Rugged maples broke their ranks to let the rider by, Fell in behind her noiseless as falls the stealthy dew; Such heavy folds of starless dark in double shadow lie, The slender bridle path she treads can only just show through, And buried in the leafy miles was all the world she knew. By muffled drum of partridge and jaunty jay-bird’s fife, That mother made her lonely march,--that Continental wife. She never drew the bridle rein till forty miles were done, And on her ended journey shone the second setting sun, And round the Bay, like battle clock, tolled out the evening-gun. Talk not of pomps and tournaments! If only you had seen The royal ride from Gilmanton, the halt at Cambridge Green! Dust-bedimmed and weary, with a look as though she smiled, She melted through the haze of the summer’s smoky gold! Some master’s faded picture of Madonna and the Child, Born full a thousand years ago, and never growing old! She heard old Putnam’s kennel growl, the bells of Charlestown tolled; She saw the golden day turn gray within an ashen shroud, That showed the scarlet regulars like lightning through a cloud. Forth from the furnace and the fire Lieutenant Eastman came,-- The smell of powder in his clothes and fragrance in his fame,-- And met her bravely waiting there, who bore his boy and name!-- She from the howling wilderness--he from the hell of men, The little woman called the roll; he called it back again! Then lightly to the pillion the gray-eyed wife he swung, A bundle on the saddlebow all tenderly he placed, And, lost amid the leafy calms where cannon never rung, Away they rode to Gilmanton, her arm around his waist, No general’s sash of crimson silk so rarely could have graced! Ah, Mary Butler cannot die, whatever sextons say, While yet life’s azure pulses keep their old heroic play. * * * * * A million men have lingered long, a million men have died, Who never saw a deed so grand as Mary Butler’s ride! BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TAYLOR. 3 THE SURPRISE OF TICONDEROGA ’Twas May upon the mountains, and on the airy wing Of every floating zephyr came pleasant sounds of spring,-- Of robins in the orchards, brooks running clear and warm, Or chanticleer’s shrill challenge from busy farm to farm. But, ranged in serried order, attent on sterner noise, Stood stalwart Ethan Allen and his “Green Mountain Boys,”-- Two hundred patriots listening, as with the ears of one, To the echo of the muskets that blazed at Lexington! “My comrades,”--thus the leader spake to his gallant band,-- “The key of all the Canadas is in King George’s hand, Yet, while his careless warders our slender armies mock, Good Yankee swords--God willing--may pick his rusty lock!”