THREE HEROINES.

AGNES REPPLIER.

To Spain belongs Augustina, the Maid of Saragossa; to England, brave Mary Ambree; and to America, Molly Pitcher, the stout-hearted heroine of Monmouth; and these three women won for themselves honor and 5 renown by the same valorous exploits.

Augustina is the most to be envied, for her praises have been sung by a great poet; Mary Ambree has a noble ballad to perpetuate her fame; Molly Pitcher is still without the tribute of a verse to remind her 10 countrymen occasionally of her splendid courage in the field.

The Spanish girl was of humble birth, young, poor, and very handsome. handsome. When Saragossa was besieged by the French, during the Peninsular War, she carried 15 food every afternoon to the soldiers who were defend

20

ing the batteries. One day the attack was so fierce, and the fire so deadly, that by the gate of Portillo not a single man was left alive to repulse the terrible enemy.

When Augustina reached the spot with her basket of coarse and scanty provisions, she saw the last gunner fall bleeding on the walls. Not for an instant did she hesitate; but springing over a pile of dead bodies, she snatched the match from his stiffening fingers and 25 fired the gun herself.

Then calling on her countrymen to rally their broken ranks, she led them back so unflinchingly to the charge that the French were driven from the gate they had so nearly captured, and the honor of Spain was saved.

For the story of Mary Ambree we must leave the chroniclers, who to their own loss and shame never mention her at all, and take refuge with the poets. From them we learn all we need to know; and it is quickly told.

Her lover was slain treacherously in the war between Spain and Holland, the English being then allies of the Dutch; and, vowing to avenge his death, she put on his armor and marched to the siege of Ghent, where she fought with reckless courage on its walls.

Fortune favors the brave, and wherever the maiden turned her arms the enemy was repulsed, until at last the Spanish soldiers vied with the English in admiration of this valorous foe..

66

...

5

10

15

And now for Molly Pitcher, who, unsung and almost 20 unremembered, should nevertheless share in the honors heaped so liberally upon the English and Spanish heroines. "A red-haired, freckle-faced young Irish woman,' without beauty and without distinction, she was the newly wedded wife of an artilleryman in Washington's 25 little army. On June 28, 1778, was fought the battle of Monmouth, famous for the admirable tactics by which Washington regained the advantages lost through the negligence of General Charles Lee.

It was a Sunday morning, close and sultry. As the day advanced, the soldiers on both sides suffered terribly from that fierce, unrelenting heat in which America rivals India. The thermometer stood at 96° in the 5 shade. Men fell dead in their ranks without a wound, smitten by sunstroke; and the sight of them filled their comrades with dismay.

Molly Pitcher, regardless of everything save the anguish of the sweltering, thirsty troops, carried buckets 10 of water from a neighboring spring and passed them along the line. Backward and forward she trudged, this strong, brave, patient young woman, while the sweat poured down her freckled face, and her bare arms blistered in the sun.

SO

15 She was a long time in reaching her husband, many soldiers begged for drink as she toiled by,- but at last she saw him, parched, grimy, and spent with heat, and she quickened her lagging steps. Then suddenly a ball whizzed past, and he fell dead by the side 20 of his gun before ever the coveted water had touched his blackened lips.

Molly dropped her bucket and for one dazed moment stood staring at the bleeding corpse. Only for a moment, for, amid the turmoil of battle, she heard the 25 order given to drag her husband's cannon from the field.

The words roused her to life and purpose. She seized the rammer from the grass and hurried to the gunner's post. There was nothing strange in the work

to her. She was too well versed in the ways of war for either ignorance or alarm.

Strong, skilful, and fearless, she stood by the weapon and directed its deadly fire until the fall of Monckton turned the tide of victory. The British troops under 5 Clinton were beaten back after a desperate struggle, the Americans took possession of the field, and the battle of Monmouth was won.

On the following day poor Molly, no longer a furious Amazon, but sad-faced, with swollen eyes and a 10 scanty bit of crape pinned on her bosom, was presented to Washington, and received a sergeant's commission with half pay for life.

It is said that the French officers, then fighting for the freedom of the colonies, that is, against the English, 15 were so delighted with her courage that they added to this reward a cocked hat full of gold pieces, and christened her "La Capitaine."

What befell her in after years has never been told. She lived and died obscurely, and her name has well- 20 nigh been forgotten in the land she served. But the memory of brave deeds can never wholly perish, and Molly Pitcher has won for herself a niche in the Temple of Fame, where her companions are fair Mary Ambree and the dauntless Maid of Saragossa.

25

25

ENSIGN EPPS, THE COLOR-BEARER.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY.

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY was born in Ireland, June 28, 1844. He began life as a type-setter, and later went to England and became a reporter for various newspapers. Returning to Ireland, he joined the 10th Hussars, with the secret intention of spreading the Irish cause among the soldiers. His purpose was discovered, and he was sentenced to be shot. This sentence was commuted, and he was sent to the English prison colony in Australia. From there he escaped in an open boat and was picked up at sea by Captain Gifford of the American ship, "Gazelle," and brought to America. He wrote and lectured in this country,

and became the editor of the "Boston Pilot."

Among his works are "Songs of the Southern Seas," "Songs, Legends, and Ballads," and "In Bohemia.” He died in Hull,

Mass., Aug. 10, 1890.

ENSIGN EPPS, at the battle of Flanders,

Sowed a seed of glory and duty,

That flowers and flames in height and beauty
Like a crimson lily with heart of gold,
To-day, when the wars of Ghent are old,
And buried as deep as their dead commanders.

Ensign Epps was the color-bearer

No matter on which side, Philip or Earl;

Their cause was the shell his deed was the pearl. Scarce more than a lad, he had been a sharer

That day in the wildest work of the field.

He was wounded and spent, and the fight was lost; His comrades were slain, or a scattered host.