the Swedes, instructed by the cunning Risingh,
levelled a shower of blows full at their tobacco-pipes. Astounded at this
assault, and dismayed at the havoc of their pipes, these ponderous
warriors gave way, and like a drove of frightened elephants, broke through
the ranks of their own army. The little Hoppers were borne down in the
surge; the sacred banner emblazoned with the gigantic oyster of Communipaw
was trampled in the dirt; on blundered and thundered the heavy-sterned
fugitives, the Swedes pressing on their rear, and applying their feet _a
parte poste_ of the Van Arsdales and the Van Bummels with a vigor that
prodigiously accelerated their movements; nor did the renowned Michael Paw
himself fail to receive divers grievous and dishonorable visitations of
shoe leather.

But what, O Muse! was the rage of Peter Stuyvesant, when from afar he saw
his army giving way! In the transports of his wrath he sent forth a roar,
enough to shake the very hills. The men of the Manhattoes plucked up new
courage at the sound; or rather, they rallied at the voice of their
leader, of whom they stood more in awe than of all the Swedes in
Christendom. Without waiting for their aid, the daring Peter dashed, sword
in hand, into the thickest of the foe. Then might be seen achievements
worthy of the days of the giants. Wherever he went, the enemy shrank
before him; the Swedes fled to right and left, or were driven, like dogs,
into the own ditch; but, as he pushed forward singly with headlong
courage, the foe closed behind and hung upon his rear. One aimed a blow
full at his heart; but the protecting power which watches over the great
and the good turned aside the hostile blade, and directed it to a side
pocket, where reposed an enormous iron tobacco-box, endowed, like the
shield of Achilles, with supernatural powers, doubtless from bearing the
portrait of the blessed St. Nicholas. Peter Stuyvesant turned like an
angry bear upon the foe, and seizing him as he fled, by an immeasurable
queue, "Ah, whoreson caterpillar," roared he, "here's what shall make
worms' meat of thee!" So saying, he whirled his sword, and dealt a blow
that would have decapitated the varlet, but that the pitying steel struck
short, and shaved the queue for ever from his crown. At this moment an
arquebusier levelled his piece from a neighboring mound, with deadly aim;
but the watchful Minerva, who had just stopped to tie up her garter,
seeing the peril of her favorite hero