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Show CE!SE5Z5H525HSZ5H5Z5HSZ5ZSZ5H5ZSa j The Spirit 1 jj Bunker Hill SE5H5H5E5Z5H5H5Z5ZSHSH5Z5ZS252n Sooner or later every stranger who visits Boston invariably announces: "I must see Bunker Hill." June 17 is the ideal day to gratify that wish; to correctly entertain my guests a supply of luscious chicken and ham sandwiches sand-wiches should be packed, with plenty of pickles and a few pieces of pie, for Charlestown accent on the "town," and pronounce it clearly, please is within the "pie belt." We climb the stately pile on Bunker Hill; attend the exercises held by some historical association; listen to the strains of that old ode sung at the dedication of the monument in 1S43, when Daniel Webster delivered his famous oration; behold the parade sweep In majesty about the foot of the. historic pile, and watch the sun flash in golden gleams on the renowned "Sword of Bunker Hill." Like many another historical landmark that otherwise oth-erwise would have been obliterated. Bunker Hill has been preserved to posterity by the devotion of women. Where today are well-kept turf, a stateiy monument and joyous sightseers, sight-seers, in 1775 a bare summit scarred I by cannon-shot, a raw, half-sodded fieldworks and low redoubt overlooked the burning churches and houses of Charlestown. Beyond from the Charles river, the British men-of-war joined j the land batteries on the farther bank in the unceasing thunder of artillery, hurling death upon the men of Massachusetts Massa-chusetts Bay, Vermont and Connecticut. Connecti-cut. Due north to the very verge of the Mystic ran a weak breastwork across j pasture lands and meadows, with here j and there an orchard abloom with the j delicate pink and white of apple, pear, , cherry and quince; fields of yellow- ; hearted, white-petalled daisies swayed i in the vortex of cannon shot and the j mad rush of furious charges. I Anon the orchards were full of red-coated, red-coated, white-gaitered infantry; the snow-white daisies were marred by great splashes of life-blood, and the pastures strewn with patches of scarlet, scar-let, where soldiers in their gay uniforms uni-forms had fallen to rise no more. To the left a half-score of brass howitzers, howitz-ers, posted amid brick-kilns and clay pits, sought to enfilade and sweep away the Baymen who kept, the hill. Farmers, sailors, fishermen, tradesmen, trades-men, clad in everyday garb, armed with their homely weapons of the chase, with scarcely a flag to fight under, un-der, suffering hunger, thirst and weariness weari-ness under the broiling sun, coolly trained across the Bunker Hill breastwork breast-work the long, rusty tubes which had already heaped windrows of dead and 'dying men upon the fields below, where the new-mown hay still lay drying. dry-ing. The British lines continued to charge. "Don't fire until you see the whites of their eyes!" The word passed pass-ed down the line of set faces, and levelled guns; a moment later hoarse cries, "Fire! Fire!" rang out; a crash of triple volleys and the rattle of deadly dead-ly file-firing followed. The powder failed, the provincials broke away pursued pur-sued by Pitcairn's marines for the moment, our fathers' hope of victory was over. Yes, visit Bunker Hill; look upon a monument erected to cherish the memory of a defeat that brought success, suc-cess, for Victory crowned the vanquished van-quished that day. The day set apart to commemorate the battle of Bunker Hill Is exclusively a Charlestown holiday, holi-day, but far wider than Boston's "tri-mountains" "tri-mountains" spreads the spirit of Bunker Hill throughout a great nation christened on that day in the red blood of American freeman. Joe Mitchel Chappie, in the National Magazine. |