ped their low sobbing and nestled down to sleep, sure that God and
Aunt Polly would let no harm come to them.

"The next day passed slowly and anxiously for us all. From a stray
traveller Aunt Polly learned that the village was still in the hands of
the British and--what was no little comfort to us--that no violence had
been done to the place or its inhabitants. Some of the older boys were
for venturing to return, but Aunt Polly held them back with her prudent
arguments. If their parents had considered it safe for them to come home
they would have sent for them. The British, she said, had been known to
impress boys, as well as men, into service, and the wisest way was to
keep out of their sight.

"The gentle, motherly advice prevailed, and even Dan Parsons contented
himself with climbing the tallest trees in the vicinity, from which
he could see the chimneys of several of the nearest houses. From these
pinnacles he would call out to us at intervals:

"'The smoke comin' out o' Deacon Mileses chimly has a queer look,
somethin' like burnin' feathers I shouldn't wonder a mite if them
Britishers was burnin' up his furnitoor! Sam Kelly's folks hain't had
a spark o' fire in their fireplace to-day. Poor critters! Mebbe there
ain't nobody left ter want one.'

"With these dismal surmises, Dan managed to keep our forlorn little
flock as uncomfortable as even he could wish; and as the second night
drew on, I suppose the homesickness of the smaller ones must have been
pitiful to see. Aunt Polly patted and cuddled the forlorn little things
to the best of her ability, but it was past midnight before the last
weary, sobbing baby was fairly asleep, while all night long one or
another would start up terrified from some frightful dream, to be
soothed into quiet by the patient motherly tenderness of their wakeful
protector.

"Next morning the brow of the farmer wore an ominous frown, and his
wife, as she distributed to each the scant measure of brown bread and
milk remarked, grudgingly, that she should think 'twas 'bout time that
her house was cleared of a crowd o' hungry, squallin' young ones; and
then Mr. Gubtil took out his account-book and wrote down the name of
each child, with an estimate of the amount of bread, milk and potatoes
consumed by each. He did this with the audible remark that 'if folks
thought he was a-feedin' an' a-housin' their young ones for nothin'
they'd find themselves mightily mistaken.'

"The third morning