morning to find its commander in a presentable condition, and demanding possession "in the name of Almighty God and the Continental Congress "-destined, himself, in a few months, to be sailing down the St. Lawrence in irons, bound for long captivity in England. We behold gallant Prescott leisurely promenading the Bunker Hill parapet to inspirit his men, shot and shell hurtling thick around. There is Israel Putnam—“Old Put" the boys dubbed him. He was no general, but we forgive his costly blunders at Brooklyn Heights and Peekskill as we think of him leaving plough in furrow at the drum-beat to arms, and speeding to the deadly front at Boston, or with iron firmness stemming the retreat from Bunker Hill. Young Richard Montgomery might have been next to Washington in the war but for Sir Guy Carleton's deadly grape-shot from the Quebec walls the closing moments of 1775. Buried at Quebec, his remains were transferred by the State of New York, July 8, 1818, to their present resting-place in front of St.

Paul's, New York City, the then aged widow tearfully watching the funeral barge as it floated past Montgomery Place on the Hudson.

During a four years' apprenticeship under

Washington, General Greene had caught more of his master's spirit and method than did any other American leader, and one year's separate command at the South gave him a martial fame second only to Wash

ington's own. In him the great chief's word was fulfilled, "I send you a general." A naked, starving army, an empty military chest, the surrounding country impoverished and full of loyalists-these were his difficulties. Three States practically cleared of the royal army in ten months—this was his achievement. He retreated only to advance, was beaten only to fight again. One hardly knows which to admire most, his tireless energy and vigilance, his prudence in retreat, his boldness and vigor in attack, his cheerful courage in defeat, or his mingled kindness and firmness toward a suffering and mutinous army.

John Stark, eccentric but true, famous for cool courage-how stubbornly, with his New Hampshire boys, he held the rail fence at Bunker Hill, and covered the retreat when ammunition was gone! But Stark's most brilliant deed was at Bennington. "There they are, boys-the redcoats, and by night they're ours, or Molly Stark's a widow." Those "boys," without bayonets, their artillery shooting stones.