So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm-- A cry of defiance and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo forevermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. TONY’S BIRTHDAY AND GEORGE WASHINGTON’S[L] By AGNES REPPLIER Washington’s Birthday--boys skating--and how one timid little boy called after the Father of his Country lived up to his illustrious name. It was the great misfortune of Tony Butler’s life to have been born on the twenty-second of February. There was no comfort in reflecting that there were doubtless plenty of other boys in the country who labored under the same disadvantage. The other boys might perhaps be better fitted for the honor, but for poor Tony the distinction was a crushing one. In the first place, he had an older brother, and that older brother’s name was George. Now it is generally conceded that one of a name is enough for any family; but when Tony was born on the twenty-second of February, how was poor Mrs. Butler to act? Not to have called him after the Father of his Country would have been, in that good woman’s opinion, a positive slight to the illustrious dead. As long as her boy was fortunate enough to have the same birthday as our great President, it became her plain duty to give him one other point of resemblance, and then trust to time to complete the likeness. It was a pity that they had a George already, but that difficulty could be done away with by calling her second son Washington. Washington Butler sounded well, and seemed all that was desirable; only there was just a little too much of it for every-day use. Sometimes the boy was called Washie, and sometimes Wash, and sometimes Wah, and sometimes Tony, until, as he grew older, and able to talk, he evinced a decided preference for the last title, and would answer to no other. But although this lessened his troubles it by no means ended them; for when a child has so many nicknames to choose from, everybody is apt to select a different one; and to confess the truth, he was not at all the right sort of a boy to be called George Washington. There was nothing of the soldier, nothing of the patriot, nothing at all remarkable, about poor Tony in any way. He was a shy, homely little boy, who would have passed well enough as plain Sam, which, being his father’s name, would also have been his had it not been for his unfortunate birthday. But as George Washington, even his doting mother was forced to realize he was not a complete success.