is over and the earth has had time to hide the blood,
and send forth its sweet blooms of Liberty.

The men of that day are long dead. The same soil holds regulars and
minute-men. England, which over-ruled, and the provinces, that put out
brave hands to seize their rights, are good friends to-day, and have
shaken hands over many a threshold of hearty thought and kind deed
since that time.

The tree of Liberty grows yet, stately and fair, for the men of the
Revolution planted it well, and surely, God himself _hath_ given it
increase. So we gather to-day, in this our story, a forget-me-not
more, from the old town of Concord.

When the troops had marched away, the weary little woman laid aside
her silken gown, resumed her homespun dress, and immediately began to
think of getting Uncle John down-stairs again into his easy chair; but
it required more aid than she could give, to lift the fallen man. At
last, Joe Devins summoned returning neighbors, who came to the rescue,
and the poor nubbins were left to the rats once more.

Joe climbed down the well and rescued the blue stocking, with its
treasures unharmed, even to the precious watch, which watch was Martha
Moulton's chief treasure, and one of the very few in the town.

Martha Moulton was the heroine of the day. The house was besieged by
admiring men and women that night and for two or three days
thereafter; but when, years later, she being older, and poorer, even
to want, petitioned the General Court for a reward for the service she
rendered in persuading Major Pitcairn to save the court-house from
burning, there was granted to her only fifteen dollars, a poor little
grant, it is true, but _just enough_ to carry her story down the
years, whereas, but for that, it might never have been wafted up and
down the land, on the wings of this story.

A WINDHAM LAMB IN BOSTON TOWN.

It was one hundred and one years ago in this very month of June, that
nine men of the old town of Windham--which lies near the northeast
corner of Connecticut--met at the meeting-house door. There was no
service that day; the doors were shut, and the bell in the steeple
gave no sound.

The town of Windham had appointed the nine men a committee to ask the
inhabitants to give from their flocks of sheep as many as they could
for the hungry men and women of Boston. Each man of the committee was
told at the meeting-house door the district in which he was to gather
sheep.

On his stout grey