“Well, boys,” said my grandfather, “'tain't worth talkin' about what I did. I was in my mill that day, minding my business, when brother Con, he burst in, and says he, 'Look here, Bill, the regulars are goin' up to Concord to destroy our stores, and we must all go. Come, get your gun.' Well, I said I was a miller, and millers were exempt from duty; but Con wouldn't let me alone. 'Get down your gun,' says he. 'Suppose we're going to let them British fellers walk over us?' says he. Well, Con always had his way of me; and I got my gun, and we started out through the woods over to Concord. We lived at Weston then, ye see. Well, when we got on the brow of the hill, we looked over, and, sure enough, there on burying-ground hill was the British regulars. The hill was all alive with 'em, marching here and there in their scarlet coats like so many bees out of a hive. “'Con,' says I, 'jest look there. What are you going to do?' “'Shoot some of 'em, I know,' says Con. “And so we ran along, hiding behind trees and bushes and stone walls, till we got near enough to get a shot at 'em. You see, they broke up into companies, and went here and there about town, looking for the stores; and then, as we got a chance here and there, we marked our men, and popped, and then we'd run, and take aim somewhere else.” “Wal, now, that are wa'n't the hull on't,” said Sam. “Why, there was hundreds of fellers doin' just the same all round: it was jest pop-pop-pop! from every barn, and every bush, and clump o' trees, all along the way. Men was picked off all the time; and they couldn't see who did it, and it made 'em mad as fury. Why, I 'member Mis' Tom Bigelow, she that was Sary Jones, told me how they sot her mother's house afire and burnt it down, 'cause their nigger man Caesar popped at 'em out o' the buttery window. They didn't tell him to; but Caesar, he was full of fight, like all the rest on 'em. Lordy massy! the niggers went for suthin' in them times! Their blood was up as quick as anybody's. Why, there was old Pompey Lovejoy lived over by Pomp's pond in Andover, he hitched up his wagon, and driv over with two barrels o' cider and some tin dippers, and was round all day givin' drinks o' cider to our men when they got het and thirsty and tired. It was a pretty warm day for April, that was. Pomp has told me the story many a time. 'Twas all the cider he had; but cider goes for suthin', as well as gunpowder in its place, and Pomp's cider come jest right that day.” “But grandfather,” said I, “what happened to you over there?”