouth home were gaily chatting at the table, cries of "The Indians! The Indians!" were shrieked through the hall, and the terrified girl in working clothes rushed in exhausted.

As soon as she recovered her voice, she poured forth brokenly, "The Indians—I ran—They didn't see me!"

"But Madam Cutt, where is she?" asked Col. Waldron.

"She was in the garden! She must be killed! There was no time! I hid in the bushes, crept over the meadow, and ran to the point, where I found a boat!"

Col. Waldron ordered his horse and in a short time had gathered a force and hastened to the farm. It was all too true. The Indians had made their attack. Madam Ursula Cutt had been killed and robbed of her jewels. The three hay-makers had been shot, and their scalps taken for trophies.

But little Dick, who might have been there, was safely rocked in his own cradle that night and saved to become Secretary Waldron, an important man in New Hampshire history.