But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and somber and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

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 meetinghouse 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.
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 farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats 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.

- From the "Poems of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow." Used
by permission of and special arrangement with Houghton
Mifflin Company, publishers.

It was morning East
IT

T was early morning at East Greenwich, Connect

icut. The sun had just risen, casting a golden glow over field and wood, and cheering the hearts of a little band of patriots who were breakfasting in a barnyard, while their horses, bridled and saddled, stood tied to the fence near by. For this was in the year 1779, and the war for American Independence was at its height.

In the best room of the little farmhouse, General Israel Putnam was standing, his coat off, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his swarthy cheeks whitened with a thick coat of lather. A razor was in his hand; before him, hanging against the wall, was a cracked looking-glass; he was shaving. His beard was a week old, and stubborn; the razor was dull; and the task he had undertaken proceeded but slowly.

He had just finished one rough cheek and was turning to the other when a flash of light in the looking-glass attracted his attention. It was like the reflection of the sunlight from some bright object outside of the open window behind him. What could it be? He paused in his shaving. The next moment the flash was repeated, and he saw, distinctly pictured in the glass, a company of red-coated soldiers riding up over the hill crest behind him, not half a mile away.

He dropped his razor and, half-shaved, halfdressed, ran to the door and gave the alarm. Then, with the lather still whitening the half of his face, he buckled his sword belt about him and hastily donned his threadbare coat and shapeless hat. Within a single brief minute he was out of the house, he had mounted his horse, and had put himself at the head of his little band. The patriots, so suddenly called from their breakfast, were already mounted and had ranged themselves in order across the road.

And now the redcoats were in plain sight. They were riding briskly and in order down the slope of the hill, apparently not aware of the near presence of an enemy.

"How many are they, captain?" asked Putnam of his first officer.

"Fifteen hundred, at the least," answered the captain.

"And how many have we here to oppose them?"