back to their own firesides. Others, who were younger and less prudent, remained in the streets.

8. Later in the evening, not far from nine o'clock, several young men passed down King Street towards the custom-house. When they drew near the sentinel, he halted on his post, and took his musket from his shoulder, ready to present the bayonet at their breasts.

Who goes there?" he cried, in the gruff tones of a soldier's challenge.

9. The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they had a right to walk in their own streets, without being accountable to a British red-coat. They made some rude answer to the sentinel. There was a dispute, or, perhaps, a scuffle. Other soldiers heard the noise, and ran hastily from the barracks, to assist their comrade.

10. At the same time many of the towns-people rushed into King Street, by various avenues, and gathered in a crowd about the custom-house. It seemed wonderful how such a multitude had started up, all of a sudden.

11. The wrongs and insults which the people had been suffering for many months now kindled them into a rage. They threw snowballs and lumps of ice at the soldiers. As the tumult grew louder, it reached the ears of Captain Preston, the officer of the day. He immediately ordered eight soldiers of the main guard to take their muskets and follow him. They marched across the street, forcing their way roughly through the crowd, and pricking the townspeople with their bayonets.

12. A gentleman (it was Henry Knox, afterwards General of the American Artillery) caught Captain Preston's

arm.

"For Heaven's sake, sir," exclaimed he, “take heed what you do, or here will be bloodshed!"

13. "Stand aside!" answered Captain Preston, haughtily. "Do not interfere, sir. Leave me to manage the affair."

14. Arriving at the sentinel's post, Captain Preston drew up his men in a semicircle, with their faces to the crowd.

THE BOSTON MASSACRE.

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When the people saw the officer, and beheld the threatening attitude with which the soldiers fronted them, their rage became almost uncontrollable.

15. "Fire, you lobster-backs!" bellowed some.

"You dare not fire, you cowardly red-coats," cried others. 16. "Rush upon them!" shouted many voices. "Drive the rascals to their barracks! Down with them! Down with them! Let them fire, if they dare!"

Amid the uproar the soldiers stood glaring at the people with the fierceness of men whose trade was to shed blood.

17. O, what a crisis had now arrived! Up to this very moment, the angry feelings between England and America might have been pacified. England had but to stretch out the hand of reconciliation, and acknowledge that she had hitherto mistaken her rights, but would do so no more. Then the ancient bonds of brotherhood would again have been knit together as firmly as in old times.

18. But, should the king's soldiers shed one drop of American blood, then it was a quarrel to the death. Never, never would America rest satisfied, until she had torn down the royal authority, and trampled it in the dust.

19. "Fire, if you dare, villains!" hoarsely shouted the people, while the muzzles of the muskets were turned upon them; "you dare not fire!"

20. They appeared ready to rush upon the levelled bayonets. Captain Preston waved his sword, and uttered a command which could not be distinctly heard amid the uproar of shouts that issued from a hundred throats. But his soldiers deemed that he had spoken the fatal mandate, "Fire!" The flash of their muskets lighted up the street, and the report rang loudly between the edifices.

21 A gush of smoke overspread the scene. It rose heavily, as if it were loath to reveal the dreadful spectacle beneath it. Eleven of the sons of New England lay stretched upon the street. Some, sorely wounded, were struggling to rise again. Others stirred not, nor groaned,

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for they were past all pain. Blood was streaming upon the snow; and that purple stain, in the midst of King Street, though it melted away in the next day's sun, was never forgotten nor forgiven by the people.

N. Hawthorne.

XVII. A SONG FROM THE SUDS.

Q

1.

UEEN of my tub, I merrily sing,

While the white foam rises high;
And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring,
And fasten the clothes to dry;

Then out in the free fresh air they swing,
Under the sunny sky.

II.

I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls

The stains of the week away,

And let water and air by their magic make
Ourselves as pure as they ;

Then on earth there would be indeed

A glorious washing-day!

III.

Along the path of a useful life

Will heart's-ease ever bloom;

The busy mind has no time to think

Of sorrow, or care, or gloom;

And anxious thoughts may be swept away,

As we busily wield a broom.

IV.

I am glad a task to me is given,

To labor at, day by day;

For it brings me health, and strength, and hope,

And I cheerfully learn to say,

"Head, you may think; Heart, you may feel,

But, Hand, you shall work alway."

Louisa M. Alcott.

MY HUNT AFTER THE BABY.

75

I

XVIII. MY HUNT AFTER THE BABY.

HAD been to the corn-lot in the hope of finding a few roasting-ears for supper; but there were none ripe enough, so I walked slowly back to the house, with my hands under my apron to save them from sunburn ; and the moment I stepped into the sitting-room I saw the baby was missing.

2. The baby was one that had been left with us,

sister

Bell and me, while the dear mamma went to see dear papa, sick in a far-away hospital. It was a plump, peachy little thing, nearly a year old, named Maude, familiarly called Madge, and more familiarly Midget.

3. She was full of mischief as she could hold, crept all about the house, throwing things out of doors or into the fire, as came handiest, thrust her hands behind her and screeched like a hyena if any one approached to interfere with her operations, and slept about fifteen minutes twice. a day.

4. Her usual time to be crawling around underfoot was in the early part of the day, when the kitchen-work was in progress; in the afternoon, when the work was all done, and we were ready for a frolic with her babyship, the little nuisance might generally be found sequestered in a corner, hugging a bosom full of matches, or sticking postage-stamps all over her chubby arms.

5. But this time I had left her asleep. She must have been asleep, for she did n't wink; and when the little deceiver was hoaxing me she always winked desperately. I laid her on a rug in a cool corner, and, leaving the door open, walked down to the corn-field and back again in about seven minutes, as nearly as I could judge.

6. The baby was missing! There was the print of her little moist head on the pillow, there were the little blue hints of shoes, just as she had kicked them off in her play. Hurriedly I went through room after room, searching and

calling. Not a glimpse of the little white frock, not a lisp from the prattling tongue.

7. "Baby! baby! where are you?" I cried. O dear Mr. T. B. Aldrich! It was n't our baby you had in mind, was it, when you wrote those sweet lines,

66

"O where is our dainty, our darling,

The daintiest darling of all, — Little Maude?"

8. Rushing to the head of the stairs, "O Bell!" I shouted, "have you seen baby?"

9. "No, I have n't; I guess not. Why?"

10. I knew by the way Bell spoke that she was not half awake, but her coolness annoyed me.

11. "

You guess not! Well, she's lost; I went to the lot after roasting-ears, and when-" A fretful exclamation from Bell interrupted me.

12. "O dear me! Have you looked in the parlor? I've not a doubt but she's there, poking over my photographalbum. Do look, please, sis."

13. Terror overmastered my desire to fling back a snappish answer to this aggravating remark. Down stairs again, I threw open the parlor door, which, having been tightly closed, I had not before tried. All undisturbed and quiet. How thankful I should have been just then to have found everything topsy-turvy, the phantom and grass bouquets in ruins, and Bell's album in the smutty fingers of the little culprit !

14. With a groan I shut the door, and commenced the search anew. I opened all the closets and presses that I had opened before, looked under the bureaus and sofas, and shook the ironing-basket.

baby, no Midget!

All in vain, vain!

No

15. Then I ran out into the currant-bushes, where a few tempting red bunches were still hanging. Bell saw and hailed me from the chamber-window,

"Is n't that pestiferous infant found yet?"

16. I looked up to see the provoking girl sitting by the open blind, braiding her tangled hair, O so leisurely!