Chapter 7
Snowballs and Paul Revere
One afternoon late in the year 1748, Uncle Thomas stamped into his front hall. He dropped his news-sheet, the Independent Advertiser, on a marble table.
Johnny came down the curved stairway for tea.
“Lydia!” Uncle Tom shouted. “And you, Johnny! Come into the library.” His double chins shook. Johnny had never seen him so angry.
Uncle Tom limped ahead. Johnny could tell that his gout hurt him.
Uncle Tom sat down slowly with a groan. “We have had bad news today,” he said. “England has returned Fort Louisburg in Canada to France! The treaty was signed in October. That’s the thanks our heroes get for their capture of the gateway to the St. Lawrence River! It’s all for nothing!”
Aunt Lydia said sadly, “It’s a shame! How dare they? Is there nothing we can do?”
“Humph!” Uncle Tom snorted. “There’s nothing we can do. It’s done. But New England won’t forget this. All our merchants are furious!”
“Tim O’Toole won’t like it. Neither will any of the militia,” Johnny spoke up.
“The militia say they won’t fight for England again,” Uncle Tom went on. “They’re that angry. And why shouldn’t they be? A treaty won’t keep the French or their Indian allies from killing our western settlers.”
Uncle Tom held up the little Independent Advertiser. “Here’s one news-sheet that’s not afraid to speak up,” he said. “You must both read it. The editor reminds England that our country, our Massachusetts, has lost seven thousand men, sick or dead. Many farms have gone to ruin. As a landowner, I know that well!”
“Are you ready for tea?” Aunt Lydia reached for a silver bell.
“No! This writer even says that England doesn’t care about us—that we should cut our ties with her. Hmmm. I wonder who dared to write this?”
“People say the names of the writers for that paper are kept secret,” Aunt Lydia said.
Johnny felt a secret thrill of pleasure. He thought, “Sam Adams wrote that. At least someone dares to let England know what we think.”
Near the end of December high snow drifts lined the streets. They filled the narrow lanes. The drifts were piled higher by the plows used to clear the streets. Harness bells jingled merrily as horses trotted along the streets pulling covered sleighs.
“Take this note over to Colonel Josiah Quincy’s for me, Johnny,” his aunt said one Saturday afternoon after school.
“Yes, ma’am.” Johnny was pleased. He wanted to see Sam.
Soon he was on his way. His boots squeaked over the packed snow. He buried his mouth in the knitted scarf his mother had sent him.
Two older boys came down the street towards him. They wore gray greatcoats, knit caps, and leather breeches. The bigger one carried a basket under his arm. They were laughing.
As they hurried past him, Johnny had a quick look in the basket. It was filled with snowballs!
“So!” Johnny thought. He turned his head. “The boys are gone. They must have slipped into that narrow lane I just passed.”
He picked up some snow in his mittened hands and made a snowball. As he straightened up something whizzed past his head. Wham! Another snowball smacked against his back. He whirled around, but he could see no one.
Close by snow had drifted high against the front of a house. Johnny ran and dropped behind it. He waited.
Soon two heads peeked out of the lane. Then the two boys ran out to the street to look for their target.
Johnny jumped up. As fast as he could, he threw two snowballs. One missed, but the other hit the bigger boy full in the face. With a yell he slipped and fell to the street. Snowballs rolled from his basket.
Quick as a wink, Johnny ran back to the smaller boy, who was trying to pick up the snowballs. Johnny scooped up a chunk of snow and threw it over the boy’s head.
“O-h-h, you—” the boy roared and grabbed at Johnny. Johnny dodged away. At that moment the bigger boy got to his feet.
“I’ve seen him before,” Johnny thought. “Now what’s his name?”
The smaller boy took a step forward. He was grinning and wiping the snow from his face. “Let’s get him, Paul.”
Paul laughed. “We’ve met our match, Joe. And I know you,” he said to Johnny. “You’re the lucky fellow who lives in the grand house on Beacon Hill yonder. Your uncle comes to my father’s shop. I’m Paul Revere and this is Joe.” (Image 7.1)
Image 7.1: As fast as he could, he threw two snowballs. One missed, but the other hit the bigger boy full in the face.
Johnny smiled. “I thought I knew you. Do you still live near Clark’s Wharf?”
“Aye, we do. I’m through North Writing School and learning to be a silversmith. I just left a copper teakettle at a house down the street.” Paul grinned. “And I don’t like an empty basket,” he added.
So that was why Johnny hadn’t seen more of Paul Revere. The Reading and Writing Schools were for boys who would not go on to Harvard College but would become tradesmen. Many boys didn’t even go to the Writing Schools.
Joe poked Paul. “Come on. We’ll be late for bell practice at Old North.”
“Old North” was what everyone in Boston called Christ’s Church. Christ’s Church was not a New England or Puritan church but an Episcopal or English church. It had a “royal peal” of bells that were said to be the sweetest and best bells in America. They could be heard in Cambridge clear across the Charles River.
“We’ve a club of bell-ringers,” Paul told Johnny. “Seven of us are paid for ringing the bells on Sundays and at other times, too. Since Christmas is day after tomorrow, we have to go over and practice now.”
Christmas! Johnny was curious. The Puritans had thought it wicked to celebrate Christmas, and many New Englanders still thought so. Most of them, like Johnny’s family, celebrated New Year’s instead, with a school holiday and little gifts.
Johnny had heard how beautiful the Episcopal churches looked at Christmas. “I’d like to see Old North and hear you boys,” he said. “Will you let me come, too?”
“Aye, come along. But it’s a far walk.”
When Paul and Joe pushed open the big doors of Christ’s Church the wonderful smell of Christmas evergreens was everywhere.
Johnny looked at the church’s carved altar, at which candles were burning. He looked at the organ and the carved wooden statues, and his eyes grew wide. “How beautiful it is! So different from our plain church!” he said.
He saw several boys, their faces red from cold, hustle into the bell-tower. Paul followed them. Soon Johnny could hear the bell-ringer telling the boys how to ring a Christmas carol. When the music started, Johnny thought he could feel the ringing clear to his bones.
The New England Sabbath began at candle-lighting time on Saturday. So Johnny soon had to leave. Paul was still up in the bell-tower pulling hard at the bell ropes, but Johnny felt that he had made a new friend.