had been secured, and at least a dozen soldiers kept filing in and
out in British uniform till Washington’s august legs were hidden by
the heaps of arms rattled down before him. The martial music, the
steady tramp, and the patriotic memories awakened, caused this
scene to be enthusiastically encored, and the boys would have
gone on marching till midnight if Ralph had not peremptorily
ordered down the curtain and cleared the stage for the next
tableau.
This had been artfully slipped in between two brilliant ones, to
show that the Father of his Country had to pay a high price for his
glory. The darkened stage represented what seemed to be a camp
in a snow-storm, and a very forlorn camp, too; for on “the cold,
cold ground” (a reckless display of cotton batting) lay ragged
soldiers, sleeping without blankets, their worn-out boots turned up
pathetically, and no sign of food or fire to be seen. A very shabby
sentinel, with feet bound in bloody cloths, and his face as pale as
chalk could make it, gnawed a dry crust as he kept his watch in the
wintry night.
A tent at the back of the stage showed a solitary figure sitting on a
log of wood, poring over the map spread upon his knee, by the
light of one candle stuck in a bottle. There could be no doubt who
this was, for the buff-and-blue coat, the legs, the nose, the attitude,
all betrayed the great George laboring to save his country, in spite
of privations, discouragements, and dangers which would have
daunted any other man.
“Valley Forge,” said someone, and the room was very still as old
and young looked silently at this little picture of a great and noble
struggle in one of its dark hours. The crust, the wounded feet, the
rags, the snow, the loneliness, the indomitable courage and
endurance of these men touched the hearts of all, for the mimic
scene grew real for a moment; and, when a child’s voice broke the
silence, asking pitifully, “Oh, mamma, was it truly as dreadful as
that?” a general outburst answered, as if everyone wanted to cheer
up the brave fellows and bid them fight on, for victory was surely
coming.
In the next scene it did come, and “Washington at Trenton” was
prettily done. An arch of flowers crossed the stage, with the motto,
“The Defender of the Mothers will be the Preserver of the
Daughters”; and, as the hero with his generals advanced on one
side, a troop of girls, in old-fashioned muslin frocks, came to
scatter flowers before him, singing the song of long ago:
“Welcome, mighty chief, once more
Welcome to this grateful shore;
Now no mercenary foe
eyes as she held her egg-shell cup aloft, while the others lifted
theirs to drink the toast, and Merry, as hostess, sat with her hand
on an antique teapot, labelled “Sage,” ready to fill again when the
patriotic ladies were ready for a second “dish.”
This was much applauded, and the curtain went up again, for the
proud parents enjoyed seeing their pretty girls in the faded finery
of a hundred years ago. The band played “Auld Lang Syne,” as a
gentle hint that our fore-mothers should be remembered as well as
the fore-fathers.
It was evident that something very martial was to follow, for a
great tramping, clashing, and flying about took place behind the
scenes while the tea-party was going on. After some delay, “The
Surrender of Cornwallis” was presented in the most superb
manner, as you can believe when I tell you that the stage was
actually lined with a glittering array of Washington and his
generals, Lafayette, Kosciusko, Rochambeau and the rest, all in
astonishing uniforms, with swords which were evidently the pride
of their lives. Fife and drum struck up a march, and in came
Cornwallis, much cast down but full of manly resignation, as he
surrendered his sword, and stood aside with averted eyes while his
army marched past, piling their arms at the hero’s feet.
This scene was the delight of the boys, for the rifles of Company F
had been secured, and at least a dozen soldiers kept filing in and