yellow, and white houses, each of which had the usual quantity of
rose-bushes, lilacs, hollyhocks, and sunflowers. You should have seen
my home, my New England home, where once, not many years ago, a happy
group of children played. Alas! alas! some of those who gave the
sunlight to that spot have left us now forever, and on the bright
shores of the eternal river they wait and watch our coming. I do not
expect a stranger to love our old homestead as I loved it, for in each
heart is a fresh, green spot--the memory of its own early home--where
the sunshine was brighter, the well waters cooler, and the song-bird's
carol sweeter than elsewhere they are found.

I trust I shall be forgiven if in this chapter I pause awhile to speak
of my home--aye, and of myself, too, when, a light-hearted child, I
bounded through the meadows and orchards which lay around the old
brown house on my father's farm. 'Twas a large, square, two-storied
building, that old brown farmhouse, containing rooms, cupboards, and
closets innumerable, and what was better than all, a large airy
garret, where on all rainy days and days when it looked as if it would
rain, Bill, Joe, Lizzie, and I assembled to hold our noisy revels.
Never, since the days of our great-grandmothers, did little spinning
wheel buzz round faster than did the one which, in the darkest corner
of that garret, had been safely stowed away, where they guessed "the
young ones wouldn't find it."

"Wouldn't find it!" I should like to know what there was in that old
garret that we didn't find, and appropriate, too! Even the old oaken
chest which contained our grandmother's once fashionable attire was
not sacred from the touch of our lawless hands. Into its deep recesses
we plunged, and brought out such curiosities--the queerest-looking,
high-crowned, broad-frilled caps, narrow-gored skirts, and what was