CHAPTER XIII.


At Aunt Henshaw's, my passion for rummaging drawers and boxes of
knickknacks was abundantly gratified. The old lady fairly over-flowed
with the milk of human kindness, and allowed me to put her things in
disorder as often as I chose. There was an album quilt, among her
possessions, which I never grew tired of admiring. The pieces were all
of an octagon shape, arranged in little circles of different colors; and
in the centre of each circle was a piece of white muslin, on which was
written in tiny characters the name of the person who had made the
circle, and two lines of poetry. This album quilt was a good many years
old; and had been made by the ladies of the neighborhood, as a tribute
of respect to Aunt Henshaw, on account of her many acts of bravery and
presence of mind during the trying times of the Revolution.

The old lady was never weary of describing the grand quilting, which
took place in an old stone barn on the premises; when they all came at
one o'clock, and sitting down to work, scarcely spoke a word until six,
when the quilt was triumphantly pronounced to be completed; and taking
it from the frame, they proceeded to arrange a large table, set out with
strawberries and cream, dough-nuts, chickens, cider, and almost every
incongruous eatable that could be mentioned. Washington was then
President, and after drinking his health in cider, coffee, and tea,
which last was then a very precious commodity, being served in cups
exactly the size of a doll's set, they all in turn related stories or
personal anecdotes of the great General, of whom Aunt Henshaw never