"
Ezekiel Watkins, or Zeke, as he was generally known among his
comrades, had ceased to be a resident on that rocky hillside from
pleasure. His heart was in a Connecticut valley in more senses
than one; and there was not a more homesick soldier in the army.
It will be readily guessed that the events of our story occurred
more than a century ago. The shots fired at Bunker Hill had echoed
in every nook and corner of the New England colonies, and the
heart of Zeke Watkins, among thousands of others, had been fired
with military ardor. With companions in like frame of mind he had
trudged to Boston, breathing slaughter and extermination against
the red-coated instruments of English tyranny. To Zeke the
expedition had many of the elements of an extended bear-hunt, much
exalted. There was a spice of danger and a rich promise of novelty
and excitement. The march to the lines about Boston had been a
continuous ovation; grandsires came out from the wayside dwellings
and blessed the rustic soldiers; they were dined profusely by the
housewives, and if not wined, there had been slight stint in New
England rum and cider; the apple-cheeked daughters of the land
gave them the meed of heroes in advance, and abated somewhat of
their ruddy hues at the thought of the dangers to be incurred.
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