[From a letter dated May 4^th by a woman residing in Stow, Massachusetts]

. . . and Clarice spent the morning with the chickens.

Round about noon there was a Negro boy begging for work, slow-moving and most likely stupefied. I inquired after his papers to see if he was free, but he lied and said that he had lost them. “Then there is no work for you here,” I said, but he was so gaping and simple-looking that my heart went out to him, and I gave him some Indian pudding to eat before sending him on his way.

There are many such vagrants now who have fled the city. Gen. Gage issues passes for those who wish to leave, but many more are fleeing without, as we all predict bombardment and flame. There is a constant expectation of some fatal event. . . .