Later, in the early morning hours of December 16, 1773 Oh, dear diary! Such joy I cannot contain! Also, such contempt for the greedy English. Those "Indians" were our own brave men from Boston, among them my father, William Hutchinson, my uncles, Henry and James, as well as my elder brother, William! And one, the boy I have my eye on, fourteen-year-old Jesse James! They painted their faces and put on striped feathers and marched purposefully, yet warily, toward the Dartmouth, the Eleanor, and the Beaver, three ships anchored in our harbor. Mother wept and laughed as she anticipated what few did know at that time: a surprise was in store for those laughing, gaudy, stupid Brits! I rose out of bed, only in my white nightdress, the breeze blowing through my hair as I threw open the window. I could see very little, but I heard splashes as if crates and their contents were being emptied upon the waters of Boston Harbor and the Atlantic Ocean! Mother put a hand on my shoulder, smiling. "What are they're pouring?" I asked, genuinely curious and excited. "'Tis tea," Mother replied, "Tea." I had no idea what was happening, but as I watched, I soon began to see: the clear, sloshing, brown liquid that I so loved to drink with cinnamon was, indeed, being emptied into the sea soon accompanied by its crate. I tried to count the crates but lost count after thirty-five. Soon, I too was enraptured in the joy of triumph over their royal highnesses. A rallying cry rose up: "342! 342!" I, of course, did not know what this meant either, but Mother whispered, clasping her hands to her heart, "342 crates of tea!" I gasped. What a victory! "Come, come," Mother said, "But on your woolen gown quickly--we must join the Sons of Liberty and greet them with cheers, food, and rest!" I forgot to put on my gown, but did put on a cloak, and rushed outside. It was very cold, and perfect, white, crystalline snow crunched musically beneath my feet. I saw other girls my age running about, including Rebecca Dawson and Lydia James, the younger sister of Jesse. I joined the crowd, quickly forgetting about Mother. I mingled and sang and presented beer to the triumphant "Indians" with Rebecca and others. Suddenly, a very handsome "Mohawk" appeared before me. "And how dost thee fare on such an auspicious night, Liza? Are thouest proud of thy father and his comrades?" 'Twas Jesse! And he was calling me by prettier form of my name, instead of dull Eliza, he called me Liza! I felt like a princess in my white nightgown, with this handsome Indian standing before me--I almost began wickedly thinking he would carry me off to his village somewhere to be his bride! I banished such a crude thought and quickly said a small prayer for forgiveness. My cheeks were flushed from the cold, my eyes sparkled like the ice crystals around this perfect snow world with my Jesse ruling over it, and I smiled. "I am very proud," I dipped my head in fake reverence, "Most proud of the prince of the Indians who has suddenly graced me with his presence." His eyes sparkled with laughter and mischief. They drifted to my lips, which were turning blue. It was only then I realized I was shivering. "Thou art cold," he said, concerned, "Would thou likest me to warm thy lips for thee?" Without waiting for a reply, he dipped his head forward. When we broke apart, my lips still tingled from the electric shocks tingling through my body, and whispered, "Thou art brave, as are all the Sons of Liberty." Jesse smiled, "Let us join in the festivities." Needless to say, our voices sang the highest and loudest in the song of the Sons of Liberty. And my lips are still tingling from that kiss.