"Do I look like a witch?" she demanded.
"If you do," replied Major Pitcairn, "I admire New England
witches, and never would condemn one to be hung, or burned,
or--smothered."
Martha Moulton never wore so brilliant a color on her aged cheeks
as at that moment. She felt bitter shame at the ruse she had
attempted, but silver spoons were precious, and, to escape the
smile that went around at Major Pitcairn's words, she was only
too glad to go again to the well and dip slowly the high,
over-hanging sweep into the cool, clear, dark depth below.
During this time the cold, frosty morning spent itself into the
brilliant, shining noon.
You know what happened at Concord on that 19th of April in the
year 1775. You have been told the story, how the men of Acton
met and resisted the king's troops at the old North Bridge, how
brave Captain Davis and minute-man Hosmer fell, how the sound of
their falling struck down to the very heart of mother earth, and
caused her to send forth her brave sons to cry "Liberty, or
Death!"
And the rest of the story; the sixty or more barrels of flour
that the king's troops found and struck the heads from, leaving
the flour in condition to be gathered again at nightfall, the
arms and powder that they destroyed, the houses they burned; all
these, are they not recorded in every child's history in the
land?
While these things were going on, for a brief while, at mid-day,
Martha Moulton found her home deserted. She had not forgotten
poor, suffering, irate Uncle John in the regions above, and, so,
the very minute she had the chance, she made a strong cup of
catnip tea (the real tea, you know, was brewing in Boston
harbor).
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