A hundred years later the grandson of Jabez Rockwell hung the powder-horn in the old stone house at Valley Forge which had been General Washington’s headquarters. And if you should chance to see it there you will find that the young soldier added one more line to the rough inscription: _Last used at Yorktown, 1781._ THE LITTLE LORD OF THE MANOR[B] By E. S. BROOKS A picture of Evacuation Day in New York, in 1783, when the British troops hauled down their flag and sailed away from free America. A little lost lord, his distracted Tory grandfather, and some kind-hearted American children are the principal characters. And we are told how little Mistress Dolly Duane “won the distinguished honor of being kissed by both Commanders-in-Chief on the same eventful day.” It was the 25th of November, 1783--a brilliant day, clear, crisp, and invigorating, with just enough of frosty air to flush the eager cheeks and nip the inquisitive noses of every boy and girl in the excited crowd that filled the Bowery lane from Harlem to the barriers, and pressed fast upon the heels of General Knox’s advance detachment of Continental troops marching to the position assigned them, near the “tea-water pump.” In the Duane mansion a fire was blazing brightly and Mistress Dolly’s pet cat was purring comfortably in the cheerful light. But Mistress Dolly herself cared just now for neither cat nor comfort. She, too, was on the highway watching for the exciting events that were to make this Evacuation Day in New York one of the most memorable occasions in the history of the chief American city. At some points the crowd was especially pushing and persistent, and Mistress Dolly Duane was decidedly uncomfortable. For little Dolly detested crowds, as, in fact, she detested everything that interfered with the comfort of a certain dainty little maiden of thirteen. And she was just on the point of expressing to her cousin, young Edward Livingston, her regret that they had not stayed to witness the procession from the tumbledown gateway of the Duane country-house, near the King’s Bridge road, when, out from the crowd, came the sound of a child’s voice, shrill and complaining. “Keep off, you big, bad man!” it said; “keep off and let me pass! How dare you crowd me so, you wicked rebels?” “Rebels, hey?” a harsh and mocking voice exclaimed. “Rebels! Heard ye that, mates? Well crowed, my little cockerel. Let’s have a look at you,” and a burly arm rudely parted the pushing crowd and dragged out of the press a slight, dark-haired little fellow of seven or eight, clad in velvet and ruffles. “Put me down! Put me down, I say!” screamed the boy, his small face flushed with passion. “Put me down, I tell you, or I’ll bid Angevine horsewhip you!” “Hark to the little Tory,” growled his captor. “A rare young bird, now, isn’t he? Horsewhip _us_, d’ye say--us, free American citizens? And who may you be, my little beggar?”