was shot but he instantly mounted another, belonging to one of his aides and rode along the highway, sword in hand, followed with alacrity by those to whom he had appealed. The veteran leader was now in the sixty-eighth year of his age. As he approached the end of his career, it seemed as though his life had coursed through time in a circle, and that having completed one revolution, he had now entered upon a second, with the ardor that belongs to the morning of existence. It was afterward well remembered that during this his last day's service, his words and movements displayed all the enthusiasm and intrepidity that had characterized his early days. They were the last bright flashes of an expir-ing taper. Just at this time a British cannon shot took effect among his followers, whom it covered with sand. Perceiv-ing some disorder in their ranks, he turned about in the saddle and addressing them in an oblique position; ''Come on my boys,'' said he, ''never mind such random shots. Follow me." He had barely finished the utterance of these words, when a musket ball struck him in the body producing spinal dis-location, followed by paralysis. He dropped from the saddle, and was conveyed first to a neighboring house and then in a litter to Danbury, where he died five days subsequently. The ground along the roadside where he fell was long des-ignated by two magnificent chestnut trees which grew in con-tiguity, and seemed sentinels stationed to watch the identity of the place until a grateful country should erect some per- manent memorial. But these monarchs of the field have long since disappeared from their post, and consigned it to tradition. More than eighty years have now gone by, and yet nothing has been done to embalm with certainty the local-ity of never dying interest.