"They must have it," thought Peter and stepped into the one remaining boat, which he pushed into the stream.

Peter had had little experience alone on the water. So interested was he in watching the boat swing into the current of the outgoing tide, that he did not notice the darkening clouds above. Soon there came a flash followed by the deep roll of thunder. The swift Piscataqua tide held the boat amid stream, and the small arms could turn it neither to the right nor the left. Flash and roar repeatedly followed each other. The boat swung past the usual landing on Great Island and on down the river. As the wind tossed the water into white-caps, Peter, who had long before pulled in the oars, clung frightened to the sides. On sped the small craft until it had rounded the curve to the great ocean beyond.

Dinner time had come for the men at the fort, but Tom and his father, with nothing to eat, stood on the rocks, watching the ocean toss in this yet rainless storm.

Suddenly a little boat swept into sight from the river. Above its side was seen a small head too far away to be recognized. Instantly the two watchers, with the same thought, dashed for a boat drawn up on the shore. Pushing it off, they jumped in and grasped the oars. With strong, even strokes they made steady headway, while the stray boat plunged on and out into the sea. It was a mighty pull even for sturdy arms, but nearer and nearer they came until they saw the pale, frightened face of their own little Peter. With redoubled energy, they overtook the little fellow and held his boat while he scrambled into theirs, announcing, as he lifted the lunch basket over, "I was bringing your dinner to you."

Thankfully they carried him safe to shore, where together they ate with relish the rescued dinner.

Early that afternoon Peter's father took him home to relieve the anxiety he knew the boy's mother must be feeling.

When Tom returned that night with his newly-earned shillings, he passed half of them over to Peter.

"There, Pete, put them aside for college. Harvard will want such a man as you will make."

Peter went to bed that night, happy with the new thought that he, himself, might some day go to college.



LITTLE JANE'S GENTIANS.

"Have you never seen a fringed gentian?" asked little blue-eyed Jane. "If you will go down that path with me, I'll show you where they grow."

Benjamin was about to follow, when his father reined in his horse at the gate and called, "Come, Ben, we must start for home!"

"Never mind," whispered little Jane, "I'll bring one to you at the meeting-house on the Sabbath."

John Cutts lifted his boy to the horse's back, and with the bag of meal behind the saddle they started homeward over beaten paths through the woods to the clearing, some two miles from the settlement. This happened as long ago as 1671, when the fire on the hearth was the only kind used. Benjamin was glad to get close to it this cold fall night, as he listened to his father's account of the many wolves shot that week, whose heads, Benjamin knew, would be hung on the meeting-house door until the captors received their bounty.

On Sunday morning John Cutts examined his musket closely, for he dared not start to meeting without it. Indians as well as wolves were feared. His wife sat on the horse behind him, and Benjamin rode before. Traveling over the narrow paths, they passed but few people on their way.

Sunday was a day of fear for Benjamin, for outside the church door was built a large wooden cage which held the stocks, while a pillory was constructed on top, both of which were to hold in most uncomfortable positions those who disturbed the meeting.

Inside the church his mother sat on one side, his father on the other. Benjamin was always left at the back with a row of boys under the piercing eye of Nicholas Bond, the tything man, who kept strict order with his rod and an occasional nod to the cage outside.

On this particular morning when Benjamin dropped into his seat at the end of the row and near the door, he thought seriously of the whispered word he had overheard outside.

"Little Jane is lost. There are several searching parties out!"

"This is the morning," thought Benjamin, "that little Jane was going to bring me the gentians. I wonder if anyone would think of searching that path for her!"

He glanced at the unusual number of wolves' heads hung on the door and thought of those still living in the woods. The guns stacked by the doorway suggested lurking Indians. His fear for little Jane's safety so increased that he became restless and soon received a sharp rap on the shins from the tything man.

It was during the long prayer when all heads were bowed that his fear for Jane became greater than his fear of the cage. Could it be that Nicholas Bond was nodding? Benjamin slipped from his seat, crept out the door, and flew down the road outside. The risk was great, for if he should be caught, the horror of the cage awaited him.

He was soon out of sight of the church and had turned down the gentian path without meeting any one. He knew enough of woodcraft to break a branch here and turn a stone there to mark his way. The gentians were found, and some had been picked, but Jane answered none of his shouts. He returned the same way until he found a branching path.

"She might have taken that by mistake," he thought.

It was a long search before Benjamin came upon the little girl asleep on the ground, with her hands full of gentians. "Oh, Jane, Jane, wake up and come quickly! The wolves or the Indians might find us!"

Together they ran down the path to the turn and up the right one to the church, which they reached just as the people came out, troubled by the disappearance of Benjamin. A searching party came from the opposite direction, and Jane's father caught his little girl up in his arms, while Benjamin told his part of the story. His father proudly patted him on the back and swung him up on the saddle, but little Jane scrambled to her feet and darting to his side reached up her plump little hand, exclaiming, "I picked these gentians for you, Benjamin!"



THE CHURCH LAW

It was now 1675. Four years had passed since Jane Fryer gathered the gentians for Benjamin. Her father, Jonathan Fryer, had moved from the neighborhood of the meeting-house far up the river-side, where he found better land for cultivation. He still held a strong church interest and built for his family a small shed at the rear of the meeting-house. Here they could warm themselves by a hearth fire before the service in the unheated building and take a hot dinner before the long walk home.

Jane was now an energetic girl of ten. One February afternoon she rested her bucket of water on the icy edge of the well as she watched her father striding homeward down the hill slope. As he reached her, he picked up the heavy bucket and entered the house, where his boy Tom was placing a huge log on the fire, and his wife stood ready to fill the kettle with water and hang it on the crane. Jane had followed her father and waited with expectant silence until Jonathan Fryer announced—

"I am going to Boston!"

"Father!" exclaimed Tom.

"This winter?" asked his wife, while Jane embraced her dearly loved father as if he were off for the moon. Boston was fifty-eight miles away.



"I have just attended town-meeting," he explained. "The sixty pounds which we have pledged to Harvard College annually must be paid. There are also town matters for consultation."

As it was February, Jonathan Fryer decided to travel on horseback by an inland route to Boston.

During his absence, the family had cause for anxiety in the weather. Storms and a moderating temperature were bad, for Jonathan Fryer had frozen rivers to cross.

On the night of the second Saturday after his departure, he returned weary and exhausted from a hard and perilous trip. Jane had spent many hours watching for her father and was eager to make him comfortable. She hung about him with every attention, and laughed when he nodded with sleep.

"Father, you must go to bed, for if your head should tip like that in the meeting-house, the cage would await you."

It had been decreed that the old wooden cage before the church door should punish—"those who use tobacco or sleep during public exercise."

The next morning Jonathan Fryer arose aching in every limb. His family begged him to break his custom of attending meeting, but his strong spirit asserted itself, and he was ready at the usual time. With a basket of dinner, the four started afoot at an early hour that they might be well warmed before meeting.

Mr. Moody, famous for his long sermons, had preached some forty minutes when a lusty snore brought the already straight listeners to an alert posture. It awoke the sleeper himself, no other than Jonathan Fryer. The preaching continued to its customary length of an hour or more. Then silently, shamed beyond endurance, Jonathan, his goodwife, his Tom, and his Jane, sought shelter in their small house. Words were useless. They knew what would follow.

The tramp of four tything men was soon heard crunching the ice. Some eight or ten men with that title had been chosen to "look after the good morals" of the neighbors of their home district.

Tything-man Eliot was the spokesman as the four stood to administer justice.

"We regret, Goodman Fryer, that since you have disobeyed the strict orders of the Church, not only by sleeping, but also by disturbing the meeting with an audible snort, we must comply with our laws and place you in the stocks, within the cage built for that purpose."

There was no chance for reply, for like a tiger Jane pounced before these men of dignity and burst forth, "It is not right. My father, in service for the town, has faced great hardships and almost lost his life. That he came to meeting at all, he should be thanked. If you place him in the stocks, you shall place me there too!"

Her flashing eyes and angered face seemed to burn themselves into the stolid four as she stamped her foot for emphasis. The spokesman turned and quietly remarked to his companions, "There is need for further council!" They left. Jane threw herself into her father's arms. He dropped his head.

"My daughter, this conduct doubles the insult to the Church. Your action is unrighteous, though well meant. Your father's disgrace was great enough, but this from a child to our worthy tything men cannot be overlooked. There was need for further council."

No greater punishment could have been given Jane than these words from her father. The barley-cakes, porridge, and cheese were left untouched by the shame-faced group.

Soon the heavy steps were again heard. The moment of suspense was stinging. The door opened and the tything men entered. The same spokesman, perhaps the gentlest of the four, began:

"Goodman Fryer, it is deemed best that the punishment to be administered to your untamed daughter for her unruly tongue shall be determined by her parents. It is left to their discretion. Yet there is truth in her words. The council of the Church commends you for your recent service to the town and grants you pardon for your unseemly conduct in the meeting."



PEACE OR WARFARE

Since the days when Nonowit had welcomed the English to his shores and had taught Roger Low the ways of the wood, there had been little serious trouble between the white man and the red.

The New Hampshire coast was at this time fortified against an enemy from over the seas, but the homes were rarely protected by palisades, save the larger ones used as garrison houses, where the neighbors gathered in case of an attack by Indians. Up to this time, however, there had been but little need of the garrisons.

Roger Low had become the father of Jonathan, and even Jonathan now had a boy Robert, for some fifty years had passed since Robert's grandfather had crossed the ocean to this land. The Portsmouth house in which the three lived had been the scene of Jonathan's boyhood and recalls the time when his little sister, Mary, cut off her father's hair.

The winter months of 1675 had passed. Frightful stories of Indian troubles were coming to the ears of the colonists. Robert Low had loved to sit on his grandfather's knee and in the warm light of the hearth fire to listen to stories of Indian life and of Nonowit, of whom nothing had been heard for many years.

The two were sitting by the fire one evening, when Jonathan Low, leaving them alone, had gone to Exeter for the night. A neighbor happened in. His face was grave, and he shook his head in doubt as he seated himself on the opposite settle.

"Philip, that chief in Massachusetts, the son of Massasoit, is a dangerous fellow. He is turning his Indians against the white men. And have you heard what has happened on the Saco River, at our east?"

Robert was alert for a new story, though his interest was now mingled with a sense of fear.

"The squaw of the sachem Squando," continued the caller, "was crossing the river in a canoe with her pappoose, when two sailors upset the craft just for the sport of it. The child sank, but the mother dived to the bottom and brought it up alive. Later the child died, and Squando is now rousing the Indians of the east against the colonists. With Philip south of us and Squando, a chief of wide influence, at the east, we stand in great danger."

"Yet peace must exist between the white man and the red," confidently replied the grandfather, "for Passaconaway, the great sachem of the Penacooks, that wonderful chieftain, fifteen years ago urged peace when he called the river and the mountain Indians together at Pawtucket Falls. At a great dance and a feast held there Passaconaway spoke to his people and bade them live in peace, for it was the only hope for the race. They might do some harm to the English, but it would end in their own destruction. This the Great Spirit had said to him. Then," continued Roger Low, "he gave up his chieftainship to his son Wonolancet, who has heeded his father's warning, as have other tribes about us. They had faith in old Passaconaway, who had the power to make water burn and trees to dance. He could even turn himself into a flame. Yet he accepted our Christianity as preached by John Eliot and finally, the Indians say, he was carried in a sleigh drawn by wolves up the slope of our highest mountain, whence he rose toward the heaven of the white man in a chariot of fire."

The neighbor again shook his head doubtfully and bade them good-night. Little Robert, torn by the fears of the Indian raids, and his grandfather's assurance of peace, lay awake many hours. His grandfather was breathing heavily in his sleep, when Robert distinctly heard a footstep outside. Thinking his father might have returned, he hurried to the window in time to see the figure of an Indian. The little boy threw himself upon his sleeping grandfather in fright. As the old gentleman awoke, a heavy knock was heard at the door.

"'Tis an Indian, grandfather," shrieked the boy.

At that moment the outline of the Indian's face was seen at the window which he was trying to open. Roger Low jumped from his bed, seized his gun, and stood ready for an attack. The Indian spoke. Low dropped his gun and listened. Something more was said outside, Grandfather hastily unbolted the door. "Was he mad?" He seemed eager to meet the Indian. Then Robert heard his grandfather cry, "Nonowit!" for the old-time friend had at last come back.

They stirred the fire and seated themselves to hear Nonowit's story of peace and trouble between whitemen and Indians. Robert gained no promise of peace. However, the friendliness of such a powerful Indian as Nonowit was reassuring, and he dropped to sleep in his grandfather's arms.



SUSANNA'S RESCUE

A Tale of 1675

Toby Tozer dropped the rock which would have completed his house of stones, as he saw a sail tacking across the river straight to his point at Newichewannock.

"Look, Susanna! Here comes Mistress Lear, and she has brought Henry with her," he cried excitedly.

Susanna hurried up the bank to carry the news. She was a sturdy girl of eighteen, with neither home nor people. The little group at the settlement took care of her, and she gratefully served them all.

Hearing of the arrival, Mistress Tozer hurried to the shore, bidding Susanna notify the few neighbors and invite them all to her home for the day. Spinning, weaving, and other household cares were always pushed aside for such an occasion as a visit.

"And may we keep her for days, Jacob?" Mrs. Tozer asked anxiously of Mr. Lear, who was then pushing off his boat.

"Just an over-night trip," he called. "I'm on my way to Dover and will come around for her on my return."

Already the good-wives, with knitting in hand, were gathering to greet Mistress Lear. Some fifteen or more, including the children, were soon settled about the Tozer fireplace, eager to learn of the happenings in Portsmouth.

"How dared you come so far, Mistress Lear, when the Indians are committing such terrible deeds? Since King Philip has stirred up the creatures in Massachusetts, even the settlements of Maine have felt their treachery."

By this time Susanna had caught the winks and nods of Toby and Henry, who were tired of sitting primly on the settle.

"Shall I draw you a bucket of water, Mistress Tozer?" asked Susanna, as eager as the boys for an excuse to get out to the open. She glanced at the boys, who followed to help her. Secretly she held the fear of an Indian attack and, for days, had been keeping watch over the river.

"My great-grandfather, Ambrose Gibbons, dug this well!" exclaimed Henry, knowingly, as Susanna let down the bucket. "His little girl, Becky Gibbons, was my grandmother, and she traded some corn for a beaver skin with the Indians."

Since Susanna and Toby seemed interested, Henry continued his story as they turned to the shore. "Almost all the Indians were friendly in those days," he added.

"But they are not now," replied Susanna. Her alert eye, at that moment, had caught a distant movement of paddles on the water. As a nearer view brought the dreaded Indians to sight, she cried, "Run for your lives, boys!"

The frightful feathered savages were gliding straight toward the point.

The two children made a mad dash for the house. Susanna, ahead, broke into the peaceful group gathered there.

"Indians! Run! Out the back door, over the fence to the Knight's house! Don't let them see you!"

Susanna slammed the front door and threw her full weight against it, while the women in mad haste rushed through the narrow doorway and scrambled over the fence to the more secure protection of the neighboring house. A moment later the howling Indians slashed their tomahawks into the door which Susanna, to gain time for the others, still held. The savages now forced the door open. The girl was thrown to the floor by the blow, and the Indians, thinking her dead, rushed through the house. Finding it deserted, they dashed through the back door on toward the neighboring house. Shot after shot from this direction startled the pursuing Indians and made them realize that their party was too small to face such fire. They then wheeled about and struck for the canoe.

After a long and fearful waiting, Mrs. Tozer crept cautiously back to her home, sure that Susanna had been carried off captive. No, there she lay on the floor by the door. Could it be that she moved? Her eyes opened. Mrs. Tozer dropped to her side and, with the assistance of those who had followed, brought her quick relief. The girl was tenderly cared for, and in time she entirely recovered her strength.

When Henry Lear returned to Portsmouth, he told a tale of Newichewannock life wilder than the stories of his grandmother's day.



TO THE GARRISON HOUSE!

One September day in 1675, near their home on the Upper Plantation, now known as Dover, Betty Haines, a girl of ten, stood in the cornfield with her little apron outstretched to hold the ears of ripe corn her father was plucking. Suddenly her brother Joseph, twice her age, bounded over the meadow and into the field.

"Father," he cried excitedly, "the Indians have made an attack at Newichewannock. They are likely to be down upon us at any moment. The garrison house is our only safety."

His mother, at the door of their home, caught Joseph's alarming words and took immediate command of the situation. The rest of the family hurried in from the cornfield and followed her directions.

"Get your heavy coat, Joseph! Betty, pack the bread into that basket and ask your father to bring down our heaviest blankets!"

"I hope nothing will happen to this nice home of ours," sighed Betty as her father on their departure locked the door.

"Nor to our corn either," he added, with a thought of the winter's food.

Soon they established themselves in the largest home of the neighborhood, which stood open in such a moment of need. Mrs. Haines, ready and capable, did her part for the neighboring families assembled there, while Mr. Haines and Joseph lent their aid to strengthen the fortifications of timber outside and to erect a sentry box on the roof, where guard was to be kept night and day.

As Joseph Haines took his turn to guard, the first night of alarm, Betty crept up to the roof after him and immediately cried, pointing across the river, "Look there, Joe!"

A small glow of fire, seen in the distance, soon brightened the whole sky with flames.

"Work of the Indians!" muttered Joe. When word was brought the next day that two houses and three barns with a large quantity of grain had been burned that night by the Indians, Betty implored her brother, "Oh, don't let them burn our house, Joe!"

"No, little Betty, I'll see that they do not," he declared with determination.

Later the report reached Dover of six houses burned at Oyster River (a neighboring village) and two men killed. The young men of Dover rose with indignation at the insults of the Indians and begged Major Waldron, commander of the militia, to grant them permission to protect the town in their own way. This request granted, some twenty of them, Joseph Haines in the number, armed themselves and scattered through the woods, hoping in that way to find the lurking savages who were doing their mischief in small groups.

Just at dusk Joseph, with one companion, took his position in the woods near his own home.

"Hist!" came from his friend after long, patient watching. The two were alert, for five stealthy figures were seen to cross the meadow and linger in the cornfield. Three of them began to pick the corn, while two, approaching the house, gathered sticks for a fire which they lighted. Their purpose seemed to be to roast the corn, but the fire was built dangerously near the house.

Joseph and his friend had become separated from their companions. No signal could be given without arousing the suspicion of their enemies. After a whispered consultation, they cautiously crept out of the woods and into the shadow of the house. From there they suddenly rushed upon the two Indians by the fire, striking them down with the butts of their guns. Those in the cornfield, hearing the commotion, ran for the woods and escaped.

Mr. Haines, seeing the firelight in the direction of his house, started at once from the garrison, not knowing that Betty quietly followed him through the darkness, even slipping through the big gateway without being seen.

The fire had already caught the house, while the young men were occupied in binding the prisoners. Mr. Haines dashed to the well for water and returned to find his Betty beating the flames with a broom.

Mrs. Haines, missing Betty and suspecting that she had followed her father, was on the spot by the time Joseph had turned his attention from the prisoners to find that the house had been saved from the flames.

Word of the efficient guard at Dover was reported by the escaping Indians, and no further attack was made at that time.



MY NEW HAMPSHIRE

The Indian raids had told heavily upon the colonists in the region of the Piscataqua. Scattered gardens had been devastated; homes built by great effort had been destroyed in a night; family circles had been broken by death, or by capture, and the colony had suffered the loss of strong young men who were its mainstay.

John Stevens had been crippled by the tomahawk of an Indian; his whole family and that of his brother had been swept out of existence by the same cruel hands, and all that was left was his home and one little nephew, David.

"This country is ours now, David, and we must hold it," he would say to the manly little fellow, who was already facing the responsibilities of life, though with arms too young to swing the axe or to steady the plough.

Glancing at the sturdy little boy, John Stevens, unable to leave his chair, looked through the open doorway to his cleared land and his forests, and wondered how, to say nothing of protecting the country, he could keep the boy and himself alive. "David," he cried on sudden thought, "the garden shall be yours and the forest mine. We will each do what we can. I still have a strong arm left to me and a sharp knife. The red oaks can be felled and sawed at the mill. Here in my chair with my knife I can shape the short boards into hogshead staves. The town accepts them for taxes at twenty-five shillings a thousand."

"Perhaps," added David, "Mr. Cutt, the merchant, will have use for some."

Together the man and the boy, before the open door, planned for the coming days until the twilight had settled into night.

The simple home was remote, and neighbors rarely dropped in. David took the necessary trips to the Bank, as the upper end of the town by the river was still called, or to the South End, where the Great House stood with many smaller homes of the town to the south of it. Always the little boy started with this injunction:

"Learn all you can, David, of town affairs. Inquire about the doings of the General Court. This is our country, David, and we must know what happens."

The cutting of staves proved to be a means of meeting their simple daily needs. The abundant forests everywhere prevented a demand for the shipment of staves to other ports; so it was an exultant David who came home one fall day with the word that Mr. John Cutt, the wealthy merchant of Portsmouth, wanted all the staves John Stevens could make. They had proved the best of the kind that Mr. Cutt had yet found. With the little that David could do on the garden the two managed to make a living. Yet all this effort to live was held before David as a small matter compared with the life of the country.

"You must remember, David," his uncle impressed upon him, "that the country must live whether we are here or not, and its life, lad, depends upon what we can do for it while we are here."

With this quickened interest in the big country, of which he could see so small a part, David returned from town early in January of 1680, with stirring news for his uncle.

"Listen to this, Uncle John," he cried, excitedly, "Our King in England has seen fit to separate New Hampshire from the government of Massachusetts, and he has appointed our Mr. John Cutt as President. The Royal Charter is already here!"

John Stevens leaned forward, as if to grasp the thought.

"Say it again, David, every word." Then, after the boy had repeated the news, his uncle slowly shook his head.

"It is a heavy responsibility for us, lad. We have but four small towns in New Hampshire. Yet I have confidence in the honored gentleman appointed to lead us."

Actually to withdraw from the rule of Massachusetts required time, during which period David never returned home without bringing some interesting news. One day it was, "Uncle John, Portsmouth has seventy-one men who can vote; Dover has sixty-one; Hampton, fifty-seven; and Exeter, twenty." At another time he announced, "There is to be an important meeting in March, to which every town of New Hampshire is to send three representatives except Exeter, which sends two."

On the 16th of March, the day of the General Assembly, John Stevens sent the boy off to town for the whole day.

"Learn everything for me, David," was his parting command. "Do not miss a thing. And David," he added, impressively, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder, "Remember always that this is your New Hampshire." Then he counted the hours for the boy's return.

When David reached the town he found three other boys of his own age eagerly watching for a sight of the gentlemen attending the Assembly. Choosing an advantageous spot on the roadside, David and his companions swung themselves to the low, spreading branches of an oak, where they patiently waited.

"Here they come," called Sam Cutt, who had already seen these gentlemen arrive at his father's house.

As the solemn procession of representatives from New Hampshire's four small towns passed on their way to the meeting-house, David slid from his branch to the ground and in an erect position bared his head and held his hat to his heart until they had passed.

"Oh, see the sissy!" cried one boy from the tree, pointing to David, when the riders had moved along. David's face flushed, but with unusual self-command he replied.

"Did you not know that those men are taking care of our province, which is yet very small, and that this is for us all a very serious and important meeting that they are attending?"

The surprised boys who had expected to see David slink away, slid down from the branches, caught with interest in what he continued to tell them of town and even state affairs. They asked questions which he could answer. "Now I tell you," he added with authority, "you must remember always that this is your New Hampshire." David's knowledge of his country had so deeply impressed and interested the boys that, when the General Assembly adjourned, four hatless lads stood in respect as the members passed, who honored them with a salute.

When, at the close of the day, David reached home he threw off his coat and warmed his hands by the fire exclaiming.

"You should have seen the dignified gentlemen, uncle. There were a dozen or more of them who rode from Mr. Cutt's estate to the meeting-house. They wore fine clothes, and swords at their sides, and shining buckles on their shoes and knee bands. The Rev. Mr. Moody preached a sermon to them after he had offered a long prayer. Then the gentlemen voted to write a letter to the General Court of Massachusetts. Sam Cutt told me all about it. He had asked his father what had happened there. And, uncle, in this letter they thanked the Court for the care and kindness given us while we were under its rule. They explained that we did not seek this change. It was only because it was the King's wish that we were willing to accept the plan. Then they begged the Court for the benefit of its prayers and blessing in this separation. Sam said that it was all very solemn. Uncle," David continued, after a pause, "I kept feeling all day long, 'This is my New Hampshire!'"



THE BOWL OF BROTH

One September day Mrs. Elizabeth Heard opened the door of her house on the Cocheco River, in Dover, and first looking cautiously about, a habit bred by fear of lurking Indians, stepped out with a bowl of hot broth, which she was about to carry to a neighbor who was ill.

The Heard house was a garrison with a protecting wall built about it, the gate of which, Mrs. Heard at this moment noticed had been carelessly left open. A few months of peaceful living had caused the younger members of the family to grow careless of the once needed caution. Now about to pass through this gateway the quick movement of a shadow beyond the well, caught her eye. Bravely approaching the spot, she discovered, crouching there, a young Indian whose face instantly told more of fear than of daring. Instinctively her mother-heart felt sorry for him, and she offered him the bowl of hot broth. He drank it eagerly and then begged her to hide him. Without a moment's hesitation, she led him to the garret of her house and there in a corner concealed him under a pile of blankets. It was fortunate for her scheme that her family of ten, five boys and five girls, was off on a fishing trip.

Later, on their return, they brought the news of a large capture of Indians made in the town that day. Mrs. Heard said nothing of the one then hidden under their own roof.

After the children had been tucked into bed, and she had made the rounds of the rooms to be sure that all were sleeping, she crept to the garret and signaled to the Indian that his moment of escape had come. Noiselessly and swiftly he made his way out.

Some thirteen years passed, and the children of the Heard family were well grown. One June day in 1689, Mrs. Heard, three of her sons, a daughter and some friends, had taken a river trip to Portsmouth and were returning by night. As they approached Dover, where their home still stood, they heard many unusual sounds.

"I fear the Indians may be in the town, Benjamin," remarked Mrs. Heard to her oldest son, with some alarm.

"Perhaps," replied Benjamin, "we had better go right to the Waldron's garrison, since it is so near. I see lights there."

The party, filled with fear, hastened to the house suggested and knocked at the outer gate.

"Let us in!" they pleaded. No answer, however, came from the home within. Benjamin then climbed the wall and looked over the top. To his horror, he saw an Indian, armed with a gun, standing in the open doorway of the house. Benjamin had not been seen, and the confusion within had drowned the cries outside. Jumping down, he started his party with utmost speed to their own garrison house. They had not gone far, before, to his dismay, he realized that his mother was not with them.



He returned to the scene of their peril to find his mother, exhausted by fright, still at the gate. She was lying there unable to move.

"Go," she implored him in a whisper, "and help the others to safety! I will come as soon as my strength returns." At that moment a cry of fear from the others, and his mother's last urgent appeal drove Benjamin to their rescue while his brave mother was left to her fate.

Recovering a little, Mrs. Heard crept to some protecting bushes where she lay until daylight, when the gate opened, and an Indian with a pistol approached her. He paused and looked at her very hard. Silently he left but returned immediately, for another keen look. This time, his grim savage face still unmoved, he grunted—

"Good squaw kept Indian boy safe! Indian no forget!" Then he ran yelling to the house, with some word for his friends who seemed to be there in numbers.

Soon after the Waldron house burst into flames. Not until the house had burned to the ground, and the Indians had gone, could Mrs. Heard gather strength enough to move. She feared the same sad end for her own home, but, to her surprise, she found it standing unharmed. Surely she had received her blessing for the bowl of broth and aid to the Indian lad, for her family and the friends, who had succeeded in reaching the house, reported that they had been free from attack through the horrors of that night, which were long remembered by the people of Dover.



THOMAS TOOGOOD OUTWITS AN INDIAN

An Incident of 1690.

"There, you clumsy thing, you've stepped in the cat's saucer and spilled the milk. Be gone from here," and the crabbed old aunt, who kept house for the Toogoods, switched her broom after Tom as he moved good-naturedly out the back door.

Thomas Toogood was overgrown, and awkward, and seemed always to be doing the wrong thing. He now sauntered out to the shed, where his father was feeding the cows and his sister tossing grain to the hens.

"Tom," said his father, pointing to a gun in the corner, "I traded some corn for a gun for you, in Dover yesterday. They say that wild ducks are now found on the Cocheco. Thought you might like to try for them."

Tom picked up the gun, looked it over, and said, "All right," but the look of pleasure on his face told that it was the first gun he had ever owned.

"Now that you have a gun," spoke up his sister joyfully, "you can take me to the quilting party in Dover, next week. All our friends are to be there."

Tom had reasons of his own for wishing to attend that gathering, but he was especially pleased to be considered manly enough to play the part of escort. Though Dover was but a few miles away, it was never safe to take even that trip without a gun for protection.

With his father's suggestion of ducks in mind, Thomas picked up his new gun and whistled his way along the path to the river, where he kept his canoe. As he pushed his bark into the stream, he thought that he might now appease his aunt's anger by a brace of fine ducks for dinner.

Two hours later poor Tom, dripping wet, with one small bird in his hand, faced the assembled family in the home kitchen.

"Where is your gun?" asked his father immediately.

"At the bottom of the river," replied the boy. "I was reaching for my duck, and the canoe upset."

"Oh, Tom, you'd upset a sailing vessel if you stepped on it!" came from his sister. "Now you can't take me to the quilting party. It is just too bad!"

"You go over to neighbor Roger's and chop his wood," ordered Tom's father with disgust in his tone. "I told him one of us would do it, for he is bad in his limbs."

After changing his clothes, Tom started off to the Roger's home, a good two miles through the woods. The family attitude had dampened his usual good spirits, and his sister's words had stung. An afternoon's work of wood splitting brought cheer, at least to the forlorn neighbors, and Tom started home again whistling.

It was a bad habit, in those days, to make one's presence known in the woods, and in this case Tom's whistling proved most serious, for suddenly, he realized that three dusky figures were creeping up the hill slope behind him. Quick as could be, he bounded up the crest of the hill and over the other side; but quite as quickly came one of the three Indians in hot pursuit. The other two, confident of their companion's speed, waited below for him to return with his prisoner.

Tom was too heavy to run far, and soon the Indian had him in his ugly clutch.

"Name?" asked the Indian, taking Tom by the shoulders.

"Thomas Toogood," was the boy's frightened reply.

"Ugh!" grunted the Indian. Then, appreciating Tom's clumsiness, the Indian loosened his grasp for a moment to straighten some cords with which to bind his captive. As the red man stooped with gun under his arm, for an instant he turned his back. Tom, for once in his life not slow, in a flash seized the gun and aimed it at the Indian.

"You shout for help, and I'll shoot," he cried, backing away, and then with more dexterity than hitherto seemed possible, Tom continued to back with gun still pointed at the Indian, who muttered, "Tom no good, no good!"

Once out of momentary danger, before the Indian could signal to the others, Tom had plunged into the thicket and taken a short cut home. He was again in possession of a gun, and he had met an adventure which must command the respect of the family and prove to his sister his worth as an escort.



THE ESCAPE

"This, my little Dick, is a fine holiday for us," exclaimed Mrs. Waldron as she lifted her baby from his hooded crib. "Your father has promised an outing, and you shall go with us to the farm far up the river. Some day, my little boy, you shall gather the strawberries there yourself, and play in the hay, and hunt for eggs."

As she tossed her baby while she chatted, he seemed to be caught in mid-air by the tall soldierly gentleman who had entered. After a moment of play, Mrs. Waldron turned soberly to her husband.

"Now, Richard, will you use every argument possible to persuade Madam Ursula Cutt to return with us to Portsmouth? The French have so stirred the Indians in the East that it is not safe for her to remain on that remote farm."

"She has insisted," protested Col. Waldron, "that the haying must be done first. Until the crop is safely stored, it will be hard to start her. However, the weather has been warm and dry, so it may even now be done. Our boat is ready, can you go soon?"

It was a wonderful July day in 1694. Mrs. Waldron followed her husband down the garden slope to the sparkling river and had already passed little Dick into his arms while she stepped into the boat. A servant, hurrying over the arbored path, announced—

"Your friends from the Manor have arrived and are waiting to see you."

"Oh, Richard," came in disappointed tones from Mrs. Waldron, "we cannot take our trip. They have come so far we must offer them at least a day's hospitality."

Regretfully they turned and cordially received their guests. The plans for entertainment crowded out all thought of the river trip and a day on the farm.

The farm two miles up the river belonged to Madam Ursula Cutt. It was a busy place, while the Waldrons were detained at home that July morning. Madam Cutt was over-seeing her household affairs as well as keeping a watchful eye on the hay-makers at work in the field. The maid at the washtub remarked, as her mistress stepped to the door with basket and scissors to gather flowers.

"Dover has felt the fury of the Indians. They may yet come down the river!"

"It may be well for us to move into town as soon as the haying is done," Madam Cutt replied, and passed on to the garden.

The maid rinsed the white linen and lifting a basketful stepped out to spread it on the grass to dry. With the awful fear of Indians still on her mind, she peered through the trees to the river, half expecting to see the dreaded creatures bounding up the bank.

The clothes were spread on the green when her piercing gaze caught a strange movement of the water. A second look discerned the curve of a canoe. Madam Cutt was off in the flower garden. The hay-makers were in the fields. There was scarcely a moment in which to find shelter. Darting into the grape arbor, the maid then crept behind bushes and through uncut grass to the river slope around the bend. At last she was hidden from the farm-site. On she sped with all haste toward the town. There was a gap of water to be crossed. She found a boat and pulled at the oars in the direction of Portsmouth.

While the Waldrons and their guests in the Portsmouth home were gaily chatting at the table, cries of "The Indians! The Indians!" were shrieked through the hall, and the terrified girl in working clothes rushed in exhausted.

As soon as she recovered her voice, she poured forth brokenly, "The Indians—I ran—They didn't see me!"

"But Madam Cutt, where is she?" asked Col. Waldron.

"She was in the garden! She must be killed! There was no time! I hid in the bushes, crept over the meadow, and ran to the point, where I found a boat!"

Col. Waldron ordered his horse and in a short time had gathered a force and hastened to the farm. It was all too true. The Indians had made their attack. Madam Ursula Cutt had been killed and robbed of her jewels. The three hay-makers had been shot, and their scalps taken for trophies.

But little Dick, who might have been there, was safely rocked in his own cradle that night and saved to become Secretary Waldron, an important man in New Hampshire history.



THE DEFENSE AT OYSTER RIVER

Thomas Bickford viewed with satisfaction his house and fortress now complete. Building in 1694 was attended with many difficulties, as John and William, his sons, well knew, for they had helped.

"Boys, you've worked well. A holiday for you tomorrow," promised their father.

Early the following morning the boys started off on an exploring tour, for they had but recently come to the Oyster River shores, several miles north of Portsmouth where they had lived with their grandmother.

The river had much to interest the boys. At night they returned home filled with excitement over the large hollow oak they had found almost a mile below.

"It was just like a house, father. We planned the rooms and played there all day."

"And saw no Indians?" their father inquired with some anxiety.

"Yes, on the opposite bank we saw several creeping up the river, but we had a fine hiding place."

The boys little knew that on that 17th day of July, some two hundred Indians were stealing cautiously up the Oyster River, on both sides, to the Upper Settlement. Their plan was to divide into small groups and attack each house at sunrise, the next morning. A single shot was to be the signal.

On the following day by some mistake the shot was given before the Indians were ready.

"What does that mean?" exclaimed Thomas Bickford, who from his home had heard the crack of a gun far up the river on that early morning of July 18th. Instantly he recalled the stealthy Indians that the boys had seen the previous day, and he sensed immediate danger.

"Quick!" he called to his wife and boys. "Run to the boat! I believe the Indians are afoot!"

Hurrying into their clothes, they rushed to the river and jumped into the boat. Bickford passed them the oars.

"Down the stream," he pointed, "and get around the bend as soon as you can! The savages are up the river!"

"You are not coming?" they asked in alarm as he remained on shore.

"No, that house is not to be lost, if I can save it!"

There was no time for argument. He pushed the boat into the stream and darted back to the house, bolting the gates of the palisade and then the door as he entered. He grabbed his gun and placed his bullets and powder-horn in readiness. He then dashed upstairs quickly returning with an armful of clothing, which he spread out upon chairs and tables. At that moment the shots of the Indians struck the house.

A horrible fear for the safety of his family brought a shudder to Thomas Bickford, yet, though alone in the house, he bravely began its defense.

"Steady there, shoot!" he shouted as if he had a house full of men to command. He then pulled on an old red soldier's coat and flashed past the window in view of the Indians peering through the chinks outside the palisade. With another loud command and a remark in a different tone of voice, Bickford tore off the coat, pulled on a fur hat, and came again to view at the window. This he continued to do with frequent changes of costume and constant shooting and shouting until the Indians lost courage and fled for safety fearing an armed band would soon rush out upon them.

Their flight brought but a moment of relief. The house, perhaps, was safe, but what of the family?

Not until late in the day did Thomas Bickford dare start forth in search of them. He crept along the shore in the dusk, fearing each moment the shot of some lurking Indian. On and on he went, yet he found no trace of his people. At last he came upon the hollow oak that the boys had described as their playhouse. Here he paused, for a sound came from within.

"Can that be a hiding place of the savages?" he asked himself in alarm and quickly turned his course. Suddenly there came from the oak a stifled whisper, "Father!"

The family had but just escaped the sight of the Indians that morning, and here in the hollow tree they had crouched in fear all the long day. Now, startled lest the sound they heard outside was the tread of a redman, the boys peeped through a knothole and saw their father.

To find each other was joy enough for one moment. The next brought the whisper:

"Is the house saved?"

After dark all crept cautiously out to the hidden boat, and later in the shelter of their home they listened breathlessly to the story of its wonderful defense.



THE ATTACK AT THE PLAINS

"Scamper! The raindrops will get there before you!" Mrs. Jackson scattered her children like a flock of chickens to the green to gather up the whitened linen which had been spread to dry on that long remembered June day of 1696.

"There, Samuel, do stop that nonsense, for the rain will soon be here!" she laughed in spite of herself, as the round freckled face of her boy on hands and knees appeared with a grin from beneath a sheet.

The laughter of all three children increased when the cows and sheep, in mid-afternoon, came hurrying to the barns, as if they, too, were afraid of a sprinkle.

Mrs. Jackson gave a troubled glance skyward at the on-coming storm and then at the trembling cattle, which had doubtless been frightened by something worse.

Samuel, Betsey, and Peggy had glorious romp together after supper, but neither father, nor mother, nor even Uncle Jack, could be persuaded to tell them a bedtime story, for something seemed to trouble them all. The children went early to bed. Betsey whispered, as they climbed to the feathers, "I heard father say that we'd stay here one more night. Do you suppose the Indians are coming?"

However, not even the dreaded word, Indian nor the booming of the thunder storm outside could keep those sleepy eyes open.

Downstairs the older members of the family and several neighbors gathered about the wide fireplace, glad of the warmth that chilly June night. With sober faces they discussed the rumors of terrible deeds the Indians had committed in Dover, a few miles up the river.

"Some are lurking about us," declared Mr. Jackson, "for no storm would so frighten the cattle. 'Tis not the first time they have come home bruised and bleeding."

"Tomorrow night," added his brother, "the settlers here at the Plains must go to the garrison house for safety. An attack may come at any moment."

Little Samuel was the first to open his eyes the following morning, thinking it a glorious sunshine that gave such a brilliant light outside. Suddenly a snap and a crackle brought him to his feet. He found the barn ablaze. A war-whoop from the Indians then aroused the household.

While father and Uncle Jack armed themselves with such implements as they had at hand, mother gathered the children together to go with her to the garrison house. About to leave the house she missed her wallet, which she had left, and ran upstairs to get it. She came down to find the children gone.

"Perhaps they have started ahead," she thought, and hurried out.

The children, left alone for a moment, frightened and bewildered had run out the front door, for at the back of the house were the Indians, yelling and shrieking. Samuel had crawled into a familiar hiding place under the cinnamon rose bushes, while Betsey and Peggy had hidden beneath the low branches of the lilac, so completely concealed that they did not even see their mother come out of the same door a moment later.

Here the children remained until the barns were smouldering ashes, and the Indians had fled. Samuel was the first to creep from his hiding-place and dash to the side of his father, whom he saw at the front door. Betsey and Peggy followed, calling, "Where's mother?"

"Is she not with you?" asked their surprised father, grasping his children by the hands in his thankfulness to find them alive, for the Indians had left a desolated spot.

"Here comes Uncle Jack from the garrison house. He will tell us where mother is," cried Peggy hopefully. They all hastened to meet him, only to learn that their mother had not been seen since she left home.

"Did the Indians carry her off?" cried little Samuel, choking back a sob.

Betsey relieved that awful thought by exclaiming, "Here comes Captain Shackford with his soldiers. They will find her."

The little group gathered about the sturdy Captain, who had been summoned from the Bank, two miles away. With his militia, he had reached the Plains too late to meet the Indians. Seeing the destruction they had caused, he inquired in which direction they had fled and started in pursuit.

"Bring back my mother!" pleaded little Samuel, running after the captain, who nodded doubtfully.

It was soon learned that four people were missing from this little group of settlers; several were injured and many had been killed. Nine barns and five dwellings had been burned.

"We have a house left to us," sighed Peggy, "but what is that without mother?"

There was no time, however, for even the children to mourn their loss; so many things were needed from their home for those without homes, that they were kept busy for several hours carrying pillows, blankets, and other things of comfort to the injured ones.

Suddenly little Samuel cried, "Here comes Captain Shackford back again," for the Captain was then emerging from the woods across the clearing with his militia carrying kettles, lanterns, blankets, and other things the Indians had taken as plunder.

"Oh!" cried Betsey with joy, straining her gaze for a moment. "Mother is with them!"

The children dashed across the Plains, in wild delight to escort their mother home. Her friends gathered about and with the children still clinging to her heard how the Captain had seen a feathery blue smoke some four miles from the Plains and, approaching it, had found that the Indians were cooking their breakfast behind the protection of their captives, who were tied to the trees. The soldiers suddenly rushed upon the Indians, who escaped. However, the plunder and, best of all, the four prisoners were safely brought back.

Since then many a bedtime story by the hearth-fire has been told of that spot, which to this day is known as Breakfast Hill.



THE STRAWBERRY FIELDS OF EXETER

On a June afternoon in 1697, the silent forests about the little village of Exeter felt an almost imperceptible stir of life, for through it there stealthily crept an Indian chief, followed by one and then another of his frightful band. Each dressed in tawny skins like the creatures of the wood and with adornment of feathers from the very birds, they seemed but a part of the forest life. No smoke of the camp fire floated through the green boughs, for in utmost secrecy these Indians took concealed positions to spring, in the early morning, upon the unguarded inhabitants of the town before they were astir.

Now it happened on that same afternoon while the sun shone alluringly upon the open fields, Patience Nutter dropped her wearisome patchwork and looked out of the window. A speck of red in the grass outside the house caught her attention. Her stint was not finished by several squares, yet the temptation of that strawberry was too great. Laying aside her work, she stepped out and popped the luscious red berry into her mouth. Beyond it she found a cluster of berries ripe and juicy. Step by step she was led into the open field fairly riotous in its growth of nodding red strawberries. It seemed as if she could not pick them fast enough.

"Patience!" came a call from the house. The little girl turned to see her mother in the doorway, holding up the unfinished piece of patchwork. Reluctantly she returned.

"Mother," she cried, as she entered the house, "will you go with me for some berries after I have finished my sewing? The field is full of them."

"Yes, child, we need some for supper. While you are sewing, I will step into Mrs. Wiggin's, for she will be glad to know that the berries are fully ripe."

Mrs. Nutter's news of the berries was of interest to Mrs. Wiggin and her daughters, who picked up their baskets to start for the field at once.

Anthony Wiggin, who was sorting his papers at his desk, shook his head with the warning:

"It is a great risk you run to go into that open field without a guard. Indians may even now be prowling about the woods."

Nevertheless the women started off for the strawberries. Little Patience, with the strip of patchwork dangling from her pocket, joined them so quickly that one could almost believe some large stitches had been taken on that last square.

When Anthony Wiggin had finished his work and each paper had been placed in its proper pigeon hole, he closed his desk.

"Hm," he muttered, glancing from the window at the women and children in the field, "they do not sense the danger we constantly live in, now that the French have stirred up the Indians. I believe I will frighten them with a shot, just as a warning."



He picked up his gun from the corner where it was kept in constant readiness and, stepping to the door, sent a bullet over the heads of the strawberry pickers, whizzing into the woods beyond.

Baskets and berries were dropped by the pickers in their fright and haste to get home, for their fears had been aroused by the words of Anthony Wiggin before they left the house. Patience, who had not sensed a possible danger, had wandered near to the woods where the berries were more abundant. Even after the sound of the gun, she lingered for a few more strawberries.

The shot acted like magic upon the inhabitants of Exeter, who took it for an alarm of danger. Men dropped plough or rein and seized their guns. Women followed with powder-horns and bullets. In less time than one could believe, an armed body was in the village centre ready to protect their homes.

That gun-shot carried its force still farther, for there in the woods beyond the strawberry field lay the Indians in ambush.

"We are discovered," reported their leader. The savages then bounded into the open to make their attack, only to find themselves faced by an armed body of men. Firing a few shots, the Indians then made a hasty retreat. One, however, seeing Patience running for home and yet not halfway across the field, dashed after her, caught the child in his arms, and followed the retreating band.

"Patience! Patience!" shrieked her mother. "She is captured! Oh, save her!" and the woman turned imploringly to her townsmen.

They started in an almost hopeless pursuit, for the speed of an Indian in the woods is hard to cope with. Some dropped out of the chase, but the swiftest and more persistent men kept at it, Anthony Wiggin in the lead.

Hours of agonizing horror then passed for Patience's mother as she pictured her own little girl in the cruel clutches of the savages. She could feel no possible hope of rescue.

In the meantime the men continued a long and wearying chase, when suddenly a distant glimpse of an Indian was seen through the clearing. Anthony Wiggin, still ahead, sent a shot and soon after came upon little Patience alone in the woods.

It seems the Indians had stopped to parley, and when they renewed their flight, Patience had been picked up by the last savage in the line. As he roughly seized her, she caught at the patchwork dropping from her pocket and found her needle still in it. Her indignation had by this time risen beyond her fear. Quickly she thrust the needle so far into the Indian's neck that he instinctively dropped the child to pull it out. She ran back over the path they had followed, just as Wiggin's shot was heard. The Indian ran for his life.

As the full rising moon outlined the forest-tops to the people of Exeter, a triumphant shout came from the woods, and Patience, proudly shouldered by Anthony Wiggin, was placed in her mother's arms.

THE END