Another Boston memory is the Boston Theater, where William Warren
reigned. Cinderella and her pumpkin carriage are fresh in my mind. I
also recall a waxwork representation of the Birth in the Manger. I still
can see the heads of the cattle, the spreading horns, and the blessed
Babe.

As I recall my early boyhood, many changes in customs seem suggested.
There may be trundle-beds in these days, but I never see them. No
fathers wear boots in this era, and bootjacks are as extinct as the
dodo. I have kept a few letters written by my mother when I was away
from her. They were written on a flat sheet, afterward folded and
fastened by a wafer. Envelopes had not arrived; neither had
postage-stamps. Sealing-wax was then in vogue and red tape for important
documents. In all well-regulated dwellings there were whatnots in the
corner with shells and waxworks and other objects of beauty or mild
interest. The pictures did not move--they were fixed in the family
album. The musical instruments most in evidence were jew's-harps and
harmonicas. The Rollo books were well calculated to make a boy sleepy.
The Franconia books were more attractive, and "The Green Mountain Boy"
was thrilling. A small boy's wildest dissipation was rolling a hoop.

And now California casts her shadow. My father was an early victim. I
remember his parting admonition, as he was a man of few words and seldom
offered advice. "Be careful," he said, "of wronging others. Do not
repeat anything you hear that reflects on another. It is a pretty good
rule, when you cannot speak well of another, to say nothing at all." He
must have said more, but that is all that I recall.

Father felt that in two years he would return with enough money to