It came to me on the night of my arrival on the
wharves of Boston Town.
We lumbered up through the straggling village in one of those clumsy
coaches that had late become the terror of foot-passengers in London
crowds. My aunt pointed with a pride that was colonial to the fine
light which the towns-people had erected on Beacon Hill; and told me
pretty legends of Rattlesnake Hill that fired the desire to explore
those inland dangers. I noticed that the rubble-faced houses showed
lanterns in iron clamps above most of the doorways. My kinsman's house
stood on the verge of the wilds-rough stone below, timbered plaster
above, with a circle of bay windows midway, like an umbrella. High
windows were safer in case of attack from savages, Aunt Ruth explained;
and I mentally set to scaling rope ladders in and out of those windows.
We drew up before the front garden and entered by a turnstile with
flying arms. Many a ride have little Rebecca Stocking, of the
court-house, and Ben Gillam, the captain's son, and Jack Battle, the
sailor lad, had, perched on that turnstile, while I ran pushing and
jumping on, as the arms flew creaking round.
The home-coming was not auspicious. Yet I thought no resentment
against my uncle. I realized too well how the bloody revenge of the
royalists was turning the hearts of England to stone.
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