Ethel Morton at Sweetbrier Lodge :: CHAPTER IX HELEN DISTINGUISHES HERSELF

CHAPTER IX HELEN DISTINGUISHES HERSELF

“Come out into the Park for a few minutes,” said Mrs. Morton. “I’m perfectly sure Helen has some poetry to read to us before very long, and if we can sit down for a minute or two on the benches, we can hear it at our convenience.”

“The fire of discontent had been smouldering for a long time,” said Helen, beginning her lecture promptly when they were seated, “and just as soon as the Declaration was passed the flames burst out. There was fighting all over the colonies from South Carolina to New York City. Washington was made Commander-in-Chief of the little Army there, but he was quite unable to defeat the large force which the British sent. He retreated across New Jersey, and in December of 1776—”

“About a year and a half later,” interposed Ethel Brown.

Helen nodded and continued: “he reached the Delaware River. The British followed him on the other bank of the river, with the centre of the army at Trenton, New Jersey. On Christmas Night of 1776, the future of the Colonies looked about as dark as the night itself, but here is what happened, told in some of the rhymes that Grandfather found for us.” And Helen read Virginia Woodward Cloud’s poem, called the “Ballad of Sweet P.”

“She was a spirited girl,” said James gravely.

“She was too nice a girl to be a deceiving girl,” said Ethel Blue, and a vigorous discussion as to how much deception was fair in war time would have broken out if Helen had not continued her account of the Revolution around Philadelphia.

“At day-break on the 26th of December, Washington entered Trenton and surprised the enemy,” Helen ended.

“It was in the battle of Trenton and in the battle of Princeton about a week later, that our Emerson great-great-great-grandfather fought, wasn’t it?” said Roger, recalling the account which his grandfather had read to the Mortons several times from the old family Bible.

“Yes, don’t you remember how he fought against his daughter’s English lover?”

“We must ask the chauffeur where the Betsy Ross house is,” said Mrs. Morton, rising and leading the way to the car.

The man knew and set off at once through the few narrow streets, and before long they were standing in front of the old-fashioned dwelling.

“Who is the lady?” murmured Tom in an undertone to Ethel Brown, pretending to be afraid that Helen would hear him but really speaking loudly enough to draw her attention.

“Tom Watkins, you’re perfectly dreadful,” Helen exclaimed promptly. “Do you really mean that you don’t know who Betsy Ross was?”

This direct question was too much for Tom’s truthfulness and he broke into a laugh.

“I don’t know that I should have known if I hadn’t read the other day a tale about a play that some urchins wrote for the stage at Hull House in Chicago.”

“Did Jane Addams tell the story?”

“She did, so it must be true. It was entirely original with some immigrant boys who had been studying American history. It went something like this:—in the first act some American Revolutionary soldiers are talking together and one of them says, ‘Gee, ain’t it fierce! We ain’t got no flag.’ The others agreed that it was fierce. In the next act a delegation of soldiers approached General Washington. They saluted, and then said to him, ‘General, we ain’t got no flag. Gee, ain’t it fierce?’”

Tom’s story was received with many giggles.

“What did Washington say?” asked Ethel Blue.

“Washington agreed that it was fierce, and said that he’d do something about it, so the next act shows him at the house of Betsy Ross. He said to her, ‘Mrs. Ross, we ain’t got no flag. Ain’t it fierce? What shall we do about it?’”

“They didn’t have a very large vocabulary,” laughed Margaret.

“But the American spirit was there,” insisted Mrs. Morton.

“What did Betsy say,” inquired Ethel Brown.

“Mrs. Ross said, ‘It is fierce. You hold the baby, George, and I’ll make you something right off.’”

“Isn’t that perfectly delicious!” gurgled Dorothy.

“And that last realistic scene took place in this little house!” said Mrs. Morton, shaking with mirth. “It belongs to the city now, so Betsy’s patriotism and industry are remembered by many visitors.”

“Here’s Grandfather’s contribution to this moment,” smiled Helen as she brought out still another of her type-written sheets, and read some lines by Minna Irving.

“BETSY’S BATTLE FLAG

“From dusk till dawn the livelong night

She kept the tallow dips alight,

And fast her nimble fingers flew

To sew the stars upon the blue.

With weary eyes and aching head

She stitched the stripes of white and red,

And when the day came up the stair

Complete across a carven chair

Hung Betsy’s battle flag.

“Like the shadows in the evening gray

The Continentals filed away,

With broken boots and ragged coats,

But hoarse defiance in their throats;

They bore the marks of want and cold,

And some were lame and some were old,

And some with wounds untended bled,

But floating bravely overhead

Was Betsy’s battle flag.

“When fell the battle’s leaden rain,

The soldier hushed his moan of pain

And raised his dying head to see

King George’s troopers turn and flee.

Their charging column reeled and broke,

And vanished in the rolling smoke,

Before the glory of the stars,

The snowy stripes, and scarlet bars

Of Betsy’s battle flag.

“The simple stone of Betsy Ross

Is covered now with mold and moss,

But still her deathless banner flies,

And keeps the color of the skies,

A nation thrills, a nation bleeds,

A nation follows where it leads,

And every man is proud to yield

His life upon a crimson field

For Betsy’s battle flag.”

“When was it that Washington made his historic visit to Betsy?” asked Roger of Helen.

“That was in June of 1776. A year later, on the fourteenth of June, 1777, Congress adopted the Stars and Stripes as our flag.”

“That’s why June 14th is celebrated as Flag Day, I suppose,” said Ethel Blue.

“I think our flag has more meaning to it than any other flag in the world,” declared Roger. “The thirteen stripes mean the thirteen original colonies, don’t they?”

“There were thirteen stars at the beginning. They’ve added a star for every new state that has joined the Union.”

“It certainly does make your heart beat to look at it, especially when you happen to come on it suddenly as Miss Bates said in those verses of hers that we had in our Peace Day Program on Lincoln’s Birthday.”

“A Russian sea-captain once told me it looked to him like a mosaic,” Mrs. Morton said.

“But every piece of the mosaic is full of meaning,” said Ethel Blue, “and mosaics make beautiful pictures any way.”

“There was a sad time ahead for Philadelphia in spite of Washington’s successes at Trenton and Princeton,” said Helen, taking up her story once more. “The Americans were successful in Vermont and northern New York, but in September, 1777, they were defeated at Brandywine Creek, and the British marched into Philadelphia a fortnight later and took possession of the town.”

“Wasn’t it about that time that the American army spent the winter at Valley Forge?” asked Margaret. “I seem to remember something about their living in a great deal of distress, such as the soldiers in Europe are enduring now.”

“This was the time,” confirmed Helen. “Grandfather has a few lines of Reed’s here telling about it.”

“Such was the winter’s awful sight,

For many a dreary day and night,

What time our country’s hope forlorn,

Of every needed comfort shorn,

Lay housed within a buried tent,

Where every keen blast found a rent,

And oft the snow was seen to sift

Along the floor its piling drift,

Or, mocking the scant blanket’s fold,

Across the night-couch frequent rolled;

Where every path by a soldier beat,

Or every track where a sentinel stood,

Still held the print of naked feet,

And oft the crimson stains of blood;

Where Famine held her spectral court,

And joined by all her fierce allies;

She ever loved a camp or fort

Beleaguered by the wintry skies,—

But chiefly when Disease is by,

To sink frame and dim the eye,

Until, with seeking forehead bent,

In martial garments cold and damp,

Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,

To count the charnels of the camp.

Such was the winter that prevailed

Within the crowded, frozen gorge;

Such were the horrors that assailed

The patriot band at Valley Forge.”

“How long did the British hold the city?” asked Tom, after he had shaken his head over the Americans’ troubles.

“Six or eight months,” said Helen, “and you can imagine what a thrilling time it was for American girls like Sweet P. I can fancy them walking daintily along the street turning their heads aside when a British officer passed them, as if he were too far beneath their notice for them even to glance at.”

They all laughed at the picture that Helen’s words drew.

“When Sir Henry Clinton evacuated Philadelphia in the middle of June, he started for New York. Washington followed him but did not win in the skirmish which they fought at Monmouth, New Jersey. The Indians on the western frontier had joined the British, and there was some terrible fighting there. Our fleet, as a general thing, was successful on the ocean. Clinton stayed for more than a year in New York City. Washington established himself just above the city where he could keep an eye on him.”

“Wasn’t that the time when my old friend, Anthony Wayne, stirred up a little excitement up the Hudson?” asked Roger.

“Yes, it was then he took Stony Point, which we saw when we went up the river to West Point. There was fighting in New Jersey and in the South, and the British seemed to be getting tired out.”

“It was at the end of several sharply fought fields that Cornwallis surrendered at Yorktown in Virginia, wasn’t it?” inquired Roger.

Tom looked at him with exaggerated respect.

“It certainly is a great thing to be related to the Army and Navy. Here’s Helen, a walking ‘History of the Revolution,’ and old Roger actually remembering something about Cornwallis’s surrender!”

“Bah!” acknowledged Roger.

“They tell a story about the way that Philadelphia heard the news of the surrender,” interposed the caretaker of the Betsy Ross house, who had been listening to the conversation. “There was an old German watchman walking the streets, and calling the hours through the night, as was the custom then. He cried out; ‘Bast dree o’clock and Cornvallis ist daken.’ People who had turned over in bed growling when they had been awakened by him before, were only too thankful to hear his hoarse voice croaking out the good news.”

“That was in October, 1781,” went on Helen, after nodding her thanks to the caretaker for his addition to the story. “It took a good many months for the British to leave the country, for transportation was a difficult matter at that time.”

“I’ll bet you the Americans were thankful to have peace,” exclaimed James.

“It sounds to me very much as if the British were, too,” said Roger. “Any country must be grateful for a rest from such long distress.”

“Grandfather’s poetry is by Freneau this time,” said Helen. “I’m going to read you only two stanzas of it.”

“The great unequal conflict past,

The Britons banished from our shore,

Peace, heaven-descended, comes at last,

And hostile nations rage no more;

From fields of death the weary swain

Returning, seeks his native plain.

In every vale she smiles serene,

Freedom’s bright stars more radiant rise,

New charms she adds to every scene,

Her brighter sun illumes our skies.

Remotest realms admiring stand,

And hail the HERO of our Land.”

“Who is the Hero?” inquired Tom. “Washington, I suppose.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Helen. “These verses were written when he was traveling through Philadelphia on his way to Mt. Vernon.”

“I know enough American history to tell you that he didn’t stay there long,” said Tom, proud of being able to bring forward one sure piece of information. “He was made President on his war record. That I do know.”

They all applauded this contribution. The care-taker of the house again could not resist joining the conversation.

“The five years after the signing of the Treaty of Peace in 1783 were very critical years,” he said. “The new country had almost no money and no definite policy, now that they had cut themselves free from England. Somebody proposed a Federal Convention and it met here in Philadelphia in 1787.”

“What did they want to do this time?” asked Margaret.

“Now they had to draw up some sort of Constitution for the new country. Washington was chosen President of the Convention and they worked from May until September in planning the Constitution, which they nick-named the ‘New Roof.’”

“Yes, I know about that,” cried Helen. “Grandfather gave me a poem about that. He thought we’d be especially interested in it on account of Dorothy knowing so much about the building of a house,”—and she read them the old poem called ‘The New Roof,’ by Francis Hopkinson, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence.

Come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools,

Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules;

Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line,

And plenty of pins of American pine:

For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,

Our government firm, and our citizens free.

Come, up with the plates, lay them firm on the wall,

Like the people at large, they’re the ground-work of all;

Examine them well, and see that they’re sound,

Let no rotten part in our building be found: