A crafty Fox crept forth one day
And over the hills he scampered away
In search of a fine, fat hen;
But old dog Sport was keeping guard,
When Fox leaped into our chicken yard,
And chased him back to his den.
AUNT POLLY SHEDD'S BRIGADE.
"Something about the Battle of Hampden?" Grandma took off her
spectacles and wiped them reflectively "It seems to me already I
have told you everything worth telling; but there!" in a sudden
burst of recollection, "did I ever tell you about Aunt Polly
Shedd's Brigade? That was quite an affair to those of us that
belonged to it!"
"Oh, no! do tell us about it!" called out the three childish
voices in chorus; and Grandma only waited to knit by the seam
needle.
"I've told you all about it so many times that I don't need to
describe again that dreadful morning when the British man-of-war
came up the river and, dropping her anchor just opposite our
little village of Hampden, sent troops ashore to take possession
of the place in the King's name. So what I am going to tell you
now is how, and where, we youngsters spent the three days that
the British occupied our houses. I was about twelve years old at
the time. I remember that it was just as we were getting up from
the breakfast-table that one of our neighbors, Sol Grant, old
General Grant's youngest son, rushed in without knocking, his
face as white as a sheet, and his cap on hind-side before, and
called out hurriedly:
" 'Mr.
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