It was two by the village-clock,
  When he came to the bridge in Concord town. 
  He heard the bleating of the flock,
  And the twitter of birds among the trees,
  And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
  Blowing over the meadows brown. 
  And one was safe and asleep in his bed
  Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
  Who that day would be lying dead,
  Pierced by a British musket-ball.

  You know the rest.  In the books you have read
  How the British regulars fired and fled,—­
  How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
  From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
  Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
  Then crossing the fields to emerge again
  Under the trees at the turn of the road,
  And only pausing to fire and load.

  So through the night rode Paul Revere;
  And so through the night went his cry of alarm
  To every Middlesex village and farm,—­
  A cry of defiance, and not of fear,—­
  A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
  And a word that shall echo forevermore! 
  For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
  Through all our history, to the last,
  In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
  The people will waken and listen to hear
  The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
  And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

A NIGHT UNDER GROUND.

My dear Laura Matilda, have you ever worked your way under ground, like the ghost Hamlet, Senior?  On the contrary, you confess, but a dim idea of that peculiar mode of progression abides in the well-ordered mansion of your mind?

Well, I do not wonder at it; you are civilized beyond the common herd; your mamma, careful of her own comfort and the beauty of her child, guards both.  Your sunny summer-times go by in the shade of sylvan groves, or amid the whirl of Saratoga or Newport ball-rooms.  I accept your ignorance; it is a pretty blossom in your maiden chaplet.  For myself, I blush for my own familiarity with rough scenes chanced upon in wayward wanderings.

Let me tell you of a path among the “untrodden ways.”  Transport yourself with me.

Fancy a low, level, drowsy point of land, stretching out into the unbroken emerald green of Lake Superior, at the point where a narrow, yellowish river offers its tribute.  The King of Lakes is exclusive; he disdains to blend his brilliant waters with those of the muddy river; a wavy line, distinctly and clearly defined, but seeming as if drawn by a trembling hand, undulates at their junction,—­no democratic, union-seeking boundary, but the arbitrary line of division that separates the Sultan from the slave, the peer from the peasant.

Along this shore are scattered various buildings that seem to nod in the indolent sunshine of the bright, clear, quiet air of midsummer.  One of these, differing from the rest in its more modern construction, is a spacious hotel that holds itself proudly erect, and from its summit the gay flag of my country floats flauntingly.