“I shall remember this, to-morrow,” said Charley; “and I will go to State Street, so as to see exactly where the British troops were stationed.”

“And, before long,” observed Grandfather, “I shall have to relate an event, which made King Street sadly famous on both sides of the Atlantic.  The history of our chair will soon bring us to this melancholy business.”

Here Grandfather described the state of things, which arose from the ill-will that existed between the inhabitants and the red-coats.  The old and sober part of the town’s-people were very angry at the government, for sending soldiers to overawe them.  But those gray-headed men were cautious, and kept their thoughts and feelings in their own breasts, without putting themselves in the way of the British bayonets.

The younger people, however, could hardly be kept within such prudent limits.  They reddened with wrath at the very sight of a soldier, and would have been willing to come to blows with them, at any moment.  For it was their opinion, that every tap of a British drum within the peninsula of Boston, was an insult to the brave old town.

“It was sometimes the case,” continued Grandfather, “that affrays happened between such wild young men as these, and small parties of the soldiers.  No weapons had hitherto been used, except fists or cudgels.  But, when men have loaded muskets in their hands, it is easy to foretell, that they will soon be turned against the bosoms of those who provoke their anger.”

“Grandfather,” said little Alice, looking fearfully into his face, “your voice sounds as though you were going to tell us something awful!”

Chapter V

Little Alice, by her last remark, proved herself a good judge of what was expressed by the tones of Grandfather’s voice.  He had given the above description of the enmity between the town’s-people and the soldiers, in order to prepare the minds of his auditors for a very terrible event.  It was one that did more to heighten the quarrel between England and America, than any thing that had yet occurred.

Without further preface, Grandfather began the story of

THE BOSTON MASSACRE

It was now the 3d of March, 1770.  The sunset music of the British regiments was heard, as usual, throughout the town.  The shrill fife and rattling drum awoke the echoes in King Street, while the last ray of sunshine was lingering on the cupola of the town-house.  And now, all the sentinels were posted.  One of them marched up and down before the custom-house, treading a short path through the snow, and longing for the time when he would be dismissed to the warm fire-side of the guard-room.  Meanwhile, Captain Preston was perhaps sitting in our great chair, before the hearth of the British Coffee House.  In the course of the evening, there were two or three slight