gladness and peace. Yonder we can see a chimney-smoke curling upward, pointing out the place where stands the rude dwelling of one of the pioneers of civilization in this new country.

William Anderson and his wife Mary were fine specimens of the early colonial settlers. They possessed youth, health and courage, and had come from the parent colony of Massachusetts to make for themselves a home on the bank of the Connecticut. They had chosen this beautiful spot both on account of its natural beauty and productive soil. Only one black cloud gathered upon their horizon and hindered them from indulging in bright anticipation undimmed by any anxiety. This cloud hung heavily over many a settler's cabin, and paled many a blooming cheek to the whiteness of death with its terror. In the forests dusky forms were lurking-the forms of enemies and not of friends. The hatchet and the tomahawk were fearful weapons in the hands of the stealthy, relentless Pequots, and their outrages were becoming more and more appalling. The pioneer worked in the field with his loaded gun within easy reach, and a similar weapon of defence was left with the wife at home. Thus guarded, the brave husband and wife fought the shadows of frontier life, scarcely daring to acknowledge to themselves, much less to each other, the daily and nightly thought that at length made existence seem little more than a nightmare of expectant dread.

William and Mary Anderson bore courageously the terrors of Indian warfare, and had so far escaped any very active persecution from the red warriors, who sometimes visited their cabin and partook, in grim but apparently friendly silence, of their hospitality.

But the fires of unconquerable hatred for the white race of intruders upon their cherished domains burned fiercely in the savage breast, and consumed every softer feeling. There was at last no distinction of friend or foe. If the skin were white it was enough to seal the fate of any unfortunate who might come within a Pequot's reach.

We have tried to describe in words a few of the beauties of that bright May morning so long ago which was rendered memorable by the scenes enacted during the day. However much the beauties of nature may

charm us when the heart is at rest, there is always a something terrible and incongruous about the picture which remains stamped upon the memory in after days, wherein a blue sky, a bright sun and a lovely world, serve only as a frame to some dark tragedy of hate and bloodshed. The deed seems more dreadful, the thought more sickening, than if attended with gloomy skies and wailing winds. Thus, at least, it seemed to Mary Anderson years after that bright May morning whose sunshine was destined to seem more mournful than the blackest clouds of a tempestuous night.

Up with the sun were the settler and his wife, intent upon the duties of the dayhis, out of doors upon the farm; hers, in the woman's kingdom at home; though indeed she did not hesitate to lend her cheerful aid in some of the lighter out-door tasks when wanted, for help was rare indeed in those days. Bidding his wife goodby till dinner-time, William Anderson took his way to the field that lay all prepared for planting, and set about his work in high spirits, for his farm was a fine one, and gave promise of excellent crops in return for his labor. He was yet young, and the rich color induced by health and out-door employment glowed on his cheeks and brightened his eyes. Hope pictured to him a happy well-to-do-future, when his land should all be reclaimed to cultivation, his house enlarged and beautified, and himself and his good wife blessed with all the comforts that plenty brings. They were content to work hard in the present for the sake of the competence they might reasonably expect to gain from their united efforts.

In this pleasaut frame of mind the settler worked steadily on, for once forgetful of ever-threatening danger; while at home, his blooming wife stepped lightly about her household tasks, humming a low tune, and casting frequent glances through the open door in the direction her husband had taken, or up at the hour-glass to see how the sands were falling. She, too, had her bright hopes of the future, and forgot her one source of dread in dreaming of the happier times to come.

But alas! the movements of the settler had not been unseen that morning, for a pair of vengeful black eyes had marked his motions from the time that he left the

house. Sheltered behind a rising knoll of ground and a fallen log, lay crouched the snaky form of a Pequot warrior. Unconscious of danger, the settler paused in his work, with his face toward the spot where the Indian was concealed. Too late his quick eye caught sight of a movement above the log, and before he could seize his faithful musket, the fate of William Anderson was sealed. Scarcely a sound left his lips before the Indian's tomahawk was buried in his brain, and he sank heavily to the ground, never to rise again. Away bounded the savage with a fresh and gory scalp dangling from his girdle, while the sun shone and the birds sang, and Mary Anderson, standing in the cabin door shading her eyes from the sun with her hand, looked in vain to catch a glimpse of the figure of her husband in the field not very far away.

chosen as his home by William Anderson was one of the most beautiful as well as the most fertile in the entire valley of the Connecticut, but it was also more retired from the rest of the settlers' houses than was safe in such troublous times. Yet the young pioneer and his wife had been loath to forsake it, hoping that the Indian warfare might cease without serious results to them. Of late the Indian outrages threatened to utterly destroy the little colony, and the friends of the Andersons had thought with anxiety of their peril. On this very May morning so fatal to the poor settler, several of the colonists had started to warn them of their danger; and it was upon their ears that the piercing shriek of the wife, thus cruelly made a widow, fell. With blanched cheeks, expecting to find a verification of their fears, they pressed forward, to gaze at last upon the living and the

The hours crept on, and Mary, feeling less and less cheerful as the day wore on to noon, busied herself in the preparation of their simple dinner with trembling fingers that told of a mind ill at ease. At length all was ready, and she blew a long signal blast on the dinner-horn which she thought could not fail to reach the ears of her husband. Then giving one last look at the rude table, to satisfy herself that nothing was wanting, she went out of the house with a quick step, intending to meet her husband on his way home. But no one was in sight; and wondering if her signal had not been heard, the settler's wife hurried on to the field, her heart beating fast with apprehension as she drew near to it and still saw nothing of her husband.

But who can paint the anguish and the horror that seized upon Mary Anderson as she caught sight of the body of her husband, cold in death and fearfully mutilated? Her wild despairing shriek echoed along the banks of the Connecticut, unanswered, though not unheard. The spot

dead victim of Indian ferocity. What more can we say? Mary Anderson lived to see the red men no longer the terror of the whites; and when a terrible vengeance was wreaked upon the Pequots, she declared that it was only just.

But the cup of Indian iniquity was at last full, and the colonists on the shores of the Connecticut gathered together for one final struggle with their savage enemies. On the 5th of June, 1637, a vessel bearing on board a force of ninety colonists, nearly half the entire number of able-bodied men in the colony, sailed into Narraganset Bay. The main force of the Pequots was at Groton. Without waiting for additions to their force which were to come from Massachusetts, the determined settlers advanced immediately, hoping to take the foc by surprise. But the barking of a watchdog gave notice of their approach, and a desperate hand-to-hand encounter followed, in which the numbers of the contestants were nearly equal. Finally the Pequot village was fired, and the whole Pequot force, about six hundred of both sexes and

all ages, were either killed or burned, with the exception of seven prisoners, and seven who escaped. This awful massacre completely subdued the spirit of the remaining Indians, and the once proud and warlike Pequots were no longer known as a tribe. The colonists named the spot where the Pequot fort had stood Mystic, on account of the mysterious interposition of Providence which had given them the victory.

Connecticut also took an active part in the scenes of King Philip's war, in 1675. It united with Massachusetts and Plymouth Bay, the entire force numbering fifteen hundred white men, and some friendly Indians. It is needless for us to recount the bloody battles and fierce hostilities of the war, which, as we all know, ceased to be carried on with energy after the death of King Philip in August, 1676.

The name of Captain Mason, who led the attack we have mentioned on the Pequots, became a terror to the Indians. He was ever after stationed on the border towns of Connecticut, and his name was sufficient to prevent any hostilities from the Indians to the English. It was while pursuing the Pequots that the harbor of Quinepiack and the advantages of the location for a commercial town were discovered. These discoveries were afterward disclosed to the most distinguished company of emigrants that ever came to New England, which arrived in Boston from London in July, 1637. Their pastor and leaders were the Rev. John Davenport, who had been a celebrated minister in London, Gov. Theophilus Eaton, a wealthy merchant, the Rev.

Samuel Eaton, his brother, Thomas Gregson, Robert and Francis Newman, Stephen Goodyear, and others. Edward Hopkins, son-in-law of Gov. Eaton, also a London merchant, was of the company, but settled in Hartford. They landed April 18, 1638, and not long after called the place New Haven. The town plot was half a mile square, divided into nine subordinate squares, with the centre one reserved for

public use. In the next year they adopted their form of civil government, a distinguishing feature of which was that all civil power should be vested in members of the church. A constitution for the government of the colony of Connecticut was next perfected, and was approved by a general Vote of the people, Jan. 14, 1639 -this being the first example in history of a written constitution organizing a government and limiting its powers. It would be the most interesting to know how it was undertaken, and under whose fingers it grew toward perfection with no model for a guide; but as to this, history is silent. We know, however, that it formed the basis of the charter of 1662, and its more prominent features have been copied into the constitutions of the several States of the Union. In this constitution, and in the subsequent administration of it till 1661, there was no recognition of any higher

human power than the people, and to all practical intents and purposes, Connecticut was an independent government.

But on the accession of Charles II. to the throne, the colonists began to fear for the future; and in order to obtain the king's favor, the general court determined to formally acknowledge their allegiance to the crown, and obtain a charter. Gov.