It was the morning of the twins’ tenth birthday, May 19, 1780, and they were sitting together on the door-stone, finishing their breakfast of porridge and milk, into which a spoonful of molasses had been stirred in honor of this anniversary. “Grandsir’” was dozing in the chimney corner in the large kitchen behind them; their mother sat close to the eastern window, spinning thread for Paul’s coat; Keturah, the maid, was in the pantry, skimming the milk; Oliver, the man, was in the field, plowing; and their father was in the army, fighting bravely and hopefully. The children had straw-colored hair of the same shade, and blue eyes, and when they stood up against the kitchen door to be measured, one mark always served for both of them; but here the resemblance ended, for Patience was strong and rosy, while Paul was weak and pale. “It rained a little this morning,” said Paul, tasting his porridge with his pewter spoon, “and it thundered before I was awake.” “How did you know it when you were asleep?” asked Patience, showing the dimples in both cheeks. “I felt it,” answered Paul. “What made us sleep so late this morning, do you suppose?” “It must be early,” replied Patience, glancing up at the cloudy sky. “The sun hasn’t risen yet, and the clock must be wrong,” turning to look at the tall clock in the corner of the kitchen, whose hands pointed to a quarter of nine. Suddenly there was an exclamation from the pantry, and the sound of breaking earthenware. “I thought the grandsir’ had set himself afire again,” cried Keturah, running to the old man’s chair, “I smelt fire so strong; and I turned and dropped the milk-dish.” “There is a strange, smoky smell, and grandsir’ is unusually drowsy this morning. I wish we could have a good heavy shower to clear the atmosphere; for I want to finish Paul’s coat to-day, and I can scarcely see to sew now. Just run out, and turn the linen on the grass, children; I want it to be nice and white; for when it is bleached, I shall make it into shirts for your father, though the war may be over and he at home before that time, please God.” Leaving their wooden bowls on the door-stone, the children ran across the damp grass. “It is all smutty and dirty,” cried Patience, lifting up one end of the long piece of linen. “So it is,” replied Paul, bending over it. “It looks as if some one had brushed down the chimney back, and then shaken the brush over the linen. Keturah will have to wash it.” “Keturah! Keturah! Come and look, Keturah!” they called. Keturah came and looked at the soiled linen, then she rubbed it in her fingers and smelled of it, and then she looked straight up into the clouds. “It rained down,” she declared; “there’s been woods afire, and the rain was full of burnt leaves. That must be why the sun has been so red for two or three days, and why he shows himself so little to-day.” Running to the barrel of rain water at the end of the house, she dipped her large, red hand into the water. “Just the same,” she muttered, smelling of it. “Curious! curious!” “What makes the birds twitter so?” asked Patience. “See! they are all flying to the woods, and singing, just as they do at night. And hear how the roosters are crowing!” “Perhaps they think it will rain,” returned Keturah, glancing at the clouds, with a startled face. “The clouds are breaking away, but it doesn’t get any lighter. I wonder what your marm thinks now.” “How green the grass looks!” exclaimed Paul. “Green!” repeated Patience; “why, it’s as blue as blue can be.” “As blue as indigo,” added Keturah, perplexed. “What crooked eyes you both have!” cried Paul. “O mother, how does the grass look to you?” he asked as the mother came to the door with a grave face. “A most beautiful green,” she answered. “I never saw anything more lovely; but in the corners it has a bluish appearance; it is very strange when there is so little light. But run down the lane, children, and see what ails the sheep; they are bleating as if they were in trouble.” “Take hold of my hand if you want to,” invited Paul; and, afraid, they knew not why, they clasped hands and ran toward the meadow bars. “The hens are going to roost,” said Paul, as they passed the henhouse. “They never went to roost in the morning before.” “Hurry!” cried Patience. “The cows are lowing as if they wanted to be milked.” At the bars they found an impatient group; the cows were trying to jump over the stone wall, and the sheep were huddled together, bleating piteously. “Perhaps they got frightened by bears,” suggested Patience. “Then I’ll open the bars,” said Paul, beginning to draw aside the heavy rails. “Stand back, Patty.” Patience had scarcely time to obey his caution before the cows rushed past her, closely followed by the frightened sheep. “I’ll leave the bars open,” decided Paul, “because it tires me to put them up, and Oliver is coming this way with the oxen. I wonder if he thinks it is dinner time? Nobody blew the horn for him.” “They are going right straight into their pen,” announced Patience, looking after the hurrying sheep, “and the cows have gone into their shed. And oh, how dark it grows! Let us run!” At the door they found their mother watching for them; and when they entered the kitchen, they saw Keturah lighting a candle at the fireplace. “When I couldn’t see to read the almanac in the forenoon, in a room with two windows, I thought it was proper time to light a candle,” she observed, as she straightened herself.324 “And now I’ll have my supper and go to bed,” the great-grandfather said, sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his trembling fingers. “But it is only the forenoon, grandsir’,” exclaimed Patience, standing at his side and shouting into his ear, “and we are to have Indian dumplings boiled in the pot for dinner. We only light the candle because a thunder-shower is coming up, and that makes the sky so dark,” she added, looking into her mother’s face for confirmation to her words. “I do not know what it is, child,” answered the mother, “but God will take care of us, whatever it is.” “A dark day?” inquired the great-grandfather, with his hand up to his ear. “I remember all about—that—that—happened in—the year—seven-teen—hundred—and—sixteen. We did not—know—what it was,—dark—dark—all day. Never—knew—what it was. Never knew—what it was,” he repeated, sinking back in his chair and closing his eyes. “What’s that?” asked Paul, as several small objects were apparently thrown in at the door. “’Tis the day of judgment of ungodly men come at last,” howled Keturah, dropping down on the hearth-rug, and covering her face with her apron. “Only some poor little sparrows,” said the mother, picking them up from the floor. “Poor little things!” echoed Patience, receiving them in her pinafore. “Three are dead,” she said, touching them tenderly; “but these two have their hearts beating. Oh, how fast they do beat!” “It is a bad omen for birds to come in the house. They never come to do nobody no good. Oh, hawk! we shall all be swallowed up,” groaned Keturah. “Not by the birds,” smiled the mother. “Lay the dead ones in the grass, Paul, and put the others in a warm, quiet place where they can revive. They were attracted by the light.” Dropping the dead birds on the grass near the door-stone, Paul gave a hasty glance around; all out-of-doors was quiet and dark and solemn, the lights that were beginning to gleam here and there in the neighboring farmhouses appearing strangest of all. “We are all bewitched together,” declared Oliver, entering the kitchen behind Paul, and closing the door as if something frightful were following him. “I don’t know whether I’m in this world or the next, and may the Lord have mercy on my poor soul.” “Sit down and rest, Oliver,” said the mother, motioning him to the settee in the chimney corner. “The sun will shine brightly to-morrow, I trust. This darkness is caused by a peculiar state of the atmosphere.” “A very peculiar state of the atmosphere, marm,” repeated Oliver, wiping the cold perspiration from his face. “Most days, in the morning the shadders fall to the west, and in the afternoons they fall to the east; but to-day the shadders fell every way, and that’s what scared me first, to have natur’ turn agin me so. And then the mist riz straight up out of the springs, and spread in a big red cloud, and then another lot of mist riz right up under that and made a green cloud, and then another white cloud came out of them same springs, and they all sailed off together, one on top the other, to the west, and finally got mixed up with the dark clouds.” “Very strange and beautiful,” commented the mother, unrolling the cloth of her own weaving upon the table, and proceeding to cut out Paul’s coat with her sharp shears. “Strange enough, as you may say, marm,” continued Oliver, his uneasiness lessening in the importance of the wonderful story he had to tell. “And Eben Strong, he came along on horseback, and he said a mountain has grown up betwixt us and the sun, and we shall always live in the dark. And Seth Rider told him he thought the British has smashed us all up, and this is the sign of it. And some folks do say,” lowering his voice, “that General Washington is dead.”