some." They superintended our projections of creation on the
black-board--a great, old-fashioned black-board, the like of which I
have not since beheld; they read to us and told us stories. Many of
these stories were of incidents of their own child-life; and there was
also the narrative of our mother's voyage to Cuba and back, and
residence there when she was about eighteen or twenty--a fascinating
chronicle. Meal-times were delectable festivals, not only because the
bread-and-milk, the boiled rice and tapioca pudding, and eggs and
fruit tasted so good, but by reason of the broad outlook out of window
over the field, the wood, the lake, and the mountains; supper-time,
with the declining sun pouring light into the little room and making
the landscape glorious, was especially exhilarating. Ambrosial was
the bread baked by Mrs. Peters, the taciturn and serious religious
person of color who attended to our cooking; the prize morsels were
the ends, golden brown in hue, crunching so crisply between our teeth.
I used to wonder how a being with hands so dark as those of Mrs.
Peters managed to turn out dough so immaculate. She would plunge them
right into the ivory-hued substance, yet it became only whiter than
before. But the life of life was, of course, out-doors. There was a
barn containing a hay-mow and a large hen-coop, soon populous with
hens and chickens, with an heroic snow-white rooster to keep them in
order. Hens are the most audacious and presuming of pets, and they
have strong individuality.

One of our brood was more intellectual and enterprising than the
others; she found a way of getting out of the coop, no matter how
tightly it was shut up; and she would jump in our laps as we sat
eating a piece of bread in the barn doorway and snatch it away from
us; but I think we sometimes sat there with the bread on purpose to
have her do it. Once or twice--until I was detected and stopped--I