The land between the city of Philadelphia and Valley Forge on both sides of the Schuylkill was in ’77 a fertile country of large farms to which narrow wood roads led from the main highways. On to this region of winter, scouting or foraging parties of both armies ventured at times, and from it in good weather the farmers, despite the efforts of our scant cavalry, took supplies to the snow-beleaguered city, and sometimes, if Tories, information of value. In the best houses of the city there were quartered, to the disgust of the Whig dames, a great number of British officers. They were to be fed without charge and were unpleasant or not personally disagreeable, as chanced to be the case. Mrs. Markham’s ample house on Third Street, near Spruce, had its share of boarders thus comfortably billeted, to the satisfaction of her Tory neighbors who were not thus burdened or who gladly entertained officers of distinction. The owner of the house, Colonel Markham, of the Continental line, lay a prisoner in New York, when on Christmas Eve, in this year of 1777, Mrs. Markham and three unwelcome guests sat down to supper. Tom, the elder son, stood at the window watching the big white snowflakes flitting across the black squares of the night-darkened panes. “Come, my son,” said Mrs. Markham, and he took the vacant seat, his mind on the joys to which the weather was contributing in the way of coasting, skating, and snowball wars. This terrible winter was one thing to Sir William Howe, another to George Washington, and a quite delightful other to Tom Markham. “I suppose, Tom,” said the mother, as he took his seat, “this sort of Christmas weather is much to your liking.” “Why, any fellow would like it, mother.” “There is everything in the point of view,” she returned, smiling. “I have no recollection of a winter like this.” In truth, the weather was keeping Christmas with a bountiful gift of fresh snow to the earth which was already heavily burdened. Within the house a cheerful wood-fire blazed on the hearth. Two branched silver candelabra lighted the table, and the furniture, portraits, and round mirrors all told of ease and luxury. “I have to thank you for the turkey, Captain Verney,” said Mrs. Markham. “My supplies are running low and soon you will be no better fed than the Continentals.” “Rebels, madam,” said Colonel Grimstone, a rough, red-faced soldier, who had risen from the ranks. “I think we shall have to be fed and well fed, too. I have asked five officers to dine here next week, on New Year’s Day.” Tom looked straight at the fat Colonel and wished he were himself a man. “By that time,” said Mrs. Markham, laughing, “you will have little besides pork and potatoes; Heaven knows what else.” “Oh, you will find us enough. All you rebel ladies tell the same story. A bit tough, this mutton.” For the first time she broke into angry reply. “Then, sir, it is like your manners--hard to digest.”