On a June afternoon in 1697, the silent forests about the little village of Exeter felt an almost imperceptible stir of life, for through it there stealthily crept an Indian chief, followed by one and then another of his frightful band. Each dressed in tawny skins like the creatures of the wood and with adornment of feathers from the very birds, they seemed but a part of the forest life. No smoke of the camp fire floated through the green boughs, for in utmost secrecy these Indians took concealed positions to spring, in the early morning, upon the unguarded inhabitants of the town before they were astir.

Now it happened on that same afternoon while the sun shone alluringly upon the open fields, Patience Nutter dropped her wearisome patchwork and looked out of the window. A speck of red in the grass outside the house caught her attention. Her stint was not finished by several squares, yet the temptation of that strawberry was too great. Laying aside her work, she stepped out and popped the luscious red berry into her mouth. Beyond it she found a cluster of berries ripe and juicy. Step by step she was led into the open field fairly riotous in its growth of nodding red strawberries. It seemed as if she could not pick them fast enough.

"Patience!" came a call from the house. The little girl turned to see her mother in the doorway, holding up the unfinished piece of patchwork. Reluctantly she returned.

"Mother," she cried, as she entered the house, "will you go with me for some berries after I have finished my sewing? The field is full of them."

"Yes, child, we need some for supper. While you are sewing, I will step into Mrs. Wiggin's, for she will be glad to know that the berries are fully ripe."

Mrs. Nutter's news of the berries was of interest to Mrs. Wiggin and her daughters, who picked up their baskets to start for the field at once.

Anthony Wiggin, who was sorting his papers at his desk, shook his head with the warning:

"It is a great risk you run to go into that open field without a guard. Indians may even now be prowling about the woods."

Nevertheless the women started off for the strawberries. Little Patience, with the strip of patchwork dangling from her pocket, joined them so quickly that one could almost believe some large stitches had been taken on that last square.

When Anthony Wiggin had finished his work and each paper had been placed in its proper pigeon hole, he closed his desk.

"Hm," he muttered, glancing from the window at the women and children in the field, "they do not sense the danger we constantly live in, now that the French have stirred up the Indians. I believe I will frighten them with a shot, just as a warning."

He picked up his gun from the corner where it was kept in constant readiness and, stepping to the door, sent a bullet over the heads of the strawberry pickers, whizzing into the woods beyond.

Baskets and berries were dropped by the pickers in their fright and haste to get home, for their fears had been aroused by the words of Anthony Wiggin before they left the house. Patience, who had not sensed a possible danger, had wandered near to the woods where the berries were more abundant. Even after the sound of the gun, she lingered for a few more strawberries.

The shot acted like magic upon the inhabitants of Exeter, who took it for an alarm of danger. Men dropped plough or rein and seized their guns. Women followed with powder-horns and bullets. In less time than one could believe, an armed body was in the village centre ready to protect their homes.

That gun-shot carried its force still farther, for there in the woods beyond the strawberry field lay the Indians in ambush.

"We are discovered," reported their leader. The savages then bounded into the open to make their attack, only to find themselves faced by an armed body of men. Firing a few shots, the Indians then made a hasty retreat. One, however, seeing Patience running for home and yet not halfway across the field, dashed after her, caught the child in his arms, and followed the retreating band.

"Patience! Patience!" shrieked her mother. "She is captured! Oh, save her!" and the woman turned imploringly to her townsmen.

They started in an almost hopeless pursuit, for the speed of an Indian in the woods is hard to cope with. Some dropped out of the chase, but the swiftest and more persistent men kept at it, Anthony Wiggin in the lead.

Hours of agonizing horror then passed for Patience's mother as she pictured her own little girl in the cruel clutches of the savages. She could feel no possible hope of rescue. In the meantime the men continued a long and wearying chase, when suddenly a distant glimpse of an Indian was seen through the clearing. Anthony Wiggin, still ahead, sent a shot and soon after came upon little Patience alone in the woods.

It seems the Indians had stopped to parley, and when they renewed their flight, Patience had been picked up by the last savage in the line. As he roughly seized her, she caught at the patchwork dropping from her pocket and found her needle still in it. Her indignation had by this time risen beyond her fear. Quickly she thrust the needle so far into the Indian's neck that he instinctively dropped the child to pull it out. She ran back over the path they had followed, just as Wiggin's shot was heard. The Indian ran for his life.

As the full rising moon outlined the forest-tops to the people of Exeter, a triumphant shout came from the woods, and Patience, proudly shouldered by Anthony Wiggin, was placed in her mother's arms.