"Is sure he will capture General Washington, though Clinton failed in his alert for that purpose. The four hundred light horsemen he despatched came back as they went twenty-four hours after they started full of confidence." "What frightened them?" asked Madame with a scornful laugh. "The guides. They lost the road,--rebels at heart, doubtless,--the cold was intense, the snow deep, and the four hundred came home all. The wretched rebel army must have had a hearty laugh at Clinton's 'alert'--the alert which was to end the war by the capture of Washington." "How could they expect such a thing?" "Well, Washington was living in a house at Morristown, some distance from the huts occupied by the army. The army were in the greatest distress, nearly naked, hungry and cold, and the snow was deep around them. There was every reason to hope four hundred men on swift horses might be alert enough to surprise and capture the man they wanted." "Nae! nae!" cried Madame. "The tree God plants no wind hurts; and George Washington is set for the defense and freedom o' these colonies. Cold and hungry men, snow-strangled roads, and four hundred alerts! What are they against the tree God plants? Only a bit wind that shook the branches and made the roots strike deeper and wider. And sae Clinton's alert having failed, Knyphausen is trying for another; is that it, Neil?" "Yes. He considers Washington's capture his commission." "And if he should capture him, what then?" "If he is taken alive he will die the death of a traitor." "And then?" "Then the war would be over, the idea of independence would be buried, and we should be English subjects forever." "And after that comes a cow to be shod. One thing is as likely as the other. The idea of independence will never be buried; we shall never again be subjects of the King o' England. In spite of all the elements can do, in spite of what seems to us impossibilities, the tree God has planted no wind shall hurt. Many a day, Neil, I have steadied my soul and my heart as I went to and fro in my house singing or saying this bit verse, and I wrote it my ain sel': No wind that blows can ever kill The tree God plants; It bloweth east; it bloweth west; The tender leaves have little rest, But any wind that blows is best. The tree God plants Strikes deeper root, grows higher still, Spreads wider boughs for God's good will, Meets all its wants." Neil sighed, and rising suddenly, said, "Let us go upstairs; the room is growing very cold. And, mother, do not let father know I have told you about his 'bit scrimmage.' It would rob him of the triumph of his own recital." "I'll not say a word, Neil; you may be sure o' that."