but might have been better for a stout playmate of my own sex. I had a
hobby-horse, which I rode constantly to fairy-land in quest of
treasure to bestow upon my friends. I swung with Una on the gate, and
looked out upon the wonder of the passing world. The tragedy of my
grandmother's death, which, as I have said, interrupted the birth of
The Scarlet Letter, passed me by unknowing, or rather without leaving
a trace upon my memory. On the other hand, I can reconstitute vividly
two absurd incidents, destitute of historical value. After my
grandmother Hawthorne's death I fell ill; but the night before the
disease declared itself, I was standing in a chair at the nursery
window, looking out at the street-lamp on the corner, and my aunt
Lizzie Peabody, who had just come on from Boston, was standing behind
me, lest I should fall off. Now, I was normally the most
sweet-tempered little urchin imaginable; yet suddenly, without the
faintest warning or provocation, I turned round and dealt my loving
aunt a fierce kick in the stomach. It deprived her of breath for a
space; but her saintly nature is illustrated by the fact that the very
first use she made of her recovered faculties was to gasp out,
"Sophie, the child must be ill!" Fortunately for my reputation, the
illness was not long in arriving. The other episode must have
happened at about the same period, and is likewise concerned with Aunt
Lizzie. We had a cat, and the cat had had kittens a day or two before.
Aunt Lizzie came into the nursery, where Una and I were building
houses of blocks, and sat down in the big easy-chair. The cat was in
the room, and she immediately came up to my aunt and began to mew and
to pluck at her dress with her claws. Such attentions were rare on
pussy's part, and my aunt noticed them with pleasure, and caressed the
animal, which still continued to devote its entire attention to her.
But there was something odd in the sound of her mewing and in the
intent regard of her yellow eyes. "Can anything be the matter with