Ne'er the mower murmured then, "Half my grass is mown, Homespun isn't soldier-wear, Each may save his own." Fallen scythe and aftermath Lie forgotten now; Winter need may come and find But a barren mow. Down the musket comes. "Good wife,-- Wife, a quicker flint!" And the face that questions face Hath no color in 't. "Wife, if I am late to-night, Milk the heifer first;-- Ruth, if I'm not home at all,-- Worse has come to worst." Morgan Stanwood sped along, Not the common road; Over wall and hill-top straight, Straight to death, he strode; Leaving her to hear at night Tread of burdened men, By the gate and through the gate, At the door, and then-- Ever after that to hear, When the grass is sweet, Through the gate and through the night, Slowly coming feet. Morgan Stanwood's roof is gone; Here the door-step lies; One may stand thereon and think,-- For the thought will rise,-- Were we where the meadow was, Mowing grass alone, Would we go the way he went, From this very stone? Were we on the door-step here, Parting for a day, Would we utter words as though Parting were for aye? Would we? Heart, the hearth is dear, Meadow-math is sweet; Parting be as parting may, After all, we meet. HIRAM RICH. Tidings of the fight reached Northboro' early in the afternoon, while a company of minute-men were listening to a patriotic address. They shouldered their muskets and started at once for the firing line. THE MINUTE-MEN OF NORTHBORO' [April 19, 1775] 'Tis noonday by the buttonwood, with slender-shadowed bud; 'Tis April by the Assabet, whose banks scarce hold his flood; When down the road from Marlboro' we hear a sound of speed-- A cracking whip and clanking hoofs--a case of crying need! And there a dusty rider hastes to tell of flowing blood, Of troops a-field, of war abroad, and many a desperate deed. The Minute-Men of Northboro' were gathering that day To hear the Parson talk of God, of Freedom and the State; They throng about the horseman, drinking in all he should say, Beside the perfumed lilacs blooming by the Parson's gate: "The British march from Boston through the night to Lexington; Revere alarms the countryside to meet them ere the sun; Upon the common, in the dawn, the red-coat butchers slay; On Concord march, and there again pursue their murderous way; We drive them back; we follow on; they have begun to run: All Middlesex and Worcester's up: Pray God, ours is the day!" The Minute-Men of Northboro' let rust the standing plough, The seed may wait, the fertile ground up-smiling to the spring. They seize their guns and powder-horns; there is no halting now, At thought of homes made fatherless by order of the King.