Then he caught the elder boy by the collar and said: “Stand up on your hind legs, Tom, and tell me what this row is about.” “He’s got a letter,” said Bill, “a Quaker man, a farmer, left it; and he won’t let us see it till mother reads it.” “Where is it?” said Verney. “Here, sir. You’re choking me. You may read it. There’s a message for you.” Captain Verney looked at the address and read, laughing, “This with haste.” “With your permission, madam,” he said; then he read aloud: “Valley Forge, January 7, 1778. “To Colonel Thomas Markham, Jr., late of Captain Allan McLane’s Company, Continental Line----” “That’s me!” said Tom. “Indeed!” He turned to the contents. DEAR COLONEL: I beg to report that after leaving you on the road with Gemini I had the pleasure of Capturing Colonel Gravestone, now here on parole and a low diet. He says his name is Grimstone, but what can be grimmer than Gravestone, and grim he is and grave. We shall swap him off for Colonel Markham. My compliments to Captain the Honorable John Verney. Having been a kind and courteous guest I forgot him. It was against the rules of the service, but I trust, sir, you will not have me court-martialed. The map found in the coat proves useful. My thanks to Major Montresor. Remember me to your mother. I have the honor to be your very obedient humble servant and brother-officer. ALLAN McLANE. Postscript--I promised you an ending to my story, and here it is. “Well, of all the impertinent things!” cried Verney; “but, my dear Count, I should like to see ‘Gravestone’ among these gentlemen, and, on my word, I should like to meet this brave and merry officer.” The Colonel spent two months and more on parole at Valley Forge. He lost four stone and became meek. In the spring he was exchanged for a better man, Colonel Markham, but no amount of food, as he swore, ever enabled him to make up for the scant fare he had had in the camp of the Continentals. The twins and Tom lived to enjoy many Christmas Days, but none like that they spent with the army at Valley Forge in the hard winter of 1777-8. A TEMPEST IN A BIG TEA-POT[N] By SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE About the Boston Tea-party and the Indians who brewed the tea. Chance has led us to the spot on which the house of Governor Winthrop stands. But by the side of it, in a crowded neighborhood, is a brick church with a fine and lofty steeple pricking the frosty air of a December afternoon. There is a dense crowd of men, with a sprinkling of women, arguing and gesticulating about the door, but the interior is so choked up with people that we can scarcely elbow our way in. The men’s faces, we notice, are flushed and excited, and here is an angry buzz of half-suppressed voices. Evidently something out of the common has brought these people here. What can it be? Ah! they are all talking about tea.