“Good-night, cousin,” she said; “I want to thank you in behalf of all the girls in Boston for throwing that villain into the watering-trough.”
IV.
AN EVENING WITH SAM ADAMS.
“How beautiful!” Robert exclaimed, as he beheld the harbor, the town, and the surrounding country from the top of the house the following morning. Berinthia pointed out the localities. At their feet was Copp’s Hill burial ground with its rows of headstones and grass-grown mounds. Across the river, northward, was Charlestown village nestling at the foot of Bunker Hill. Ferryboats were crossing the stream. Farther away beyond fields, pastures, and marsh lands were the rocky bluffs of Malden, the wood-crowned heights russet and crimson with the first tinges of autumn. Eastward was the harbor with its wave-washed islands, and the blue ocean sparkling in the sunlight. White sails were fading and vanishing on the far distant horizon. Ships were riding at anchor between the town and castle. Southward were dwellings, stores, shops, and the spires of meetinghouses. Beyond the town were the Roxbury, Dorchester, and Milton hills—fields, pastures, orchards, and farmhouses. Westward rose Beacon Hill, its sunny slopes dotted with houses and gardens; farther away, across Charles River, he could see the steeple of Cambridge meetinghouse and the roof of the college.
Copp’s Hill Burial Ground.
“This is Christ Church,” said Berinthia, pointing to the nearest steeple. “That beyond is the Old North Meetinghouse where Cotton Mather preached.[18] Of course you have heard of him.”