Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 8

_Mrs. Secord_. I knew you'd say so when you came to think: It was your love to me that masked your judgment.

I'll go and see poor Charles, but shall not say My real errand, 'twould excite him so.

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

_Widow_. Poor Laura! Would to G.o.d I knew some way To lighten her of such a task as this.

[_Enter_ SERGEANT GEORGE.

_Sergeant_. Is it too early for the invalid?

The lads are here, and full of ardour.

_Widow_. Oh, no, his sister's with him.

[_Exit_ SERGEANT.

[_A bugle is heard sounding the a.s.sembly_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD _in alarm_.

_Mrs. Secord_. What's that! What's that!

_Widow_. I should have warned you, dear, But don't be scared, its Sergeant George's boys.

He's gathered quite a company of lads From round about, with every match-lock, gun, Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills Them regularly every second morn.

He calls 'em "Young St. David's Yeoman Guard,"

Their horses, "shankses naigie." Look you here!

(_Both ladies look through the open window from which is visible the driving shed: here are a.s.sembled some twenty lads of all ages and heights, between six and sixteen. They carry all sorts of old firelocks and are "falling in." They are properly sized, and form a "squad with intervals." In the rear stands a mash-tub with a sheepskin stretched over it for a drum, and near it is the drummer-boy, a child of six; a bugle, a cornet and a ba.s.soon are laid in a corner, and two or three boys stand near_.)

_Sergeant George_. Now, Archy, give the cadence in slow time.

(_To the squad_.) Slow--march. (_They march some thirty paces_.) Squad--halt. (_They halt, many of them out of line_.) Keep your dressing. Steps like those would leave some of you half behind on a long march. Right about face--two--three. That's better.

Slow--march. (_They march_.) Squad--halt. (_They all bring up into line_.) That's better. No hangers back with foe in front. Left about face--two--three. Keep up your heads.

By the right--dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We'll try the music.

(_The band falls in, three little fellows have fifes, two elder ones flutes, one a flageolet; the owners of the cornet, bugle and ba.s.soon take up their instruments, and a short, stout fellow has a trombone_.)

_Sergeant George (to the band)_. Now show your loyalty, "The King! G.o.d bless him."

[_They play, the squad saluting_.

_Sergeant George_ (_to band_.) That's very well, but mind your time. (_To the squad_.) Now you shall march to music. (_To the band_.) Boys, play--"The Duke of York's March." (_To the squad_.) Squad--attention. Quick march. (_They march_.) Squad--halt.

[_At a signal, the band ceases playing_.

Yes, that's the way to meet your country's foes.

If you were Yankee lads you'd have to march to this (_he takes a flageolet)_. Quick--march.

(_Plays Yankee Doodle with equal cleverness and spite, travestying both phrase and expression in a most ludicrous manner until the boys find it impossible to march for laughter; the Sergeant is evidently delighted with the result_.)

Ho! Ho! That's how you march to "Yankee Doodle."

'Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune, Like "Polly put the Kettle on," or "Dumble-dum-deary." Can soldiers march to that?

Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deeds With such a tune as that to fill their ears?

_Mrs. Secord_. The Sergeant's bitter on the foe, I think.

_Widow_. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded out When living peaceably upon his farm.

Shot at, and threatened till he takes a side, And then obliged to fly to save his life, Losing all else, his land, his happy home, His loving wife, who sank beneath the change, Because he chose the rather to endure A short injustice, than belie his blood By joining England's foes. He went with Moody.

_Mrs. Secord_. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like these.

_Sergeant George_. Now boys, the grand new tune, "Britannia Rules the Waves," play _con spirito_, that means heart! mind!

soul! as if you meant it.

(_He beats time, and adds a note of the drum at proper points, singing the chorus with much vigour and emphasis. Mrs. Secord betrays much emotion, and when the tune is begun for the third verse, she hastily closes the window_.)

Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen, It shakes my heart's foundations! Let me go.

_Widow_. Nay, but you're soon upset. If you must go, Your bonnet's on my bed. I'll get a bite Of something for you on the road.

[_She busies herself in filling a little basket with refreshment, and offers_ MRS. SECORD _cake and wine_.

Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine, It's only currant; the General's got a keg I sent, when stores were asked; James Coffin's good; He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or d.i.c.k,-- When commissariat's low; a mother's heart, A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longs To see her lads, e'en if she willing sends Them all to serve the King. I don't forget him Morning and night, and many a time between.

No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along.

There's many a mile where no fresh water is, And you'll be faint--

[_She bursts into tears_.

Good lan', I cannot bear to see you go.

_Mrs. Secord_. Nay, sister, nay, be calm!

Send me away light-hearted,

[_Kisses her_.

I trust in G.o.d, As you for your dear lads. Shew me the way To gain the woods unseen by friend or foe, The while these embryo soldiers are engaged.

_Widow_. I'll go with you a mile or two.

_Mrs. Secord_. No, no.

It might arouse suspicion.

[_She opens the door, and the_ WIDOW SECORD _joins her_.

_Widow_. Times indeed When every little act has some to watch!

[_Points to a tree_.

You see yon oak just by the little birch--