Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock

And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.

THE FATE OF A NATION WAS RIDING THAT NIGHT

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

How the British Regulars fired and fled

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

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.

In the evening after supper our party joined Mr. and Mrs. Lemon on the porch.

The topic of conversation was the old days, the days when Longfellow and his comrades sat where they were sitting.

Just as the moon peeped over the distant hills, Uncle Jack lifted up his voice in song, the rest helping in the chorus. This is what he sang:

I know,

Gone from the earth to a bet ter land,
Grieving for forms now de-part - ed long
Gone to the shore where my soul has long'd to

a

6

I hear their gen-tle voi-ces call-ing, "Old Black Joe!". CHORUS

I'm com-ing, I'm com- ing, For my head is bend-ing low;

I hear those gen-tle voi-ces call-ing, "Old Black Joe!"

There was silence for some minutes after the singing, broken finally by Father who said:

"Time for bed. We must be up early, for we leave for Cape Cod in the morning.'

So the party broke up, and good nights were said. Mother and the girls went up-stairs to the Longfellow room, where they were to sleep, while Father, Uncle Jack, and Ben occupied the Lafayette room, Ben sleeping on an old-fashioned trundle bed. During the day, this bed was hidden beneath the big four-poster in the room. At night, when needed, it was trundled out from underneath.