A tall, portly-looking man stood on a table in the midst of a crowd of farmer-like individuals, haranguing them in an energetic manner regarding the crisis in affairs of the country. He was dressed in the scarlet and buff regimentals of a British officer, although, like the most of his audience, he was a resident of the neighborhood. The time was that important period in the history of our country just succeeding the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill, when every man felt called upon to decide the part he should take in the contest which all saw was impending. The place was the vicinity of Scoharie Kill, a branch of the Mohawk river, in the State of New York. The persons, George Mann, a loyalist of great wealth, three of the king's Commissioners, and the yeomanry of the neighborhood, from the gray-haired man of sixty winters, to the youth of sixteen and eighteen summers: in fact, all the male population of the Scoharie valley capable of bearing arms. The king had "honored" Mann with a Captain's commission, and the Commissioners had called the people together for the purpose of administering the oath of allegiance and recruiting from their number a company, to the command of which Mann was to be assigned. They had been ordered to bring their arms with them, and a large majority had done so. Their equipments were as varied as their opinions—and these were of many shades—from the determined and bitter Tory, through the various degrees of loyalty to the wavering and undecided; and thence to the lukewarm, warm, devoted, and ardent Whig. Such as had taken the oath were adorned with a piece of scarlet cloth stuck in their hats; while some, more enthusiastic than others, wore scarlet caps. All these were enrolled and mustered under arms, preparatory to receiving the drill from their new Captain. Many of the lukewarm and undecided took the oath of allegiance from fear of consequences. There were but a limited few bold and determined enough to abjure the oath and all allegiance to the king. Of this number were Nicholas Stemberg and William Dietz, who had been so earnest in their denunciations of the tyranny and injustice of the mother country, that, when they left for home on the evening of the first day, they were assailed with denunciations of vengeance. They were proclaimed as traitors, and threatened with a nocturnal visit by the bitterest among those whom the occasion had shown to be their enemies. Fearing these threats would be put into execution, Stemberg spent the night in the woods, while his family were trembling with fear at home. On his return to that home in the morning, he was agreeably disappointed to find it undisturbed, and, with his neighbor Dietz, again repaired to the parade, with an unaltered determination, however, to take no obligation of allegiance. They found, on arriving at Mann's house, that upward of one hundred were enrolled and scattered about the grounds; while others, who had not made up their minds upon which side they should range themselves, were listening to an ardent harangue from the Captain. Mounted on a table, and dressed in all the paraphernalia of war, he was alternately coaxing, wheedling, and urging them to take part in the raid against rebellion, commanding those who had already enrolled themselves, and threatening dire vengeance, confiscation of property, imprisonment and death, against those who dared to side with the rebels. The hour seemed propitious, and the loyal Captain was carrying every thing before his storm of eloquence and denunciations, when, in the twinkling of an eye, a storm of a different kind burst upon his head, which scattered to the winds the results of all his efforts. News of the Captain's labors had been conveyed to Albany, and while he was in the midst of one of his most earnest appeals, two hundred horsemen, under command of Captain Woodbake, made their appearance, tearing up the road, with sabers drawn and determination flashing from their eyes. One glance was all-sufficient for the doughty Captain, and the next moment—his coat-skirts flying in the wind, his queue sticking straight out behind him—he was on his way to the shelter of the neighboring woods as fast as his legs could carry him. His followers were immediately transformed into firm and devoted patriots, except a certain few who had been such enthusiastic Tories that they could not hope to escape merited punishment, and these pursued their flying commander. The scarlet badges disappeared in the most sudden and unaccountable manner, and when Captain Woodbake and his party reached the spot where the loyal Captain had stood, he found none but Whigs to receive him. His object, therefore—the dispersion of the meeting without bloodshed—was accomplished, and he proceeded to proclaim the rule of Congress. Before doing so, however, he gave orders that Mann should be taken, either dead or alive. There were plenty willing to undertake this task, and patrols were soon stationed in every direction, so that it was nearly impossible for him to escape.

Among others who volunteered for this duty, was Lambert, the eldest son of Nicholas Stemberg, a lad of fifteen or sixteen years. He was stationed by the side of one of those structures called barracks, so often seen in a new country, consisting of a thatch supported on four posts over a stack of wheat or hay. The youth was proud of his trust, desiring nothing more earnestly than to meet with the Captain and take him prisoner. During the afternoon, a violent thunder-storm arose, and to shelter himself from its inclemencies, the young sentry climbed to the top of the stack, where, to his astonishment, he found the loyal fugitive snugly ensconced. Presenting his musket to his breast, he informed him that his orders were to take him, dead or alive—and he must surrender or be shot. The Captain, whose courage and lofty bearing had left him simultaneously with the appearance of Woodbake, begged hard for his life, and besought the young patriot to allow him to escape; for, if taken prisoner, he would be hung by the militia men to the first tree, without shrift or absolution. Stemberg replied that his orders were imperative, and he dared not disobey them. But Mann implored for mercy in such piteous tones—reminding him that he was a neighbor, had never done him harm, had ever been kind to him, &c., &c.—that a violent struggle took place in the breast of the young soldier between his duty and his sympathy. He could not shoot him in cold blood, and he would not surrender; so, to compromise the matter with himself, he proposed to fire his musket in token of alarm, that others might come and take his prisoner. This was earnestly objected to by the Captain, who saw the struggle going on in his captor's breast, and determined to take advantage of it. Watching his opportunity, therefore, when his attention was removed from him, and a violent clap of thunder covered his movement, he slipped off the stack, and sliding down one of the posts, made a rapid retreat for the mountains. Stemberg, as in duty bound, fired his musket at him, but was not sorry that his shot was fruitless. The report soon brought others to the spot, and after hearing the story of the tender-hearted sentinel, they immediately started in pursuit of the fugitive, who had many narrow escapes, but finally eluded their vigilance and hid himself in the fastnesses of the hills, where he remained for two weeks. He was induced, at the end of that time, to surrender, upon the condition that he should not suffer personal injury. He was taken to Albany, where he was kept a close prisoner until the end of the war, when he again returned to his estate, and, becoming a firm Republican, ended his days there.

Those who think young Stemberg's neighborly feelings made him too lenient toward the humiliated loyalist, will be better pleased with the following record of the resolute manner in which another lad captured and controlled a couple of desperadoes.

On a fine May morning, 1780, as the family of Sheriff Firman, of Freehold county, New Jersey, was at breakfast, a breathless soldier burst into the room, stating that as he and another were conducting to the court-house two men, taken up on suspicion at Colt's Neck, they had knocked down his comrade, seized his musket, and escaped. The Sheriff, on hearing this relation, mounted his horse and galloped to the court-house to alarm the guard. His son, Tunis, a lad of about seventeen, small of his age, seized a musket, loaded only with small shot to kill blackbirds in the cornfields, and, putting on a cartridge-box, sent his little brother up stairs for the bayonet, and then, forgetting to wait for it, hurried off alone in pursuit.

After running in a westerly direction about a mile, he discovered the men sitting on a fence, who, perceiving him, ran into a swamp. As the morning was warm, he hastily pulled off his shoes and coat, and darted in after them, keeping close after them for over a mile, when they got out of the swamp, and climbed into separate trees. As he came up one of them discharged at him the musket taken from the guard. The ball whistled over his head. Feeling for his bayonet, he discovered that it was still with his little brother. He then pointed his gun at the man with the musket, but deemed it imprudent to fire, reflecting that, even if he killed him, his comrade could easily match such a stripling as himself. He compelled the man to throw down the musket by threatening him with instant death if he did not comply. Then, loading the fusee from his cartridge-box, he forced his prisoners down from the trees, and, armed with his two loaded muskets, drove them toward the court-house, careful, however, to keep them far apart, to prevent conversation. Passing by a spring, they requested permission to drink.

"No!" replied the courageous boy, understanding their design, "you can do without it as well as myself; you shall have some by-and-by."

Soon after, his father, at the head of a party of soldiers, galloped past in the road within a short distance. Tunis hallooed, but the clattering of their horses' hoofs drowned his voice. At length he reached the village, and lodged his prisoners in the county prison.

It was subsequently discovered that these men were brothers, from near Philadelphia; that they had robbed and murdered a Mr. Boyd, a collector of taxes in Chester county, and, when taken, were on their way to join the British. As they had been apprehended on suspicion merely of being refugees, no definite charge could be brought against them. A few days later, Sheriff Firman saw an advertisement in a Philadelphia paper, describing them, with the facts above mentioned, and a reward of twenty thousand dollars (Continental money,) offered for their apprehension. He, accompanied by his son, took them on there, where they were tried and executed. On entering Philadelphia, young Tunis was carried through the streets in triumph upon the shoulders of the military. In the latter part of the war this young man became very active, and was the special favorite of General David Firman.

Not solitary are the incidents of boyish heroism on record; and yet how far the larger number must have passed unnoticed, in the midst of the trials and excitements of those troublous Revolutionary times. Children catch the fire which burns in the parent heart; and where the father rushes eagerly to the salvation of his country, and the mother—concealing her sadness and fears, puts on a hopeful countenance, speaking the ennobling sentiments of patriotism—it may well be credited that the boys were not cowards. We have some very interesting recollections of that period preserved in the private Diary of the wife of a Revolutionary officer, who, while her husband served his country on the battle-field, remained with her father, who was a clergyman of the Church of England, at their little parsonage on Long Island, and whose daily jottings down of events and emotions, just as they were seen and felt, make her simple pictures full of the power of reality. When we read them we feel as if that time were before us, and those actors still lived. Long Island, after the memorable retreat of Gen. Washington, on the morning of the 30th of August, 1776, remained in the hands of the enemy, and was the scene of many distressing outrages and calamities of all kinds—pillage, insult, robbery, the destruction of farm implements, the impressment of men and horses, with the horrors of a prowling hired soldiery, and frequent murders, being among the dark list. Speaking of the spirit of the boys of those days, leads us to quote from the lady's Diary:

"Wednesday, Nov. 24th, 1776.—Yesterday my indignation was aroused to a high degree. I was sitting in the end of the porch, my father at my side, and little Mary, with your letter in her hands, pretending to read it, when a loud cry startled us. It seemed to come from Pattison's, our nearest neighbor. Charles went over, returned, and gave us this account of the affair. It appears that Edmund Pattison was enjoying his noon rest quietly in the barn (he is a noble-looking lad of eighteen, tall, athletic, and of a high spirit,) when a light-horseman rode up to the door.

"'Youngster,' said he, 'make haste and bestir yourself. Go and assist that driver of the two yoke of oxen there to unload his cart of timber into the road.'

"Now, Edmund had been hard at work with his own hired man, loading the wagon, to take the timber to a farmer three miles off, to whom it was sold by his father; the wagon and teams both belonged to the Pattisons.

"'Hurry, sir,' said the light-horseman.

"Edmund firmly replied: 'I shall not do it.'

"'What, sirrah! we shall see who will do it,' and drawing his sword, he held it over Edmund's head, cursing, swearing, and threatening to cut him down unless he instantly unloaded his team and helped to carry in it provisions to the British army.

"With unblanched cheek, Edmund Pattison reiterated his denial, telling him to do it for himself. Enraged beyond measure at such a contempt of orders, it seemed as if the man must strike and kill the stubborn boy, who, firm and undaunted, said not a word.

"At this time our Charles, who was on the spot, ran to the house and told Mrs. Pattison that 'the Britisher was going to kill her Edmund.'

"Her cry it was that we heard from the porch. She ran to the barn and begged the soldier to desist. He was more furious than ever, supposing the fears of the mother would induce compliance. She, too, expostulated with her son, imploring him to assist in unloading the wagon, and save himself from death.

"'No fear of death, mother; he dare not touch a hair of my head.'

"The boy grew more determined, the soldier more enraged—flourishing his saber and swearing that he would be the death of him.

"'You dare not. I will report you to your master for this,' said Edmund, boldly. Upon this the light-horseman mounted, telling the boy once more that if he did not instantly begin the work he would cut him into inch pieces. Edmund coolly walked across the barn floor, armed himself with a pitchfork, and took his station in the doorway.

"'You cowardly rascal,' said he, 'clear out, or I'll stab you with my pitchfork!'

"His mother could endure the scene no longer; she ran to the house, where she met her husband, and sent him to rescue Edmund. Friend Pattison, a sensible, clear-headed man, rode up, and seeing matters at this high pass, said to the Britisher: 'You know your duty; you have no right to lay a finger on him, a non-combatant on neutral ground.' Seeing no signs of relenting, farmer Pattison turned his horse toward the road, saying he would soon see Colonel Wurms, and know who had the power to threaten and abuse the farmers of the country in that style. The light-horseman was now alarmed. Thinking it best to get there first, he put spurs to his horse, riding off with awful imprecations.

"Thus Edmund escaped for this time; though I much fear his defying, fearless spirit may yet cost him dear."

On another page she relates an anecdote of her own son.

"Tuesday.—A press for horses yesterday. I will relate how Charley saved our young horse. He and James Pattison were idly sitting on the fence, the other side of the pond, talking indignantly of the insults of the British, to whom the former shows no mercy, when they espied a light-horsemen at a farm-house door. They knew the next place would be Isaac Willett's, which, though only across the pond, is completely hid from our view by a stately row of poplars, forming a leafy screen; and they knew his errand, too—that he would be here in an instant, for when 'pressing' they galloped from house to house with violent speed.

"'Fleetfoot shall not go,' said Charles, 'without an effort to save him,' and, running with all his might to the barn, he jumped on his back and rode for the woods.

"On the instant he was seen by the red-coat, who put spurs to his horse, and came on a full run toward the woods, where Charles had disappeared. My heart beat quick when the red-coat, too, was lost to sight. My dear, brave child might fall from his horse, and be dashed against the trees in the hot pursuit of the light-horseman.

"My father and I sat gazing intently toward the woods, awaiting the result in breathless anxiety, astonished at the boy's daring, and ready to reprove his rash spirit, in attempting to save the young horse at the risk of his own neck. In about an hour's time we saw the red-coat come out of the woods below. He stopped a man in the road and made inquiries, but getting no satisfaction, rode off.

"At nightfall, peeping his way through the wood, Charles made his appearance, still mounted on his favorite Fleetfoot. By signs we made known to him that the danger was past, and he rode up to the house.

"Overjoyed to see him, he told us his story, which Grace and Marcia drank in with greedy ears. Indeed, the scene on the porch was worthy of Hogarth's pencil. On one side was his poor affrighted mother, and the little girls, with eyes wide open, full of wonder; near by, the venerable grandfather, with silver locks parted on a peaceful brow; and Charley, standing close by his steed, as he recounted his hair-breadth ''scape,' leaning his head occasionally against his proud neck, so that my boy's curls of gold mingle with the ebon mane of Fleetfoot.

"He said that he struck deeper and deeper into the woods, going from one place to another, until the forest became very dense and dark. He rode into a tangled, marshy place, where he stood five hours without moving! At one time he heard his pursuer close by, heard his fearful oaths, heard him lashing the sides of his own jaded steed. Charley's heart beat violently. But the bog was wet and gloomy, and the soldier's ardor was dampened—he durst not venture. So Charley and Fleetfoot were left to themselves in the deep wood. A brave feat for a boy of only fourteen."

One more extract from this lively diary we will give to show the influence of the maidens on the hard hearts of the enemy—that the girls as well as the boys had their parts to play in the drama.

"Wednesday.—Charles accompanied John Harris home from school, with my permission, last night. He returned this morning, with a story of the night, which he related to me in breathless excitement.

"A family living a mile from us were quietly sitting together in the evening, when a noise was heard at the door like that of a sharp instrument thrust into it. On opening the door there stood a red-coat with his saber in his hand, which he had stuck into the wood an inch or two. He was backed by a dozen men. They pushed their way in, and were very unruly, rummaging and ransacking every drawer and closet; but the family had long before taken the precaution to place all their money and valuables in a small room, which opened out of the common sitting-room, putting a large cupboard before the door, which covered it entirely; so that the Hessians quartered there last winter never discovered the device.

"The red-coats, highly incensed at finding nothing, began to threaten terrible things if they did not divulge the hiding-place. Mr. M. told them that if they dared do any violence, he would report them to the commanding officer. Whereupon, they actually went into the kitchen, kindled some light wood, came out, and set a burning brand at each corner of the house. The family were exceedingly alarmed. In great terror, Sarah, the youngest daughter, rushed out. She is famed through all the north-side for her comeliness. I can well imagine that she must have appeared to them like a lovely apparition with her glowing cheek and flashing eye. The ringleader, astonished, stood with his torch in his hand, gazing at her. At length he said:

"'Angel!'

"'Stop, I entreat you!' said Sarah.

"His looks were riveted upon her with an ardent admiration which embarrassed her.

"'I will, on one condition,' said he.

"'What is it?'

"'Will you give it?'

"'If I can,' replied Sarah.

"'It is, that you will allow me to kiss you.'

"'Oh, if that is all,' said her father, 'comply, my daughter.'

"So, as she made no resistance, the rough soldier planted a fervent kiss on her lips, expressed himself satisfied, and departed. They found, before her baby-house, that the soldiers had stuck the dolls on their bayonets, and railed among themselves and laughed.

"It is seldom that a man's house is attacked more than once. Mr. Harris had his turn some time ago; therefore, although he saw some suspicious-looking persons lurking about, he feared nothing, and arose at daylight, with the intention of going to the south of the island for salt hay. Mrs. Harris, however, began to feel uneasy and timid, from the reports she heard during the following day, and the recollection of her never-to-be-forgotten injuries, and persuaded her husband to stay at home. That night passed without disturbance. About nine o'clock the next evening, a neighbor stopped at the gate in his wagon, and he and Mr. Harris were talking over the exciting times and scenes enacting around the country, when they saw a man moving about the fields, and passing now and then in and out of the edge of the woods. One of the serving-women, too, had seen some one about dark standing close by the wood-pile, who had vanished on her appearance at the door of the kitchen. In consequence of these signs Mr. Harris concluded to sit up, and keep lights and fires burning about the house. Charles, and the older children, were sent to bed, but not to sleep—that was impossible with their perturbed and excited imaginations. About twelve o'clock, Mr. Harris being on the look-out, saw a man at a short distance from the house, reconnoitering; he now held a consultation with his wife and the two hired men. They came to the conclusion that an attack was meditated, and that it was time to act; they determined to leave the house in a body, taking the two loaded guns, the money, silver, and small valuables. Though the next house was full two miles off, there seemed no other alternative. The poor little frightened children were hurried up and dressed; their fears and cries were hushed, and they were carried down stairs. As quietly as possible, all left the house by the back door. It was a moment of intense anxiety; their hearts beat with dread; with trembling limbs, which almost refused to bear them, they moved on. 'Faint, though pursuing,' they endeavored to stay their minds above. At length, arrived at Mr. S.'s, another difficulty presented itself. The family would inevitably take them for robbers, and be liable to fire upon them. In this dilemma Mr. Harris thought it best to go close to the door and call out his name, trusting that his voice would be recognized, which was the case. The poor wanderers were kindly received, and after they had talked over their fright, were provided with comfortable beds. The house of Mr. S. has never been attacked, it is so well secured, the doors and windows being lined and bound with iron, a fact well known to the marauders."

Thus the little diary goes on. Sometimes the brutal bands murdered those who opposed them in their own houses, upon their own hearthstones. Reared in the midst of such excitement, it would be but natural that the youth of the struggling country should become quick-witted and self-reliant.

And since we have shown how brave the boys could be, let us repeat an incident of the heroism of a little girl in these same days of trial:

"Robert Gibbs, a gentleman earnestly devoted to the patriotic cause, was the owner of a plantation on the Stono, a few miles from Charleston, on which, on a certain occasion, a Hessian battalion encamped, compelling the family to surrender to their use the lower part of the mansion, and to confine themselves in the upper story. While here on one dark and stormy evening, two galleys appeared, ascending the river, which forthwith began a most destructive fire upon the Hessian encampment. The house appeared particularly exposed, although the vessels had been commanded to avoid firing upon it, and to confine their attack to the enemy's encampment. Of this Mr. Gibbs was not aware, and with the permission of the English commander, he set out, although suffering acutely from an infirmity, and with his numerous family, hastened to the protection of a neighboring plantation. The balls were falling thick and fast, sometimes scattering dirt and sand over the party, while their loud whizzing, mingled with the fury of the distant affray, rendered the scene one of danger and terror. But scarcely had they proceeded so far as to be out of danger from the balls, when to their unutterable agony they discovered, that in the confusion and hurry of departure, an infant had been left behind. To leave the child alone in his danger was impossible, and to return for him was an attempt of imminent peril. Mr. Gibbs was suffering under an infirmity that made his movements exceedingly slow and painful, and therefore it was impracticable for him to return. The frightened and chattering servants stood trembling around, looking from one to the other in bewildering despair. Of all the rest of the party, saving Mrs. Gibbs, who was severely indisposed, none were above the age of childhood. While thus undecided, Miss Mary Ann Gibbs, but thirteen years of age, sprung forward and heroically offered to go for the lad, who was a son of Mrs. Fenwick, Mrs. Gibbs' sister-in-law. The night was dark and stormy, the distance considerable, and the whole space swept by the cannon of the assailants. But without fear she retraced her way, and reached the house without injury, where the scene was one of unmingled terror. Undismayed by the thundering of the cannon, the crashing of the balls, the shrieks, shouts and imprecations of the combatants, she sprung to the door with the intention of entering, when she was brutally refused by the sentinel. But tears, entreaties, and the natural eloquence prompted by her heroism and the high purpose on which she was bent, overcame his opposition, and she was permitted to enter. With rapid steps she ascended to the third story, and finding the child there in safety, she clasped it to her bosom, and hastened to overtake her retreating family, her course, as before, full of danger, and often the plowing balls would scatter clouds of dust over her person. Uninjured, her perilous journey was performed, and when she reached her friends, she was welcomed by shouts of enthusiasm and admiration. The intrepid action, worthy of an adult, and all glorious in a child, borrows a fair share of romance by the reflection that the child thus saved afterward became Lieutenant-Colonel Fenwick, so highly distinguished by his services in the last war with Great Britain."