A group of half-starved men, their feet wrapped in rags, huddles around a small fire built of the few sticks they could scavenge from the snowy ground of Valley Forge. They try to warm their stiffened hands over the feeble flames. One of the men looks across the little circle and says, “Caleb, why do you fight?”
“Well,” says the one so addressed, “I see a day when an enormous government will collect a larger percentage of the people’s money in taxes than King George does today, and they will scarcely bat an eye. And you, Micah?”
“Ah,” came the answer, “‘tis like your vision, as I imagine whole generations of citizens dependent upon that great government for their bread. In fact, there should be more of them than there are people who pay the taxes.”
“Of course, that means the Holy Scriptures will have to be ignored,” another of the soldiers spoke. “How I long to see schoolchildren prevented from reading them. Even public display of the Commandments should be forbidden, and certainly no cross must be seen in any public place.”
“A worthy goal, no doubt, Ezra. Beyond that, oh, picture it. Some day our daughters will be able to shack up with men, and we will have no fear of their becoming pregnant out of wedlock, because they will be free to kill off our grandchildren.”
“Mm, yes, imagine. That is why we fight,” arose from every throat about the fire. “And certainly our children should be forbidden to carry such firearms as we use to feed and protect our families and our freedom.” Then all became silent. Pairs of eyes met across the flames. Each of the group rose, and with a muttered, “Hell, we might as well keep the king,” they shouldered what tattered packs they owned and trudged away into the darkness, leaving the struggling fire to die in the snow.