which, without him, I should ever have seen.

John Wynne was, however, too habitually accustomed to implicit obedience to
dream of danger, and thus were early sown in my mind the seeds of future
action, with some doubt as to my father's ability to cope with a man like
our tutor, who considerately weighed my father's sentiments (they were
hardly opinions), and so easily and courteously disposed of them that these
logical defeats were clear even to us boys.

Our school relations with this gentleman were abruptly broken. One day, in
late October of 1769, we went on a long walk through the proprietary's
woods, gathering for my mother boughs of the many-tinted leaves of autumn.
These branches she liked to set in jars of water in the room where we sat,
so that it might be gay with the lovely colours she so much enjoyed. As we
entered the forest about Eighth street Mr. Wilson joined us, and went
along, chatting agreeably with my mother. Presently he said to me: "I have
just left your father with Mr. Pemberton, talking about some depredations
in Mr. Penn's woods. He tells me you boys are to leave school, but for what
I do not know. I am sorry."

Jack and I had of late expected this, and I, for one, was not grieved, but
my friend was less well pleased.

We strolled across to the Schuylkill, and there, sitting down, amused
ourselves with making a little crown of twisted twigs and leaves of the red
and yellow maples. This we set merrily on my mother's gray beaver, while
Mr. Wilson declared it most becoming. Just then Friend Pemberton and my
father came upon us, and, as usual when the latter appeared, our laughter
ceased.