I met it last at the little stile from which I strolled away to the
station at Dearman; and when I saw the kind face again, it was in the
coffin, at the little church where he attended service. But the eyes
were closed, and the wonderful radiance of expression gone. It seemed to
me that death never took away more from a living face; it was but a cold
shadow lying there, of the man who had taught a nation to love him.

Edgewood, _Sept._ 1863.




CONTENTS.


_INTRODUCTORY._

page

I. With my Aunt Tabithy 1

II. With my Reader 9


_DREAMS OF BOYHOOD._

Spring 21

I. Rain in the Garret 26