hours, listening to the hum of the running water brook, or the song
of the summer birds, who, like me, seemed to love that place. Often
would I gaze far off at the distant, misty horizon, wondering if I
should ever know what was beyond it. Wild fancies then filled my
childish brain. Strange voices whispered to me thoughts and ideas
which, if written down and carried out, would, I am sure, have placed
my name higher than it was carved on the old chestnut tree.

"But they came and went like shadows,
Those blessed dreams of youth,"

I was a strange child, I know. Everybody told me so, and _I_ knew it
well enough without being told. The wise old men at Rice Corner, and
their still wiser old wives, looked at me askance, as 'neath the
thorn-apple tree I built my playhouse and baked my little loaves of
mud bread. But when, forgetful of others, I talked aloud to myriads of
little folks, unseen 'tis true, but still real to me, they shook their
gray heads ominously, and whispering to my mother said, "Mark our
words, that girl will one day be crazy. In ten years more she will be
an inmate of the madhouse!"

And then I wondered what a madhouse was, and if the people there all
acted as our school-teacher did when Bill and the big girl said he was
mad! The ten years have passed, and I'm not in a madhouse yet, unless,
indeed, it is one of my own getting up!

One thing more about Rice Corner, and then, honor bright, I'll finish
the preface and go on with the story. I must tell you about the old
schoolhouse, and the road which led to it. This last wound around a
long hill, and was skirted on either side with tall trees, flowering