That was the year I was born. Ribe, being a
border town on the line of the coveted territory, set about arming
itself to resist invasion. The citizens built barricades in the
streets--one of them, with wise forethought, in front of the drug
store, "in case any one were to faint" and stand in need of Hoffman's
drops or smelling-salts. The women filled kettles with hot water
in the houses flanking an eventual advance. "Two hundred pounds
of powder" were ordered from the next town by foot-post, and a
cannon that had stood half buried a hundred years, serving for a
hitching-post, was dug up and put into commission. There being a
scarcity of guns, the curate of the next village reported arming
his host with spears and battle-axes as the next best thing. A
rumor of a sudden advance of the enemy sent the mothers with babes
in arms scurrying north for safety. My mother was among them. I
was a month old at the time. Thirty years later I battled for the
mastery in the police office in Mulberry Street with a reporter for
the _Staats-Zeitung_ whom I discovered to be one of those invaders,
and I took it out of him in revenge.
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