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Apropos of Independence D ly. In the year 177 j little Dorothy Stirling, who was then just 10 years old, lived with her parents in a pretty vine covered house on the outskirts of Flatbush, which, as you know, is on Long island. On July l her father, having important matters to attend to in New' \ork, took his w ife and daugh ter over there with him, and they staid at the house of a friend. This house stood at what is now the corner of Broadway and Leonard street, but in those days it was all open country, lovely green fields and pasture land. The hot, sultry month of July, 177(5, was destined to be the most eventful in the history of our country. Wonderful events were taking place, and the old city of New York was filled with bustle and suppressed ex citement. Dorothy did not under stand what it all meant, but she knew something unusual was happening. Her father, instead of laughing and romping with her as he was wont to do when he came home at night, was very grave and quiet, and sometimes he would hold his little daughter m his arms for a whole hour with nit I saying a word, gazing out through the open window over the green fields and with a look on his face that male tender hearted Dorothy , murmur softly, “Poor papa,” and with her little hands she would try to brush away the deep wrinkles that had gathered on his brow. Her pretty, bright little mother had grown quiet and sad, tor. and once Dorothy found her sewing on a gray blue coat with brass buttons and weeping. “Mamma,” said Dorothy, kneeling at her mother’s side, “what makes you cry, and what makes everybody so grave?” “Dorothy,” said Mrs. Stirling, strok ing the child’s fair hair, ‘the time Lai nearly come when all brave and loyal men like papa must light for their country and when all true women like you and me, my darling, must stand by them, for they will need ouv help and comfort ov.rely before ’tis all over.” Then she told her daughter that the English king had not dealt fairly oy his people in America, and that they had determined to rebel from his authority and rule themselves, and this little girl learned that her father was going to be a soldier and carry a fine sword and fight against the English when the right time came. The next day her father took her dow'n to Bowling Green to see some soldiers drill. They were gay looking fellows in knickerbockers, with funny powdered wigs and long cues under their three cornered hats. And then Captain Stirling took her down to the waters eage ana pointed out a lot of the king's ships, with llags flying, that lay off Staten island. And as she looked a roll of drums and the sharp squeak of the fifes came floating over the bay. Dorothy clapped her hands in de light. “Oh, papa,” she cried, “do you thing they will come to New York? I love to hear the drums!” I fear so, dear,” said the father, picking up his little daughter and kissing her. “But it will be another tune they’ll play.” As they were starting on their way home there was a sharp clatter of hoofs and the mad hurrahing of a mighty crowd that surged about a solitary horseman as he drew up at a tavern in Bowling Green. The rider was covered with dust, and his hat was gone, while the poor jaded horse was covered with foam from his ride. “Hark!” cried Captain Stirling. “Hark to what the man is saying!” “We are declared free and inde pendent states by the Continental con gress at Philadelphia. It was ratified on the fourth of Juiy. We are free!” These were the words that rang in the ears of Dorothy and her father. “Down with King George! Down with the tyrant!” came the echoing cry from the crowd that was growing larger every minute. And then in a moment there was a rush to the center of the square, where stood a large leaden statue of King George 111. Great ropes were wound around it and willing hands clutched the loose ends, and amid a deafening shout the great figure came crashing to the ground. Frightened, Dorothy clung close to her father, and she could feel his strong arms tremble as they held her tight. She looked up Into his face. His eyes were flashing fiercely, and his broad chest was heaving like, a man who had run a long, long way and was out of breath. “Papa,” said Dorothy timidly, “are you angry at those rough nu n for pull ing down the king's statue?’ “No, child,” replied her father in a voice she hardly knew, it was so strange and harsh. No, child, ne cried. 'I ;lory in the sight. See the rabble hf eking at that leaden figure on the ground. ’Tis like a foretaste of the time, soon to come, when we ihall be backing at the king himself— at the hirelings of the king.' Dorothy and her papa went home and told 'Mrs. Stirling of the wonder ful news. At dinner that night Dorothy noticed that her papa and mamma did not talk much about the Declaration of Independence to the friends whom they were visiting, and she soon discovered that this was be cause they were loyal to the king. Such people were called Tories, while those who, like her parents, were against the king were called Whig?. Still, though the Stirlings differed with their host, they were too old friends to quarrel openly. Dorothy and her parents continued to stay in New York for several weeks, and on Sun day, Aug. IS. they attended service in the old Lutheran church in Broadway. As Dorothy, with her father and mother walked down town to the quaint old edifice, whose pastor was a great friend of Captain Stirling, they met great crowds of women and children hurrying by, their arms full of household goods. “The king's warships are coming up the harbor to bombard New York!” they cried, and the poor, frightened creatures were fleeing to the open country, where they hoped to be safe from the deadly cannon, taking such food and clothing with them as they could carry. But the Stirlings kept on their way to church, and they found quite a few loyal people there when they arrived. All was quiet and peaceful within its walls, tiil suddenly in the midst of singing a hymn there came a dull boom in the distance, and then some thing crashed on a neighboring roof, demolishing a tall chimney and send ing a shower of bricks clattering on the pavement below. Then came an other crash, even closer, that shivered one of the stained glass windows of the church. The organ stopped short, and the singing ended in hysterical screams. Even Captain Stirling jumped to his feet. Then the calm voice of the white haired old minister was heard as he closed his hymnbook with a snap. “Brethren," he said, "let us pray.”- And, obedient to their pastor’s com mand, they knelt down in silence. And there was nothing heard save the low, even voice of the clergyman and the distant shouts and noises from Bowling Green. After church was over the people learned that the shooting was from a British ship which had been anchored up the Hudson and that her comman der had amused himself with a little cannonading as he sailed past the city on his w ay to join the king’s fleet off Staten island. That same night Dorothy was awakened and found her father and mother bending over her little bed, and she was told to get up at once and dress; that a messenger had come from Long island, telling her father that his regiment was pre paring for a conflict with King George’s Hessians, who were about to land on the island, and that he must return with all speed and join his own company. Before poor, sleepy little Dorothy quite knew what had happened she was hastily bundled up and put in a covered carriage, and im mediately they were tearing down the road as fast as the two horses and the darkness of the night would allow. Dorothy fell asleep after awhile, and r., v ■ */if jL/bK?' -Tt-HjPLr^r J,- tli THE JPIRIT OF FOURTH OF JULY. when she next awoke they were all in a flat bottomed boat, being rowed ' across the East river to the opposito shore. Then came another long ride over a rough country road till finally, just as day was dawning, they drove ; up to their own little home, and their ' two faithful negro servants were at | the door to receive them. The captain had wanted to send his wife ana | daughter somewhere where they I might be out of danger, but his loyal i wife would not hear of going away. ! Besides, it seemed as though they ; would be about as safe at home as I anywhere else. Up north were the dreaded Indians, and, in fact, danger ' seemed to lurk in every spot. Then cante days of anxious waiting j for Mrs. Stirling and Dorothy while ; the captain was away with his regi ment. It seemed to his little daughter ! that she had grown years older since that first day of July when she had started for New York with her I parents. She had seen so much and j learned so many things too. Among [others she had learned that if any stranger should ask where her father was she was simply to say that he was away on business, but that he did not know where, which was no lie, for she really did not know just where he was. One frightfully hot afternoon toward the end of August there came the sounds of heavy shooting. Volley after volley rattled out and echoed through the woods. First the firing seemed far off, but by and by the sounds grew nearer, and just as the sun was setting—a huge blood red ball —the shouts of the fighting men came plainly to little Dorothy as she sat on the front porch knitting a pair of hose for her father. Mrs. Stirling was away spending a few hours with a friend in Jamaica, and the two colored servants had gone to the pasture land to drive home the unruly cows. Sud denly Dorothy was astonished to see a broken line of men come down the road toward the house on a dead run, and her own father brought up the rear. She hardly knew him at first. His coat was gone, and his left arm was in a sling. His men were in an equal ly damaged condition. “Make for the marsh back of the house, boys,” he shouted “and wade through to the other side. I will join you in a few minutes at the top of Pine knoll.” Then he caught Dorothy up in his arms and kissed her. “Where's mamma?” he asked. “Mamma is over at Jamaica," she told him. “Oh, the evil luck!” ae groaned. “I must see her.” “Look here, child,” he went on. “The Hessians are after us. There are too many for us to stand battle with them. I will hide in the swamp till your mamma comes back, and when it is quite dark tell her to come and meet me by the old willow tree. If they hunt me down, I shall have to make across the marsh, and when 1 have rejoined my men and we are safely hid from pursuit I will fire three musket shots as a signal. That will let you know I am all right. Now run into the house, dear, and tell no one but mamma that you have sees me. Goodby.” And he was gone. Three minutes later a long, glitter ing column of soldiers, in bright red coats, with a drum corps at their head, marched up the road whence her, father had come and halted before the house. The commanding officer, a fat FIZZ! BOOM! BAH! zkf COMPLETELY CARRIED AWAY. little German with a great big nose and tiny, restless eyes, came up to the door. “Whose house TANARUS; dig?’’ he asked of Dorothy “If it please you, sir,” replied she, making a deep courtesy, “this is the home of Mr. Richard Stirling.” “Ach!” said the Dutchman. “So! Yell, who are you?” “I am his daughter Dorothy, sir.” The officer suddenly stooped down till his face was on a level with hers and fixed his little eyes on her face. “Vere is your fader und his men’ Tell me dat, child,” he commanded, pinching her cheek with his gloved hand. Dorothy wanted to cry. for he hurt her aud frightened her, too, but she remembered that she must be brave and not lot the soldier* Know where her father was hidden. “We don’t want to do him any harm,” went on the officer, wrinkling up his fat face into what was meant to be a pleasing smile. “We shoost want to have a leetle talk mid him. But, if you won't tell us vere is he, we will have to look about here our selves.” That would not do. Dorothy thought. They would surely find her father in the marsh, and, besides, if the Hessians staid about there her rnamma would have no chance to see her papa. Then this little 10-year-old girl, spurred on by her love and loyalty, set about to fool this fat old German in a way that would have done credit to an old grayhead. “I can take you to my father, hut it is a long long way,” she said, looking up at the officer with her big, innocent eyes, “and I'll lead you to him if you w’ill play the drums for me. 1 love to march to drums.” “Ach,” cried the officer, rubbing his fat hands, "you are a goot leetle girl! You shall command, und zc drums Bitaii limy a icttlo bit. Nut much, for your papa might hear zem, und wo want to gif him a pleasant lettle sur prise.” Here the man gave a queer, gurgling laugh. Then he took Dorothy by the hand and led her to the head of the column. "Now,’ he said, “which is ze way?” Dorothy pointed down a road that led away from the marshy land. “But we must hurry,” she cried, “or wo shall be too late to catch him.” Tin officer issued a command in a foreign tongue, and the long column of soldiers was again in motion, with fat German and Dorothy leading the way. “The drums,” said Dorothy re proachfully. “Why don’t they heat the drums?” The officer laughed and gave another order, and immediately the “rat-a-tat tat, rat-a-tat-tat” was echoing through the woods. “Dere, my leetle girl, how you like dat, eh?” “It's beautiful!" said the little guide. And all the time she was wondering if her father had heard the warning sound. On and on through the growing twi light they marched. The drums had been stopped, and officers were hold ing their swords as they lay In their scabbards across their arms, so that there might be no clank as they walked, for as they approached the spot where it was supposed Captain Stirling lay in hiding with his men they wished to creep upon him as quietly as possible. Poor Dorothy grew very tired. Her little feet aehed so she could hardly walk, and she was far from home with a lot of rough, strange men, who would do harm to her dear father if they could catch them. Still she kept bravely on mile after mile. All the time she strained her ears for the sound of the three musket shots that, would tell of her father’s escape. “Are we most dere?” asked the officer for the third time. "Yes,” said little Dorothy, "almost there. The tavern where they will stop for the night is but a mile beyond.” “Ach! Goot!” said the commander. Then he called a halt and sent out a skirmish line to creep forward in the darkness and surround the tavern, the outlines of which were faintly visible against the afterglow in the western sky. Poor Dorothy! S had never told sue stories in e'l her life before, but her wits were sharpened by the thought that perhaps her father's safety depended on what she said and did. Crack, crack, crack! Three musket shots in slow succession rang out faintly on the still night air. “Aeh!” muttered the German com mander, cocking his head like a frightened sparrow. “I wonder what dat is. It sounds a goot way off.” "Th-that’s papa!” whimpered the little maid. “And he’s safe now, and you cant catch him!” And, with that, Dorothy flung herself upon the ground and burst into hysterical sobs. “You can kill me,” she cried, “but he’s safe, and you ca ,'t touch him!” The German grew purple in the face when it dawned on him what a fool this mite of a girl had made of him, and he swore a mighty oaih—in fact, many of them. Then v hat do you suppose he did? He went over to poor Doromy, who was weeping her heart out on the damp ground, and picked her up in his arms. “Dere, dere!” he muttered. Don t gry. No one will hurt you. You are a brave lettle girl—ze bravest I effer knew. You shall go home. I will take you.” Poor Mrs. Stirling, wild with grief and alarm at the absence of her daughter, went to the front door for the fiftieth time that evening and caw a strange sight. Upon the dusty road came the Hessian officer, and in his arms was little Dorothy fast asleep. “Madam," said that gentleman as he deposited his burden In the arms of the thankful mother, “madam, I bring back your daughter. She led me a fool’s errand to save her fader. Und vat do I say? I say I vlsh I had such a daughter, und I should be so broud!” And then the funny little fat officer made a stately bow and went away to Join his comrades. Captain Stirling liven Lc ho a great and honored man, and as for little Dorothy, she lived to have grand children of her own, and none was more eager to celebrate the fourth of July than she. —Boston Herald. Cost of Celebrating. To salute the nation’s birthday costs more than it did to conduct a cam paign under Washington; five times as much as the value of the commerce which Somms destroyed in the Pacific when he was cruising around there In the Alabama, and one-third of the money the United States got from England on account of the Geneva award, which award covered all the damage once done to the merchant fleet of America by cruisers built in England. The powder burned in firecrackers alone this year would make a pile higher than the Washington monu ment at the nation's capital, and it would be four times as broad at the base. The fourth of July is as well known in China ns it is in the United States, for the celebration of the festival of freedom is in this country one of the sources from which the empire of the "descendant of the sun” and the first cousin to all the fixed stars, draws a great and steadily in creasing yearly revenue. By the banks of the Yangteekiang they keep watch of the calendar and prepare their cargoes of fire crackers against the “Melican man’s much hang-bang.” Don’t you remember how you used to put them under a tin pan or in a barrel, so that they would sound c uder when they wont off? That was years ago; but from the time that the Chinese first found out that the “Melican man” had a day set apart !n the calendar upon which he desired to make a noise every American boy has been paying tribute to the Tartar who sits on the tottering and migratory throne of China. He is glad to do It, too. It pleases him quite as much as paying tribute to the German family which sits on the throne of England. The $5,000,000 which we burn up in powder to celebrate the fourth of July is so much greater than the tax Imposed upon the colonies by the "stamp act” that there is little com parison. Of course, England never got the revenue she r .'signed from the passage of that iniquitious bill, but if she had it would not have amounted to a tithe of what we now expend in burning powder yearly, for there Is sold every year fireworks worth at least $1,000,000. Besides all the powder which is burned up In fireworks on the fourth of July, there must bo taken Into account the amount of powder which is used in salutes all over the country. Every little village fires a salute to the nation's birthday, and some of them expend as much powder as do the big cities, for in those places where the Immediate need of things has not carried away the efforts and the souls of the inhabitants pa triotism is stronger and more powder is burned. To fire a small canuon takes $1 in powder. To fire one of the size needed for a town of 10,000 inhabitants takes $5 worth of powder at least. No town makes a "salute” of loss than thirteen discharges of cannon, and you can figure up the cost for yourself. Then again there are forts scattered ov< r the country and the fleets of the nation scattered over the world, and wherever there U a ship and wherever there Is a fort there Is powder burned on independence day. “You may buck and gag a Kansas man and throw him Into a well, but he will talk on his fingers as long as hia hands are above water. Andrew Car negie wrote curtly that he would give nothing to the Upper lowa university an Institution presided over by Guy Benton, formerly assistant state super intendent of public Instruction in Kan sas. Benton went to see the million aire, but the millionaire wouldn’t be seen. Then Benton laid for him, and caught him In a corner, where he couldn’t get away, and tho result of the conversation was a check for $26,- 000 to pay for anew college library.” —lvansas City Journal.