much more than I.

I was nigh to fifteen before we read "Robinson Crusoe," but even earlier I
devoured at my aunt's "Captain Jack" and "The History of the Devil." The
former book filled us with delight. Jack and I used to row over to Windmill
Island, on the great Delaware, and there at the south end we built a hut,
and slew bullfrogs, and found steps on the sand, I being thereafter Friday,
and Jack my master. We made, too, a sail and mast for my boat, and, thus
aided, sailed of Saturdays up and down the noble river, which I have always
loved.

A still greater joy was to go in our chaise with my mother to the
governor's woods, which extended from Broad street to the Schuylkill, and
from Callowhill to South street. There we tied the horse, and under the
great trees we found in spring arbutus, even beneath the snow, and later
fetched thence turkey-foot ferns, and wild honeysuckle, and quaker-ladies,
with jack-in-the-pulpits and fearful gray corpse-lights hid away in the
darker woods. In the forest my mother seemed even younger than at home, and
played with us, and told us quaint tales of her French people, or fairy
stories of Giant Jack and others, which were by no means such as Friends
approved.

In our house one same stern, unbending rule prevailed. I have been told by
my aunt, Gainor Wynne, that when he was young my father was not always so
steadfast in conduct as to satisfy Friends. When I was old enough to
observe and think, he had surely become strict enough; but this severity of
opinion and action increased with years, and showed in ways which made life
difficult for those near to him. In fact, before I attained manhood the
tinted arms and the picture of Wyncote were put away in the attic room. My
mother's innocent love of ornament also became to him a serious annoyance,