of bags of grain. He was passing a tavern at a corner when a friend called out, "Hi, Uncle App, you're a little too late!" ·

"Too late for what?" Uncle App asked.

"Why, General Washington and his escort have just left here," was the reply. "Look to the westward there they go."

Uncle App at once urged Dobbin in that direction at full speed, the bags flopping with every bound of the horse, and the rider's coattails streaming out behind. He passed the military procession, then suddenly wheeled his horse, and confronted the chieftain.

"Are you General Washington?" he inquired.

"I am, sir," Washington replied.

"God Almighty bless you!" Uncle App exclaimed waving his hat in the air. Then he quietly pursued his way to the mill.

One of Connecticut's heroes of the Revolution was "Old Put," as General Israel Putman was affectionately called. He came as a young man, shortly after his marriage, to the eastern part of the state and settled in what is now the village of Brooklyn. In a few years he had a comfortable home and well-fenced clearings. Many sheep were kept in the region, and these suffered from the ravages of a certain she-wolf. Her footprints were easily recognized, for she had at some time been caught in a trap and escaped by leaving the toes of one foot behind. At last Putman entered into

an agreement with five of his neighbors to watch for and follow the wolf until she was killed.

They began the pursuit immediately after a light fall of snow at the opening of winter. Over the hills through forest and swamp they went until the wolf entered a den

in the rocks. Here a guard was set, and a crowd of men and boys assembled

with dogs and guns, straw and sulphur. A fire was

made in the

mouth of the

cave, but the smoke and fumes escaped too readily from the crevices to be effective.

The hours passed until nearly midnight, and then Putnam announced that he would go into the cave to investigate. After fastening a rope to one of his legs and ordering those outside to pull him forth when he signalled by kicking the rope, he took off his coat and vest, and, armed only with a torch, crawled in at the opening. He had advanced about twenty feet when he saw the glaring eyeballs of the wolf at the farther end of the cavity, scarcely three yards distant. A

hearty kick at the rope caused his friends to hastily pull him out, much to the detriment of his clothes and person. But he at once called for his gun, and back he went. As soon as he was near enough to see the wolf distinctly he took aim and fired. The concussion and the smoke almost overpowered him, but the crowd outside hauled him forth into the open air, where he quickly revived. Then for a third time he entered the cave. He found the wolf dead, seized her

he was ploughing in an outlying field, two miles from the village. When the mounted courier came along beating a drum at intervals and calling out the news to such persons as he saw, Old Put unhitched his oxen from the plough, and bade one of his boys, who was with him, to go home and tell Mrs. Putnam that he had gone to fight the British. Then he mounted his horse, on which he had ridden to the field that morning, and dashed away toward Boston.

He was noted for his energy and courage. The scene of one of his most daring exploits was the old town of Greenwich in the extreme southwestern corner of the state. A peninsula which reaches out on the west side of Greenwich harbor was used as a pasture for horses in the early days, and a settlement which grew up in its vicinity was called Horseneck. On the summit of a steep hill there, a little church was built. Putnam was in this region with a small force in February 1779 when a British foraying party of over two thousand cavalry and foot soldiers was discovered approaching.

To oppose them Putnam had only one hundred and fifty men and two pieces of artillery. He stationed his force on the brow of the steep rocky hill near the church, and when the enemy drew near received them with several well-directed volleys. They prepared to charge, and Putnam ordered his men to retire. He himself lingered until the British cavalry was close at hand. The road down the hill was circuitous, and time was precious. A path furnished a short-cut. This had been made by people walking to the church, and they had placed stones somewhat irregularly in the path to aid them in climbing. Down this steep path Putnam urged his horse, greatly to the amazement of the British cavalrymen, not one of whom dared make such a hazardous descent. They discharged their guns at him, but he was unharmed. One bullet, however, passed through his hat, and he turned

and shook his fist, shouting, "I'll hang ye to the next tree when I catch ye!"

Greenwich is no longer a rustic village, but a place of splendid residences, in park-like surroundings. It claims to number among its dwellers at least seventy millionnaires.

A Connecticut hero of the Revolution, whose fame is no less permanent than that of Putnam, is Nathan Hale. He was born at Coventry in 1755. Although a delicate child he grew up to be fond of outdoor life and became a strong, athletic lad. While attending Yale College he broke the college record for jumping. He graduated at nineteen and began teaching school. When the Revolution began he promptly joined the army and soon attained the rank of captain.

In September, 1776, Washington needed a spy who would enter the British lines and learn all he could and return with the information. Hale volunteered for this duty, and crossed from South Norwalk, Connecticut, to Long Island in a sloop, and made his way to New York, which the British then held. He was disguised as a schoolmaster, and wore a plain brown suit and a broad-brimmed round hat, and took along his diploma. His mission was entirely successful until he had returned to the place on Long Island where a boat was to meet him. There, at the last moment, he was captured and the records of what he had learned as a spy were found below movable cork soles in his shoes. Soon afterward he was taken early one morning to an