hung out.

At ten, the same night, in mid-river of the Charles, oarsmen two,
with passenger silent and grim, had seen the signal light
out-swung, and rowed with speed for the Charlestown shore.

At eleven, the moon was risen, and the grim passenger, Paul
Revere, had ridden up the Neck, encountered a foe, who opposed
his ride into the country, and, after a brief delay, rode on,
leaving a British officer lying in a clay pit.

At mid-night, a hundred ears had heard the flying horseman cry,
"Up and arm. The Regulars are coming out!"

You know the story well. You have heard how the wild alarm ran
from voice to voice and echoed beneath every roof, until the men
of Lexington and Concord were stirred and aroused with patriotic
fear for the safety of the public stores that had been committed
to their keeping.

You know how, long ere the chill April day began to dawn, they
had drawn, by horse power and by hand power, the cherished stores
into safe hiding-places in the depth of friendly forest-coverts.

There is one thing about that day that you have NOT heard and I
will tell you now. It is, how one little woman staid in the town
of Concord, whence all the women save her had fled.

All the houses that were standing then, are very old-fashioned
now, but there was one dwelling-place on Concord Common that was