CHAPTER Thirteen--The Snow Fort on Slatter's Hill.
The memory of man, even that of the Oldest Inhabitant, runneth not back to the time when there did not exist a feud between the North End and the South End boys of Rivermouth.
The origin of the feud is involved in mystery; it is impossible to say which party was the first aggressor in the far-off anterevolutionary ages; but the fact remains that the youngsters of those antipodal sections entertained a mortal hatred for each other, and that this hatred had been handed down from generation to generation, like Miles Standish's punch-bowl.
I know not what laws, natural or unnatural, regulated the warmth of the quarrel; but at some seasons it raged more violently than at others.
This winter both parties were unusually lively and antagonistic.
Great was the wrath of the South-Enders, when they discovered that the North-Enders had thrown up a fort on the crown of Slatter's Hill.
Slatter's Hill, or No-man's-land, as it was generally called, was a rise of ground covering, perhaps, an acre and a quarter, situated on an imaginary line, marking the boundary between the two districts.

An immense stratum of granite, which here and there thrust out a wrinkled boulder, prevented the site from being used for building purposes.

The street ran on either side of the hill, from one part of which a quantity of rock had been removed to form the underpinning of the new jail.
This excavation made the approach from that point all but impossible, especially when the ragged ledges were a-glitter with ice.

You see what a spot it was for a snow-fort.
One evening twenty or thirty of the North-Enders quietly took possession of Slatter's Hill, and threw up a strong line of breastworks, something after this shape: (Ft Slatter graphic) The rear of the entrenchment, being protected by the quarry, was left open.

The walls were four feet high, and twenty-two inches thick, strengthened at the angles by stakes driven firmly into the ground.
Fancy the rage of the South-Enders the next day, when they spied our snowy citadel, with Jack Harris's red silk pocket handkerchief floating defiantly from the flag-staff.
In less than an hour it was known all over town, in military circles at least, that the "Puddle-dockers" and the "River-rats" (these were the derisive sub-titles bestowed on our South-End foes) intended to attack the fort that Saturday afternoon.
At two o'clock all the fighting boys of the Temple Grammar School, and as many recruits as we could muster, lay behind the walls of Fort Slatter, with three hundred compact snowballs piled up in pyramids, awaiting the approach of the enemy.