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In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of

the Pilgrims, To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive

dwelling, Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan

leather, Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the

Puritan Captain. Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands

behind him, and pausing Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of

warfare, Hanging in shining array along the walls of the

chamber, Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of



Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical

Arabic sentence, While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece,

musket, and matchlock. Short of stature he was, but strongly built and

athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles

and sinews of iron; Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard

was already Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes

in November. Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and

household companion, Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by

the window; Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon com

plexion, Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof,

as the captives Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not

Angles but Angels." Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the

May Flower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe

interrupting, Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish

the Captain of Plymouth. "Look at these arms," he said, "the warlike wea

pons that hang here

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