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High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, Steady, straight-forward, and strong, with irresistible logic, Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better, — Let them come if they like, be it sagamore, Sachem, or pow-wow, Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or To

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Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape,

Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory - breath of the east-wind,

Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel

blue rim of the ocean,

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and Sunshine. Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion, Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded: “Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish; Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside She was the first to die of all who came in the May Flower | Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, Lest they should count them and see how many

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Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and

down, and was thoughtful.

Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding; Bariffe's Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Caesar, Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, And, as if guarded by these, between them was - standing the Bible. Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligeFinally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence Turned o'er the well-worn leaves, where thumbmarks thick on the margin, Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Busily writing epistles important, to go by the May Flower, Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing ! Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla, Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan

rent Christians.

maiden Priscilla


NoTHING was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, Or an occasional sigh from the laboring heart of the Captain, Reading the marvellous words and achievements of Julius Caesar. After a while he exclaimed, as he smote with his hand, palm downwards, Heavily on the page: “A wonderful man was this Caesar! You are a writer, and I am a fighter, but here

is a fellow

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