ards. They waited calmly for the attack, although most of them had never before tasted battle. Prescott sent back to Cambridge for help; but the machinery of the American army was too new to move quickly. Little help came; so the brunt of the battle of Bunker Hill, as it was inaccurately called, was borne by the men who were worn by the toil of many hours.

The day was hot, there was no water on the hilltop, and the Americans, suffering from thirst and hunger, had to see the British soldiers eating and drinking. Howe had seen that to reach the rebels meant a march uphill through high, thick grass, and before beginning the climb, he halted his troops for refreshment. Jugs of cool drink passed along the ranks, and the laughter and talk of the trained soldiers floated up to the white-faced volunteers above, who tried not to think of their hunger and their parched throats.

At last an order was given by the British generals and the soldiers rose and moved up the hill with the precision of clockwork.

When they were yet a long way from the top they opened a harmless fire of musketry; but it was not returned by the colonists, who, having no powder to waste, withheld their fire until the enemy was near enough for the officers to be distinguished from the men. Then all the muskets of the Americans spoke at once. The colonists could shoot straight and each man had taken careful aim, so that few of their bullets were wasted.

The number of British to go down before that first volley was enormous. The regulars turned in confusion; but a remorseless fire followed them down the hill. Again they advanced, only to be turned a second time with terrible loss. Then, at the foot of the hill, the British laid down their knapsacks and stripped off their heavy coats. An alarming number of officers had fallen, but where no officer was left, the

oldest private soldier took command. A third time the British charged up the hill where now the trampled grass was slippery with blood.

There were brave men on both sides that day!

Crowded onto the house-tops of Boston, breathless throngs watched the progress of the battle. Charlestown had caught fire and the wooden houses going up to the sky in smoke and flame made a background of awful grandeur for the scene. General Gage, as he gazed through his glasses, changed his opinion of the Americans, so that he wrote later to the Secretary of State in England: "The rebels are shown not to be the disorderly rabble too many have supposed."

How the battle would have ended if the Americans had not run short of ammunition it is impossible to tell. As it was, the third attack of the British could not be repulsed. The little store of powder and the few bullets were exhausted. The colonists had neither bayonets nor the skill to use them. The British swarmed over the low wall of the redoubt and drove the Americans back with practiced thrusts of steel. The colonists fought with the butts of their guns and with stones; but they were driven out and forced to retreat down the hill and across the Neck to Cambridge, the English ships raking them with shot as they went.

The Americans were beaten and driven from the field, but theirs was a glorious defeat. When Washington heard of it he exclaimed, "Thank God the liberties of the country are safe!" And that was the feeling of every patriot, because it was proved that it was possible for untrained Americans to fight the best troops of England. With training and the proper facilities for war, victory was certain.

King George, however, was not convinced of this unwelcome truth. Eleven hundred English and nearly five hundred Americans lay dead after the battle of Bunker Hill; but there

must be great suffering, more bloodshed, and the American colonies must pass out of his reach forever, before the prideblind monarch would believe that his will could be defied. Marie Louise Herdman

RODNEY'S RIDE

JULY 3, 1776

IN that soft midland where the breezes bear
The north and the south on the genial air,
Through the county of Kent, on affairs of state,
Rode Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Burly and big, and bold and bluff,

In his three-cornered hat and his suit of snuff,
A foe to King George and the English state
Was Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Into Dover village he rode apace,

And his kinsfolk knew, from his anxious face,
It was matter grave that had brought him there,
To the counties three upon Delaware.

"Money and men we must have," he said,

"Or the Congress fails and our cause is dead.

Give us both and the king shall not work his will-
We are men, since the blood of Bunker Hill."

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay;
"Hollo, Rodney, ho! you must save the day;
For the Congress halts at a deed so great,
And your vote alone may decide its fate!"

Answered Rodney then: "I will ride with speed;
It is Liberty's stress; it is Freedom's need.
When stands it?" "To-night. Not a moment spare,
But ride like the wind, from the Delaware."

"Ho, saddle the black! I've but half a day,
And the Congress sits eighty miles away,-
But I'll be in time, if God grants me grace,
To shake my fist in King George's face."

He is up! he is off! and the black horse flies
On the northward road ere the "Godspeed!" dies.
It is gallop and spur, as the leagues they clear,
And the clustering milestones lag a-rear.

It is two of the clock; and the fleet hoofs fling
The Fieldsboro' dust with a clang and cling.
It is three; and he gallops with slack rein where
The roads wind round to the Delaware.

Four; and he spurs into Newcastle town. From his panting steed he gets him down "A fresh one quick; not a moment's wait!" And off sped Rodney, the delegate.

It is five; and the beams of the western sun
Tinge the spires of Wilmington, gold and dun.
Six; and the dust of the Chester Street
Flies back in a cloud from his courser's feet.

It is seven; the horse-boat, broad of beam,
At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over the stream-
And at seven-fifteen by the Rittenhouse Clock
He flings his rein to the tavern jock.

The Congress is met; the debate's begun,
And Liberty lags for the vote of one-
When into the hall, not a moment late,
Walks Cæsar Rodney, the delegate.

Not a moment late! And that half day's ride
Forwards the world with a mighty stride:
For the Act was passed, ere the midnight stroke
O'er the Quaker City its echoes woke.

At Tyranny's feet was the gauntlet flung;

"We are free!" all the bells through the colonies rung. And the sons of the free may recall with pride

The day of Delegate Rodney's ride.

Elbridge S. Brooks

SIGNING THE DECLARATION

JULY 4, 1776

THE bell on the Pennsylvania State House which was rung to announce that Congress had passed the measure, bore the words upon it: "Proclaim liberty throughout the land, unto all the inhabitants thereof" (Leviticus XXV, 10).

It is a cloudless summer day; a clear blue sky arches and smiles above a quaint edifice rising among giant trees in the center of a wide city. That edifice is built of plain red brick, with heavy window frames and a massive hall door.

Such is the State House of Philadelphia in the year of our Lord 1776.

In yonder wooden steeple, which crowns the summit of that red-brick building, stands an old man with snow-white hair and sunburnt face. He is clad in humble attire, yet his eye gleams as it is fixed on the ponderous outline of the bell