“Priscilla! Priscilla!” Mistress Abbott’s voice carried all too well, and Priscilla dared not pretend not to hear. Slow and unwilling, she dragged up to the house where her hated sampler was waiting, for she knew that she should have done her stint before going out to play. Silently her mother handed her the square of linen where, already, stiff, cross-stitched roses bloomed in the border, and neat and clear stood out:
X1789X
XPriscilla Abbott is my nameX
XAmerica my nationX
XAndover town my dwelling-placeX
XAnd Christ is my salva
Priscilla sat down on the door-step and began her work, but the thread would tangle, and the needle would prick her finger, and she hated to sew anyway. In the garden, the early November sun shone warm and bright, dead leaves whirled in the breeze, and the corn-stalks rustled tantalizingly. The little maid was only ten years old, and her feet ached to run about.
Finally, however, a crooked, straggling it was done. How Mistress Abbott frowned when she saw it.
“Priscilla, that must come out. What kind of a needlewoman will you become if you do such work? Cousin Elizabeth Osgood has already hemmed her father's ruffles. My daughter should do as well. Take out that letter, every stitch.”
“Won’t!” answered Priscilla, stamping her foot. Such disobedience was unheard of, and her mother could scarcely believe her cars. But, “Won’t!" Priscilla repeated.
Before she had a chance to say more, Mistress Abbott gathered up the sampler and work-box in one hand, while with the other she grasped the little maid’s arm and led her up-stairs to her own chamber.
“Stay here until you can be good and have finished the whole word as it should be done! Then you may come to me.”
The door shut, and Priscilla was alone. Downstairs she heard the clatter of kettles: outside the bare branches of the cherry-tree tapped against the window, the crows called over the fields, “Come! come!” She looked at the sampler.
“I hate you! I hate you! I won’t learn to sew! I wish Mother would n’t make me. Mothers may like to sew, but girls don’t. Well, Cousin Elizabeth may, but she is different; she never wants to play. She is always so good! Well, I ’m not Cousin Elizabeth! I hate to sew!”
The unfortunate sampler was kicked under the bed, and Priscilla flung herself down on the floor in a storm of angry tears. The cherry-tree brushed against the window. She lifted her head. She climbed upon the sill. One foot slipped out onto a limb, the other followed, and, in a moment, down the tree slid the child.
An hour later, Mistress Abbott heard a clear, shrill voice singing the song that the Andover men had brought back from camp:
“Ye that reign masters of the serf,
Shake off your youthful sloth and ease;
We ’ll make the haughty Tories know
The tortures they must undergo
When they engage their mortal foe!
Huzza, brave boys!”
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