Rebecca Brown - Stories about General Warren,

The author of the following little sketch has often heard the question asked, "What did Gen. Warren do to deserve all that has been said about him?" "Did he do any thing more than fight bravely, and get killed on the day of the battle of Bunker Hill?" To answer these questions, and to show, that although it was much for him to sacrifice his life for his country, yet that was not all he did; that he had toiled nobly for many years in her cause, before a drop of blood had been shed to accomplish her freedom, has been the principal object in writing it.

For some of the facts, she is indebted to those who have before written on the subject; but many of them have never before been published; nor does she think any but the closing one of his death is very generally known.

Another object has been, to place the leading causes of the Revolution in so strong and clear a light, and in such simple language, that every child may comprehend them as soon as he can read.

It has also been her design so to delineate the leading traits of Gen. Warren's character, as to show that his patriotism was not a sudden start of enthusiasm, but had long been a guiding principle of action.

If the writer has succeeded in deepening in any young mind, the impression of the debt of gratitude we owe the authors of our free institutions, or if the following pages should lead any one to think and read more on the subject, she will feel amply rewarded for all the trouble bestowed on them.

As Mary Montague and her mother were one morning sitting at work, by a cheerful fire, William, a boy about nine years old, ran in exclaiming, Oh dear mother! I'm so tired I don't know what to do.

Mrs. Montague. Why, my son, what has tired you so much?

William. I have been playing hoop more than an hour, and my hands ache so I can play no longer.

Mrs. M. Then you had better come and sit down with Mary and me and rest yourself.

William. Yes, mamma, I will, if you can lend me some pretty book, or tell me a story; there is no school to-day, you know.

Mrs. M. I have no book which you have not read, nor can I put aside my work to amuse you, but I can tell you a story and work too.

William. So do, mamma, I shall like that best.

Mary. And I too, dear mother.

Mrs. M. What shall I tell you about? Shall I tell you a true story, or do you wish me to make up one?

William. I should rather hear a true one, if you please, about some great man. Some American, for I had rather hear about one of my own countrymen, than about a foreigner, as I think you call those who live in other countries, do you not?

Mrs. M. Yes, my dear.

William. You know I have had books about a great many of our celebrated men, such as Gen. Washington, Gen. Lafayette, and Franklin. Now I want you to tell me what you can of Gen. Warren. Was he not a great and good man? I should think he must have been, for I have heard people speak of him very often, when talking of the revolution; I know, too, that great monument on Bunker Hill is partly for him, but I do not know what he did to deserve so much praise.

Mrs. M. I believe, my dear, there has never been any little books written about him, but he was both a great and a good man, though he did not live long enough to do so much for his country as those other generals of whom you have read. If you wish, I will tell you all I can of him.

William. Oh, so do! I want to hear it very much.

Mary. So do I.

Mrs. M. You spoke just now, William, of Lafayette as though you thought him an American. Do you not know he was a Frenchman?

William. Yes, mamma, I know that very well, but he did so much for us I can hardly help thinking he belonged to us.

Mrs. M. I do not much wonder at that, for he could not have done more, nor even so much, if he had indeed been an American. Come, now for General Warren. Shall I begin at the time when he was a child like you, or at that in which he became a general?

William and Mary, both together. Oh pray begin when he was a child like us.

Mrs. M. I cannot tell you a great deal about him at that time. I only know that he was born in Roxbury, in the year 1741. Roxbury is a small town a few miles from Boston. I have no doubt you often ride by the old house in which Joseph (for that was the name of the general) and his three brothers were born. It has now almost fallen to pieces, but it was once a beautiful place, and had a great many fine fruit trees round it. The father of Joseph was quite a rich farmer; he raised the best fruit of any one near Boston. Do you remember seeing last winter an apple with a fine blush on one side, called the Warren russeting?

William. Yes, mother, I think I do.

Mrs. M. Joseph's father was the first person who cultivated this apple, and it received its name from him: but alas! it cost him and his family very dear.

William. How, mamma?

Mrs. M. I will tell you. One day, in the fall of the year, when almost all the apples were gathered, Mr. Warren, the father of Joseph, while walking round his orchard to see if every thing in it was in good order, as he was looking over the trees he perceived one apple on the top of his favorite tree, the Warren russeting; it looked so beautiful, with the sun gilding its rosy side, that he determined to get it. He was a very active man; so up he climbed until his hand was on the apple, when, just as he had pulled it off, the branch on which he was standing, gave way, he fell to the ground and was instantly killed!

William. Oh dear, how long did he lay there, mamma?

Mrs. M. Not long; some of his workmen, who were near, heard the noise of the fall, and directly went to see what it was.

His youngest son, whose name was John, was then only four years old: dinner was ready at home, and the mother of little John told him to run into the orchard, and see why his father did not come in to dinner: away he went, and, as he was looking eagerly to see if his father was coming, he saw two men carrying something between them: he ran up to them to see what it was, and, only think of it! it was the body of that dear father whose affectionate embrace he was expecting every moment to meet! Those eyes, which had so often beamed on him with love, were closed in death, and the arms, so often held out to embrace him, hung motionless at his side!

Mary. Oh, how I pity the poor boy, he must have felt dreadfully!

Mrs. M. Dreadfully indeed! When he grew up to be a man I often heard him say, that, young as he then was, the feelings of that moment could never be effaced from his mind.

William. I should think he never could have forgotten it.

Mrs. M. I have now told you about the father of Joseph; shall I tell you any thing about his mother, or go on about him?

William. If you please, I should like to hear about his mother. I always feel more interested in any one, when I am acquainted with his father and mother.

Mary. And I too love dearly to hear about them, especially I want to know all I can of the mother of any one I hear of, or read about.

Mrs. M. I will tell you all I can of her. Like Washington, Joseph was blessed with a most excellent mother; she, too, was like the mother of Washington, left a widow when even the oldest of her sons most required a parent's care. Her husband, you recollect, was killed when the youngest boy was only four years old. The eldest was about twelve years older. The task of a parent, though a delightful, is a very arduous one, and when that of both parents must be discharged by one, it is much more so. It often happens that a mother is left with a family of young children, and is obliged to bring them up without the controlling power of a father's care; it is therefore the duty of every female so to educate her own mind, and that of her daughters, as to enable her, if she should be placed in this responsible situation, to be able to guide aright the minds of those under her care.