herself and treasures away, but, to either proffer, she had
said: "No, I must stay until Uncle John gets the cricks out of his
back, if all the British soldiers in the land march into town."

At last, came Joe Devins, a lad of fifteen years--Joe's two astonished
eyes peered for a moment into Martha Moulton's kitchen, and then eyes
and owner dashed into the room, to learn what the sight he there saw
could mean.

"Whew! Mother Moulton, what are you doing?"

"I'm getting Uncle John his breakfast to be sure, Joe," she answered.
"Have _you_ seen so many sights this morning that you don't know
breakfast, when you see it? Have a care there, for hot fat _will_
burn," as she deftly poured the contents of a pan, fresh from the
fire, into a dish.

Hungry Joe had been astir since the first drum had beat to arms at two
of the clock. He gave one glance at the boiling cream and the slices
of crisp pork swimming in it, as he gasped forth the words, "Getting
breakfast in Concord _this_ morning! _Mother Moulton_, you _must_ be
crazy."

"So they tell me," she said, serenely. "There comes Uncle John!" she
added, as the clatter of a staff on the stone steps of the stairway
outrang, for an instant, the cries of hurrying and confusion that
filled the air of the street.

"Don't you know, Mother Moulton," Joe went on to say, "that every
single woman and child have been carried off, where the Britishers
won't find 'em?"

"I don't believe the king's troops have stirred out of Boston," she
replied, going to the door leading to the stone staircase, to open it
for Uncle John.

"Don't believe it?" and Joe looked, as he echoed the words, as though
only a boy could feel sufficient disgust at such a want of common
sense, in full view of the fact, that Reuben Brown had just brought
the news that eight men had been killed by the king's Red Coats in
Lexington, which fact he made haste to impart.

"I won't believe a word of it," she said, stoutly, "until I see the
soldiers coming."

"Ah! Hear that!" cried Joe, tossing back his hair and swinging his
arms triumphantly at an airy foe. "You won't have to wait long. _That
signal_ is for the minute men. They are going to march out to meet the
Red Coats. Wish I was a minute man, this minute."

Meanwhile, poor Uncle John was getting down the steps of the stairway,
with many a grimace and groan. As he touched the floor, Joe, his face
beaming with excitement and enthusiasm, sprang to place a chair for