THE PEPPERELLS AND THE CAPTAIN

One bright warm noonday in May of the year 1638, Goodwife Pepperell opened the door of her little log cabin, and, screening her eyes from the sun with a toilworn hand, looked about in every direction, as if searching for some one.  She was a tall, spare woman, with a firm mouth, keen blue eyes, and a look of patient endurance in her face, bred by the stern life of pioneer New England.  Far away across the pasture which sloped southward from the cabin she could see long meadow grass waving in the breeze, and beyond a thread of blue water where the Charles River flowed lazily to the sea.  Westward there was also pasture land where sheep were grazing, and in the distance a glimpse of the thatched roofs of the little village of Cambridge.

Goodwife Pepperell gazed long and earnestly in this direction, and then, making a trumpet of her hands, sent a call ringing across the silent fields.  “Nancy!  Daniel!” she shouted.

She was answered only by the tinkle of sheep bells.  A shade of anxiety clouded the blue eyes as she went round to the back of the cabin and looked toward the dense forest which bounded her vision on the north.  Stout-hearted though she was, Goodwife Pepperell could never forget the terrors which lay concealed behind that mysterious rampart of green.  Not only were there wolves and deer and many other wild creatures hidden in its depths, but it sheltered also the perpetual menace of the Indians.  Toward the east, at some distance from the cabin, corn-fields stretched to salt meadows, and beyond, across the bay, she could see the three hills of Boston town.[1]

[Footnote 1:  See map.]

As no answering shout greeted her from this direction either, the Goodwife stepped quickly toward a hollow stump which stood a short distance from the cabin.  Beside the stump a slender birch tree bent beneath the weight of a large circular piece of wood hung to its top by a leather thong.  This was the samp-mill, where their corn was pounded into meal.  Seizing the birch tree with her hands, she brought the wooden pestle down into the hollow stump with a resounding thump.  The birch tree sprang back lifting the block with it and again she pulled it down and struck the stump another blow, then paused to listen.  This time there was, beside the echo, an answering shout, and in a few moments two heads appeared above the rows of young corn just peeping out of the ground, two pairs of lively bare feet came flying across the garden patch, and a breathless boy and girl stood beside their mother.

They were a sturdy pair of twelve-year-olds, the boy an inch or more taller than his sister, and both with the blue eyes, fair skin, and rosy cheeks which proclaimed their English blood.  There was a gleam of pride in Goodwife Pepperell’s eye as she looked a her children, but not for the world would she have let them see it; much less would she have owned it to herself, for she was a Puritan mother, and regarded pride of any kind as altogether sinful.  “Where have you been all the morning?” she said.  “You were nowhere to be seen and the corn is not yet high enough to hide you.”