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IN

I

MILES STANDISH

N the Old Colony Days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, To and fro in a room of his simple and prim

itive dwelling,

Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cor

dovan 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 weap

ons of warfare,

Hanging in shining array along the walls of

the chamber,

Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty

sword of Damascus,

Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,

While underneath, in a corner, were fowlingpiece, 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

Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon

pine by the window;

complexion,

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 Mayflower.

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

weapons that hang here

Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!

This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,

Well I remember the day! once saved my

life in a skirmish;

Here in front you can see the very dint of

the bullet

Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish

arcabucero.

Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish

Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses." Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:

"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;

He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"

Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling :

"See, how bright they are burnished, as if

in an arsenal hanging;

That is because I have done it myself, and

not left it to others.

Serve yourself, would you be well served, is

an excellent adage;

So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.

Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great,

invincible army,

Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,

Eighteen shillings a month, together with

diet and pillage,

And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each

of my soldiers!"

This he said with a smile, that danced in his

eyes, as the sunbeams

Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish

again in a moment.

Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Cap

tain continued:

"Look! you can see from this window my

brazen howitzer planted

High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose,

Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irre

Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the

sistible logic,

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 Tokamahamon!"

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 steelblue rim of the ocean,

Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shad

ows 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 Mayflower!

Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there,

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