aid.

"If we did they wouldn't be secrets."

Never had there been such a funeral in the town as that of Christopher
Snider. The schools were closed that the scholars might march in
procession. Merchants put up the shutters of their stores; joiners,
carpenters, ropemakers, blacksmiths, all trades and occupations laid
down their tools and made their way to the Liberty-Tree, where the
procession was to form. Mothers flocked to the little cottage in Frog
Lane to weep with a mother bereft of her only child. Tom Brandon and
five other young men were to carry the bier. The newspaper published
by Benjamin Edes expressed the hope that none but friends of freedom
would join in the procession.

Robert made his way to the Liberty Tree at the hour appointed. A great
crowd had assembled. Somebody had nailed a board to the tree, upon
which were painted texts from the Bible:--

"_Thou shalt take no satisfaction for the life of a murderer. He shall
surely be put to death._"

"_Though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not pass unpunished._"

The clock was striking three when the bearers brought the coffin from
the home of the mother in Frog Lane to the Liberty Tree. While the
procession was forming Robert had an opportunity to look at the
inscriptions upon the black velvet pall. They were in Latin, but a
gentleman with a kindly face, Master Lovell, translated them to the
people.

"_Latet Anguis in Herba._"
"_Hoeret Lateris lethalis Armada._"
"_Innocentia nusquam in tuta._"

The serpent is lurking in the grass.
The fatal dart is thrown.
Innocence is nowhere safe.

All the bells were tolling. Mothers and maidens along the street were
weeping for the mother following the body of her boy. Old men
uncovered their heads, and bared their snow-white locks to the wintry
air, as the pall-bearers with slow and measured steps moved past them.
Schoolboys, more than six hundred, two by two, hand in hand;
apprentices, journeymen, citizens, three thousand in number;
magistrates, ministers, merchants, lawyers, physicians in chaises and
carriages,--composed the throng bearing the murdered boy to his
burial.

Listen, my Lord Frederick North, to the mournful pealing of the
bells of Boston! Listen, King George, to the tramping of the
schoolmates of Christopher Snider, laying aside their books for
the day to bear witness against your royal policy,--boys now, men ere
long,--protesting with tears to-day, with musk