to speak in an unknown tongue, I fear, to modern children. Our stock of
playthings was very limited. We had, as the basis of everything, the
wooden works of the old clock, which served now for a gristmill like that
of the Groats, now for a fort, again for a church. Then there were the
spindles of a discarded spinning-wheel, and a small army of spools which
my aunt used for winding linen thread. These we dressed in odd rags for
dolls--soldiers, Indians, and fine ladies, and knights of old. To our
contented fancy, there was endless interest in the lives and doings of
these poor puppets. I made them illustrate the things I read, and the
slave boy and tiny orphan girl assisted and followed on with equal
enthusiasm, whether the play was of Alexander of Macedon, or Captain Kidd,
or only a war-council of Delaware Indians, based upon Mr. Colden's book.

Sometimes, when it was warm enough to leave the hearth, and Mr. Stewart
desired not to be disturbed, we would transport ourselves and our games to
my aunt's room. This would be a dingy enough place, I suppose, even to my
eyes now, but it had a great charm then. Here from the rafters hung the
dried, odoriferous herbs--sage, summer-savory, and mother-wort; bottles of
cucumber ointment and of a liniment made from angle-worms--famous for cuts
and bruises; strings of dried apples and pumpkins; black beans in their
withered pods; sweet clover for the linen--and I know not what else
besides. On the wall were two Dutch engravings of the killing of Jan and
Cornelis de Wit by the citizens of The Hague, which, despite their hideous
fidelity to details, had a great fascination for me.

My childhood comes back vividly indeed to me as I recall the good old
woman, in her white cap and short gown (which she had to lift to get at
the pocket tied over her petticoat by a string to her waist), walking up
and down with the yarn taut from the huge, buzzing wheel, crooning Dutch
hymns to herself the while, and thinking about our dinner.