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frightened by Sarah's impolitic words and hurried after her, saying, "Sally, you have ruined us, I'm afraid." This was probably the last time that she was in the presence of Rawdon. She had no more favors to ask of him, and there is no doubt that he was glad, indeed, to be relieved of her coming and her plain speaking. That independent spirit of hers always manifested itself in her countenance even when her words were modified by her position as a suppliant, and would often be seen in her face when she was not conscious of revealing her feelings.

At the jail there was another, the less painful season of waiting, while the blacksmith severed the irons that held the prisoners. With joy, at last, the eleven prisoners of Chester were released, and though weak and sick from their confinement, their spirits were yet undaunted, and they had voice and strength to sing liberty songs as they passed the guard on their way from Camden.

McCalla was in a feeble condition and the party could travel but slowly toward home. They separated into two companies, those who were able to travel more rapidly, and those who because of infirmity required frequent rests on the way.

On reaching home, Sarah, freed from anxiety in regard to her husband, had one more onerous duty to confront her. That was the payment of the debts which had accumulated by reason of the neglect of the farm and the furnishing of supplies for her husband while languishing in prison. After much hard work and self denial these debts were all paid in full. She had saved the life of her husband while in prison and she helped to save his reputation, which they both accounted dearer than life, after his release. Her reward for her devotion was the respect even of British officers and soldiers, who could not but respect those who had the courage of their convictions, the gratitude of those whom she had helped; the regard and esteem of all true patriots; the confidence and respect of all her acquaintances; the veneration of all her descendants who hold her memory with a sacred reverence akin to devotion; and the consciousness of having served her God and her country with persevering constancy and unabated fervor till her native country which she loved so well had taken an honored place among the great nations of the earth as the peer of them all.

She knew no fear. She gave evidence of this when at the age of seventy years she traveled alone on horseback all the way to Indiana from South Carolina, to visit her daughter who had married a son of the Revolutionary heroine Katharine Steele.

In the little church-yard, Hopewell, her old home, lie the ashes of Sarah McCalla; but her noble and heroic spirit freed from the casings of clay has joined its kindred in the skies where the last enemy has no entrance.

“Ah! me, beyond all power to name, those worthies tried and true, Brave men, FAIR WOMEN, youth and maid, pass by in grand review."

-Whittier.

"Read the fresh annals of our land, the gathering dust of time
Not yet has fallen on the scroll to dim the tale sublime;
There woman's glory proudly shines, for willingly she gave
Her costliest offerings, to uphold the generous and the brave,
Who fought her country's battles well, and oft she periled life
To save a father, brother, friend, in those dark years of strife.
Whatever strong-armed man hath wrought, whatever he hath won,
That goal hath woman also reached; that action hath she done."

KATHARINE HAIGHT. Bloomington, Indiana.

P. S.-At Chariton, Iowa, there is a flourishing Chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, named Sarah McCalla Chapter, in honor of Mrs. McCalla. Mrs. Gertrude A. Stanton, the first Regent of this Chapter, is a descendant of Mrs. Sarah McCalla, in the fourth generation, and her infant daughter, Sarah McCalla Stanton, was the first babe born to a member of the Chapter after its organization.

Rev. John H. AUGHEY. Chariton, Iowa.

A BALLAD OF EVACUATION DAY.

BY EMMA HUNTINGTON NASON.

At her humble door stood good wife Day,

White-capped and clad in her russet gown, Asking—whoever might pass that wayWhether the ships in the harbor lay,

And “When will the British leave the town?"

She heard the shouts from the water side,

And the parting blare of the bugle's blast, As the laden barges met the tide On the Battery-shore. “Thank God," she cried,

"The land is ours at last!”

"Nay! bide thy time!" said good man Day;

“They hold the city till turn of sun; And not till the last Red-coat's away, And the British ships sail down the bay,

Is Independence won.”

"A thoi a Tory that singst this tune?

Or a school-boy scared by a scarlet coat?"
The dame replied. “'Tis none too soon!
In the morning breeze, long ere high noon,

Our country's flag shall float!"

With her own strong arm she flung it out,

That banner bright, with its thirteen stars! From square to corner 'twas noised about, And youths and maidens joined the shout,

Beneath its crimson bars.

Then down the street, with pompous stride,

The British provost marshal came; Broad, and burley, and heavy-eyed, Gold-laced, and powdered and puffed with pride,

His face with wrath aflame.

"Pull down that flag to the water's brim!"

How fair it fluttered beneath the skies! And the good wife courtesied low to him, But seized her broom, with a twinkle dim

Alight in her downcast eyes.

"How darest thou, woman,” he cried, “to let

Such treason loose with this rebel rag?"
He clutched at the ropes, in a tangle set,
He tugged, he threatened, he raved--and yet,

Above them swung the flag.

"How darest thou, sir? for the war is o'er

And we from the tyrant's hand are free! Your Hessians wait on the harbor shore; Begone! and to speed thee, here's one more

Sweet blow for liberty!"

And the good wife's broom came stoutly down

On the provost marshal's stubborn head; The white dust flew from his powdered crown, And fast through the streets of New York town,

The baffled tyrant fled.

A sound of music! and down Broadway,

The ranks of the Continentals came;
That grand procession, threadbare and gray,
Yet clothed with glory that lives to-day,

In the Buff and Blue of fame.

And under the new-born nation's sign,

Saluting its colors, one by one, The famous heroes we love to shrine In our heart of hearts, marched down the line,

With glorious Washington.

And the British ships, with their flags amast,

Went sailing out to the open sea.
A song to-day, for the patriot past!
And for her who, fearless, struck the last

Brave blow for liberty!

OLD LACE.

MINNIE PARKE DETWEILER.

Let me feel it child! Methinks I can trace
Love's message in this web of filmy lace;
The clinging meshes give a fond caress,
And feeble hand and trembling fingers press
These fragile threads—so yellow now with age

Tell many a story I read page by page-
Oh! sweet the memories of long ago,
They fill the heart with sunset's golden glow;
Radiant the light and in it now I see
Faces of loved ones once so dear to me.
They throng around me. She who wore this lace
Upon the wedding morn. With youthful grace
She stood beside the one she loved. That day
War's clarion trumpet summoned him away.
Loyal and true she bore a noble part,
And for her country hid a broken heart.
He fell in battle. How her sad, sweet face
Comes up before me as I touch this lace.
My palsied hands stretch out in love's warm rays
To meet and clasp the friends of other days.
Swift sails my lonely bark to haven near;
Sweet is the home-coming! Yes, take it dear.

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