Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 62589-h.htm or 62589-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62589/62589-h/62589-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/62589/62589-h.zip) Transcriber’s note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). [Illustration: _Molly—Frontispiece._ MOLLY.] MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY A Story of the Revolution by HARRIET T. COMSTOCK Original Half-Tone Illustrations by Curtis Wager-Smith Slowly the mist o’er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.—_Holmes._ Philadelphia Henry Altemus Company Copyright, 1900, by Henry Altemus Company. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] A Word Before Beginning Molly was an odd name for a boy, you will say, especially for a soldier boy, and a brave one at that. But before you can understand, you will have to read my story. When you have finished I feel quite sure that you will do what I did after reading the bit of old history; give a hearty thought of thanks to the brave drummer, who, during the war of the Revolution, passed like a gleam of brightness, fun—and alas! sadness through the scenes of war and bloodshed; winning the friendship of all, the esteem and consideration of General Washington himself, and lastly a page or so in history. From the past I lead you forth, oh! hero of long ago, and present you to the hero and heroine lovers of to-day, feeling sure that a warm welcome awaits you. HARRIET T. COMSTOCK. [Illustration] MOLLY, THE DRUMMER BOY CHAPTER I. HOW DEBBY LOST HER FATHER. Before there was a Molly, there was a Debby Mason, and with her we must deal first. One July morning, over a hundred years ago there stood in a forlorn room of a log house in Plymouth, a tall, severe looking woman in rich apparel, and a ragged desperate child of fourteen. On the floor in a drunken stupor, lay a man. “See, lass,” said the woman, “there lies thy father quite drunk. Look at thyself; in rags thou art, and shamefully neglected.” “But I love my father!” Debby blazed forth, “and when he awakens who, pray, is to care for him if I go away?” “But I tell thee, child, he hath joined this wild crew who are headed for Boston, and thou wilt be turned on the town.” “’Tis a lie!” screamed the girl, “he did not know when he promised. He would not leave me, but even if he did he would come back, he always does!” Mrs. Lane paused, not knowing how further to explain the truth to the wild child.