IN 1630 there was seen in the harbor of Delft, in Holland, a little vessel of poor appearance and meanly equipped. It was called the May Flower. It was anchored in the harbor, waiting for its cargo and its passengers, the former very trifling, the latter a knot of poor enough fellows.
The May-Flower sailed, carrying with her a dozen English Puritans, for the most part old, weary, mournful, in threadbare black coats, and fortified with their Calvinist Bibles, a provision of biscuit, and more or less ham. When they had crossed the Atlantic, these worthy people, who were seeking a peaceable spot where they might worship God in their own fashion, set to work to found colonies, which became Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. They had, as you know, to