CHAPTER I.

CHILDHOOD.

The psychical growth of a child is not influenced by days and years, but

by the impressions passing events make on its mind. What may prove a

sudden awakening to one, giving an impulse in a certain direction that

may last for years, may make no impression on another. People wonder why

the children of the same family differ so widely, though they have had

the same domestic discipline, the same school and church teaching, and

have grown up under the same influences and with the same environments.

As well wonder why lilies and lilacs in the same latitude are not all

alike in color and equally fragrant. Children differ as widely as these

in the primal elements of their physical and psychical life.

Who can estimate the power of antenatal influences, or the child's

surroundings in its earliest years, the effect of some passing word or

sight on one, that makes no impression on another? The unhappiness of

one child under a certain home discipline is not inconsistent with the

content of another under this same discipline. One, yearning for broader

freedom, is in a chronic condition of rebellion; the other, more easily

satisfied, quietly accepts the situation. Everything is seen from a

different standpoint; everything takes its color from the mind of the

beholder.

I am moved to recall what I can of my early days, what I thought and

felt, that grown people may have a better understanding of children and

do more for their happiness and development. I see so much tyranny

exercised over children, even by well-disposed parents, and in so many

varied forms,--a tyranny to which these parents are themselves

insensible,--that I desire to paint my joys and sorrows in as vivid

colors as possible, in the hope that I may do something to defend the

weak from the strong. People never dream of all that is going on in the

little heads of the young, for few adults are given to introspection,

and those who are incapable of recalling their own feelings under

restraint and disappointment can have no appreciation of the sufferings

of children who can neither describe nor analyze what they feel. In

defending themselves against injustice they are as helpless as dumb

animals. What is insignificant to their elders is often to them a source

of great joy or sorrow.

With several generations of vigorous, enterprising ancestors behind me,

I commenced the struggle of life under favorable circumstances on the

12th day of November, 1815, the same year that my father, Daniel Cady, a

distinguished lawyer and judge in the State of New York, was elected to

Congress. Perhaps the excitement of a political campaign, in which my

mother took the deepest interest, may have had an influence on my

prenatal life and given me the strong desire that I have always felt to

participate in the rights and duties of government.

My father was a man of firm character and unimpeachable integrity, and

yet sensitive and modest to a painful degree. There were but two places

in which he felt at ease--in the courthouse and at his own fireside.

Though gentle and tender, he had such a dignified repose and reserve of

manner that, as children, we regarded him with fear rather than

affection.

My mother, Margaret Livingston, a tall, queenly looking woman, was

courageous, self-reliant, and at her ease under all circumstances and in

all places. She was the daughter of Colonel James Livingston, who took

an active part in the War of the Revolution.

Colonel Livingston was stationed at West Point when Arnold made the

attempt to betray that stronghold into the hands of the enemy. In the

absence of General Washington and his superior officer, he took the

responsibility of firing into the _Vulture_, a suspicious looking

British vessel that lay at anchor near the opposite bank of the Hudson

River. It was a fatal shot for André, the British spy, with whom Arnold

was then consummating his treason. Hit between wind and water, the

vessel spread her sails and hastened down the river, leaving André, with

his papers, to be captured while Arnold made his escape through the

lines, before his treason was suspected.

On General Washington's return to West Point, he sent for my grandfather

and reprimanded him for acting in so important a matter without orders,

thereby making himself liable to court-martial; but, after fully

impressing the young officer with the danger of such self-sufficiency on

ordinary occasions, he admitted that a most fortunate shot had been sent

into the _Vulture_, "for," he said, "we are in no condition just now to

defend ourselves against the British forces in New York, and the

capture of this spy has saved us."

My mother had the military idea of government, but her children, like

their grandfather, were disposed to assume the responsibility of their

own actions; thus the ancestral traits in mother and children modified,

in a measure, the dangerous tendencies in each.

Our parents were as kind, indulgent, and considerate as the Puritan

ideas of those days permitted, but fear, rather than love, of God and

parents alike, predominated. Add to this our timidity in our intercourse

with servants and teachers, our dread of the ever present devil, and the

reader will see that, under such conditions, nothing but strong

self-will and a good share of hope and mirthfulness could have saved an

ordinary child from becoming a mere nullity.

The first event engraved on my memory was the birth of a sister when I

was four years old. It was a cold morning in January when the brawny

Scotch nurse carried me to see the little stranger, whose advent was a

matter of intense interest to me for many weeks after. The large,

pleasant room with the white curtains and bright wood fire on the

hearth, where panada, catnip, and all kinds of little messes which we

were allowed to taste were kept warm, was the center of attraction for

the older children. I heard so many friends remark, "What a pity it is

she's a girl!" that I felt a kind of compassion for the little baby.

True, our family consisted of five girls and only one boy, but I did not

understand at that time that girls were considered an inferior order of

beings.

To form some idea of my surroundings at this time, imagine a two-story

white frame house with a hall through the middle, rooms on either side,

and a large back building with grounds on the side and rear, which

joined the garden of our good Presbyterian minister, the Rev. Simon

Hosack, of whom I shall have more to say in another chapter. Our

favorite resorts in the house were the garret and cellar. In the former

were barrels of hickory nuts, and, on a long shelf, large cakes of maple

sugar and all kinds of dried herbs and sweet flag; spinning wheels, a

number of small white cotton bags filled with bundles, marked in ink,

"silk," "cotton," "flannel," "calico," etc., as well as ancient

masculine and feminine costumes. Here we would crack the nuts, nibble

the sharp edges of the maple sugar, chew some favorite herb, play ball

with the bags, whirl the old spinning wheels, dress up in our ancestors'

clothes, and take a bird's-eye view of the surrounding country from an

enticing scuttle hole. This was forbidden ground; but, nevertheless, we

often went there on the sly, which only made the little escapades more

enjoyable.

The cellar of our house was filled, in winter, with barrels of apples,

vegetables, salt meats, cider, butter, pounding barrels, washtubs, etc.,

offering admirable nooks for playing hide and seek. Two tallow candles

threw a faint light over the scene on certain occasions. This cellar was

on a level with a large kitchen where we played blind man's buff and

other games when the day's work was done. These two rooms are the center

of many of the merriest memories of my childhood days.

I can recall three colored men, Abraham, Peter, and Jacob, who acted as

menservants in our youth. In turn they would sometimes play on the banjo

for us to dance, taking real enjoyment in our games. They are all at

rest now with "Old Uncle Ned in the place where the good niggers go."

Our nurses, Lockey Danford, Polly Bell, Mary Dunn, and Cornelia

Nickeloy--peace to their ashes--were the only shadows on the gayety of

these winter evenings; for their chief delight was to hurry us off to

bed, that they might receive their beaux or make short calls in the

neighborhood. My memory of them is mingled with no sentiment of

gratitude or affection. In expressing their opinion of us in after

years, they said we were a very troublesome, obstinate, disobedient set

of children. I have no doubt we were in constant rebellion against their

petty tyranny. Abraham, Peter, and Jacob viewed us in a different light,

and I have the most pleasant recollections of their kind services.

In the winter, outside the house, we had the snow with which to build

statues and make forts, and huge piles of wood covered with ice, which

we called the Alps, so difficult were they of ascent and descent. There

we would climb up and down by the hour, if not interrupted, which,

however, was generally the case. It always seemed to me that, in the

height of our enthusiasm, we were invariably summoned to some

disagreeable duty, which would appear to show that thus early I keenly

enjoyed outdoor life. Theodore Tilton has thus described the place where

I was born: "Birthplace is secondary parentage, and transmits character.

Johnstown was more famous half a century ago than since; for then,

though small, it was a marked intellectual center; and now, though

large, it is an unmarked manufacturing town. Before the birth of

Elizabeth Cady it was the vice-ducal seat of Sir William Johnson, the

famous English negotiator with the Indians. During her girlhood it was

an arena for the intellectual wrestlings of Kent, Tompkins, Spencer,

Elisha Williams, and Abraham Van Vechten, who, as lawyers, were among

the chiefest of their time. It is now devoted mainly to the fabrication

of steel springs and buckskin gloves. So, like Wordsworth's early star,

it has faded into the light of common day. But Johnstown retains one of

its ancient splendors--a glory still fresh as at the foundation of the

world. Standing on its hills, one looks off upon a country of enameled

meadow lands, that melt away southward toward the Mohawk, and northward

to the base of those grand mountains which are 'God's monument over the

grave of John Brown.'"

Harold Frederic's novel, "In the Valley," contains many descriptions of

this region that are true to nature, as I remember the Mohawk Valley,

for I first knew it not so many years after the scenes which he lays

there. Before I was old enough to take in the glory of this scenery and

its classic associations, Johnstown was to me a gloomy-looking town. The

middle of the streets was paved with large cobblestones, over which the

farmer's wagons rattled from morning till night, while the sidewalks

were paved with very small cobblestones, over which we carefully picked

our way, so that free and graceful walking was out of the question. The

streets were lined with solemn poplar trees, from which small yellow

worms were continually dangling down. Next to the Prince of Darkness, I

feared these worms. They were harmless, but the sight of one made me

tremble. So many people shared in this feeling that the poplars were all

cut down and elms planted in their stead. The Johnstown academy and

churches were large square buildings, painted white, surrounded by these

same sombre poplars, each edifice having a doleful bell which seemed to

be ever tolling for school, funerals, church, or prayer meetings. Next

to the worms, those clanging bells filled me with the utmost dread; they

seemed like so many warnings of an eternal future. Visions of the

Inferno were strongly impressed on my childish imagination. It was

thought, in those days, that firm faith in hell and the devil was the

greatest help to virtue. It certainly made me very unhappy whenever my

mind dwelt on such teachings, and I have always had my doubts of the

virtue that is based on the fear of punishment.

Perhaps I may be pardoned a word devoted to my appearance in those days.

I have been told that I was a plump little girl, with very fair skin,

rosy cheeks, good features, dark-brown hair, and laughing blue eyes. A

student in my father's office, the late Henry Bayard of Delaware (an

uncle of our recent Ambassador to the Court of St. James's, Thomas F.

Bayard), told me one day, after conning my features carefully, that I

had one defect which he could remedy. "Your eyebrows should be darker

and heavier," said he, "and if you will let me shave them once or twice,

you will be much improved." I consented, and, slight as my eyebrows

were, they seemed to have had some expression, for the loss of them had

a most singular effect on my appearance. Everybody, including even the

operator, laughed at my odd-looking face, and I was in the depths of

humiliation during the period while my eyebrows were growing out again.

It is scarcely necessary for me to add that I never allowed the young

man to repeat the experiment, although strongly urged to do so.

I cannot recall how or when I conquered the alphabet, words in three

letters, the multiplication table, the points of the compass, the

chicken pox, whooping cough, measles, and scarlet fever. All these

unhappy incidents of childhood left but little impression on my mind. I

have, however, most pleasant memories of the good spinster, Maria Yost,

who patiently taught three generations of children the rudiments of the

English language, and introduced us to the pictures in "Murray's

Spelling-book," where Old Father Time, with his scythe, and the farmer

stoning the boys in his apple trees, gave rise in my mind to many

serious reflections. Miss Yost was plump and rosy, with fair hair, and

had a merry twinkle in her blue eyes, and she took us by very easy

stages through the old-fashioned school-books. The interesting Readers

children now have were unknown sixty years ago. We did not reach the

temple of knowledge by the flowery paths of ease in which our

descendants now walk.

I still have a perfect vision of myself and sisters, as we stood up in

the classes, with our toes at the cracks in the floor, all dressed alike

in bright red flannel, black alpaca aprons, and, around the neck, a

starched ruffle that, through a lack of skill on the part of either the

laundress or the nurse who sewed them in, proved a constant source of

discomfort to us. I have since seen full-grown men, under slighter

provocation than we endured, jerk off a collar, tear it in two, and

throw it to the winds, chased by the most soul-harrowing expletives. But

we were sternly rebuked for complaining, and if we ventured to introduce

our little fingers between the delicate skin and the irritating linen,

our hands were slapped and the ruffle readjusted a degree closer. Our

Sunday dresses were relieved with a black sprig and white aprons. We had

red cloaks, red hoods, red mittens, and red stockings. For one's self to

be all in red six months of the year was bad enough, but to have this

costume multiplied by three was indeed monotonous. I had such an

aversion to that color that I used to rebel regularly at the beginning

of each season when new dresses were purchased, until we finally passed

into an exquisite shade of blue. No words could do justice to my dislike

of those red dresses. My grandfather's detestation of the British

redcoats must have descended to me. My childhood's antipathy to wearing

red enabled me later to comprehend the feelings of a little niece, who

hated everything pea green, because she had once heard the saying, "neat

but not gaudy, as the devil said when he painted his tail pea green." So

when a friend brought her a cravat of that color she threw it on the

floor and burst into tears, saying, "I could not wear that, for it is

the color of the devil's tail." I sympathized with the child and had it

changed for the hue she liked. Although we cannot always understand the

ground for children's preferences, it is often well to heed them.

I am told that I was pensively looking out of the nursery window one

day, when Mary Dunn, the Scotch nurse, who was something of a

philosopher, and a stern Presbyterian, said: "Child, what are you

thinking about; are you planning some new form of mischief?" "No, Mary,"

I replied, "I was wondering why it was that everything we like to do is

a sin, and that everything we dislike is commanded by God or someone on

earth. I am so tired of that everlasting no! no! no! At school, at home,

everywhere it is _no_! Even at church all the commandments begin 'Thou

shalt not.' I suppose God will say 'no' to all we like in the next

world, just as you do here." Mary was dreadfully shocked at my

dissatisfaction with the things of time and prospective eternity, and

exhorted me to cultivate the virtues of obedience and humility.

I well remember the despair I felt in those years, as I took in the

whole situation, over the constant cribbing and crippling of a child's

life. I suppose I found fit language in which to express my thoughts,

for Mary Dunn told me, years after, how our discussion roused my sister

Margaret, who was an attentive listener. I must have set forth our

wrongs in clear, unmistakable terms; for Margaret exclaimed one day, "I

tell you what to do. Hereafter let us act as we choose, without asking."

"Then," said I, "we shall be punished." "Suppose we are," said she, "we

shall have had our fun at any rate, and that is better than to mind the

everlasting 'no' and not have any fun at all." Her logic seemed

unanswerable, so together we gradually acted on her suggestions. Having

less imagination than I, she took a common-sense view of life and

suffered nothing from anticipation of troubles, while my sorrows were

intensified fourfold by innumerable apprehensions of possible

exigencies.

Our nursery, a large room over a back building, had three barred windows

reaching nearly to the floor. Two of these opened on a gently slanting

roof over a veranda. In our night robes, on warm summer evenings we

could, by dint of skillful twisting and compressing, get out between the

bars, and there, snugly braced against the house, we would sit and enjoy

the moon and stars and what sounds might reach us from the streets,

while the nurse, gossiping at the back door, imagined we were safely

asleep.

I have a confused memory of being often under punishment for what, in

those days, were called "tantrums." I suppose they were really

justifiable acts of rebellion against the tyranny of those in authority.

I have often listened since, with real satisfaction, to what some of our

friends had to say of the high-handed manner in which sister Margaret

and I defied all the transient orders and strict rules laid down for our

guidance. If we had observed them we might as well have been embalmed as

mummies, for all the pleasure and freedom we should have had in our

childhood. As very little was then done for the amusement of children,

happy were those who _conscientiously_ took the liberty of amusing

themselves.

One charming feature of our village was a stream of water, called the

Cayadutta, which ran through the north end, in which it was our delight

to walk on the broad slate stones when the water was low, in order to

pick up pretty pebbles. These joys were also forbidden, though indulged

in as opportunity afforded, especially as sister Margaret's philosophy

was found to work successfully and we had finally risen above our

infantile fear of punishment.

Much of my freedom at this time was due to this sister, who afterward

became the wife of Colonel Duncan McMartin of Iowa. I can see her now,

hat in hand, her long curls flying in the wind, her nose slightly

retroussé, her large dark eyes flashing with glee, and her small

straight mouth so expressive of determination. Though two years my

junior, she was larger and stronger than I and more fearless and

self-reliant. She was always ready to start when any pleasure offered,

and, if I hesitated, she would give me a jerk and say, emphatically:

"Oh, come along!" and away we went.

About this time we entered the Johnstown Academy, where we made the

acquaintance of the daughters of the hotel keeper and the county

sheriff. They were a few years my senior, but, as I was ahead of them in

all my studies, the difference of age was somewhat equalized and we

became fast friends. This acquaintance opened to us two new sources of

enjoyment--the freedom of the hotel during "court week" (a great event

in village life) and the exploration of the county jail. Our Scotch

nurse had told us so many thrilling tales of castles, prisons, and

dungeons in the Old World that, to see the great keys and iron doors,

the handcuffs and chains, and the prisoners in their cells seemed like a

veritable visit to Mary's native land. We made frequent visits to the

jail and became deeply concerned about the fate of the prisoners, who

were greatly pleased with our expressions of sympathy and our gifts of

cake and candy. In time we became interested in the trials and sentences

of prisoners, and would go to the courthouse and listen to the

proceedings. Sometimes we would slip into the hotel where the judges and

lawyers dined, and help our little friend wait on table. The rushing of

servants to and fro, the calling of guests, the scolding of servants in

the kitchen, the banging of doors, the general hubbub, the noise and

clatter, were all idealized by me into one of those royal festivals Mary

so often described. To be allowed to carry plates of bread and butter,

pie and cheese I counted a high privilege. But more especially I enjoyed

listening to the conversations in regard to the probable fate of our

friends the prisoners in the jail. On one occasion I projected a few

remarks into a conversation between two lawyers, when one of them turned

abruptly to me and said, "Child, you'd better attend to your business;

bring me a glass of water." I replied indignantly, "I am not a servant;

I am here for fun."

In all these escapades we were followed by Peter, black as coal and six

feet in height. It seems to me now that his chief business was to

discover our whereabouts, get us home to dinner, and take us back to

school. Fortunately he was overflowing with curiosity and not averse to

lingering a while where anything of interest was to be seen or heard,

and, as we were deemed perfectly safe under his care, no questions were

asked when we got to the house, if we had been with him. He had a long

head and, through his diplomacy, we escaped much disagreeable

surveillance. Peter was very fond of attending court. All the lawyers

knew him, and wherever Peter went, the three little girls in his charge

went, too. Thus, with constant visits to the jail, courthouse, and my

father's office, I gleaned some idea of the danger of violating the law.

The great events of the year were the Christmas holidays, the Fourth of

July, and "general training," as the review of the county militia was

then called. The winter gala days are associated, in my memory, with

hanging up stockings and with turkeys, mince pies, sweet cider, and

sleighrides by moonlight. My earliest recollections of those happy days,

when schools were closed, books laid aside, and unusual liberties

allowed, center in that large cellar kitchen to which I have already

referred. There we spent many winter evenings in uninterrupted

enjoyment. A large fireplace with huge logs shed warmth and cheerfulness

around. In one corner sat Peter sawing his violin, while our youthful

neighbors danced with us and played blindman's buff almost every evening

during the vacation. The most interesting character in this game was a

black boy called Jacob (Peter's lieutenant), who made things lively for

us by always keeping one eye open--a wise precaution to guard himself

from danger, and to keep us on the jump. Hickory nuts, sweet cider, and

_olie-koeks_ (a Dutch name for a fried cake with raisins inside) were

our refreshments when there came a lull in the fun.

As St. Nicholas was supposed to come down the chimney, our stockings

were pinned on a broomstick, laid across two chairs in front of the

fireplace. We retired on Christmas Eve with the most pleasing

anticipations of what would be in our stockings next morning. The

thermometer in that latitude was often twenty degrees below zero, yet,

bright and early, we would run downstairs in our bare feet over the cold

floors to carry stockings, broom, etc., to the nursery. The gorgeous

presents that St. Nicholas now distributes show that he, too, has been

growing up with the country. The boys and girls of 1897 will laugh when

they hear of the contents of our stockings in 1823. There was a little

paper of candy, one of raisins, another, of nuts, a red apple, an

_olie-koek_, and a bright silver quarter of a dollar in the toe. If a

child had been guilty of any erratic performances during the year, which

was often my case, a long stick would protrude from the stocking; if

particularly good, an illustrated catechism or the New Testament would

appear, showing that the St. Nicholas of that time held decided views

on discipline and ethics.

During the day we would take a drive over the snow-clad hills and

valleys in a long red lumber sleigh. All the children it could hold made

the forests echo with their songs and laughter. The sleigh bells and

Peter's fine tenor voice added to the chorus seemed to chant, as we

passed, "Merry Christmas" to the farmers' children and to all we met on

the highway.

Returning home, we were allowed, as a great Christmas treat, to watch

all Peter's preparations for dinner. Attired in a white apron and

turban, holding in his hand a tin candlestick the size of a dinner

plate, containing a tallow candle, with stately step he marched into the

spacious cellar, with Jacob and three little girls dressed in red

flannel at his heels. As the farmers paid the interest on their

mortgages in barrels of pork, headcheese, poultry, eggs, and cider, the

cellars were well crowded for the winter, making the master of an

establishment quite indifferent to all questions of finance. We heard

nothing in those days of greenbacks, silver coinage, or a gold basis.

Laden with vegetables, butter, eggs, and a magnificent turkey, Peter and

his followers returned to the kitchen. There, seated on a big ironing

table, we watched the dressing and roasting of the bird in a tin oven in

front of the fire. Jacob peeled the vegetables, we all sang, and Peter

told us marvelous stories. For tea he made flapjacks, baked in a pan

with a long handle, which he turned by throwing the cake up and

skillfully catching it descending.

Peter was a devout Episcopalian and took great pleasure in helping the

young people decorate the church. He would take us with him and show us

how to make evergreen wreaths. Like Mary's lamb, where'er he went we

were sure to go. His love for us was unbounded and fully returned. He

was the only being, visible or invisible, of whom we had no fear. We

would go to divine service with Peter, Christmas morning and sit with

him by the door, in what was called "the negro pew." He was the only

colored member of the church and, after all the other communicants had

taken the sacrament, he went alone to the altar. Dressed in a new suit

of blue with gilt buttons, he looked like a prince, as, with head erect,

he walked up the aisle, the grandest specimen of manhood in the whole

congregation; and yet so strong was prejudice against color in 1823 that

no one would kneel beside him. On leaving us, on one of these occasions,

Peter told us all to sit still until he returned; but, no sooner had he

started, than the youngest of us slowly followed after him and seated

herself close beside him. As he came back, holding the child by the

hand, what a lesson it must have been to that prejudiced congregation!

The first time we entered the church together the sexton opened a white

man's pew for us, telling Peter to leave the Judge's children there.

"Oh," he said, "they will not stay there without me." But, as he could

not enter, we instinctively followed him to the negro pew.

Our next great fête was on the anniversary of the birthday of our

Republic. The festivities were numerous and protracted, beginning then,

as now, at midnight with bonfires and cannon; while the day was ushered

in with the ringing of bells, tremendous cannonading, and a continuous

popping of fire-crackers and torpedoes. Then a procession of soldiers

and citizens marched through the town, an oration was delivered, the

Declaration of Independence read, and a great dinner given in the open

air under the trees in the grounds of the old courthouse. Each toast was

announced with the booming of cannon. On these occasions Peter was in

his element, and showed us whatever he considered worth seeing; but I

cannot say that I enjoyed very much either "general training" or the

Fourth of July, for, in addition to my fear of cannon and torpedoes, my

sympathies were deeply touched by the sadness of our cook, whose drunken

father always cut antics in the streets on gala days, the central figure

in all the sports of the boys, much to the mortification of his worthy

daughter. She wept bitterly over her father's public exhibition of

himself, and told me in what a condition he would come home to his

family at night. I would gladly have stayed in with her all day, but the

fear of being called a coward compelled me to go through those trying

ordeals. As my nerves were all on the surface, no words can describe

what I suffered with those explosions, great and small, and my fears

lest King George and his minions should reappear among us. I thought

that, if he had done all the dreadful things stated in the Declaration

of '76, he might come again, burn our houses, and drive us all into the

street. Sir William Johnson's mansion of solid masonry, gloomy and

threatening, still stood in our neighborhood. I had seen the marks of

the Indian's tomahawk on the balustrades and heard of the bloody deeds

there enacted. For all the calamities of the nation I believed King

George responsible. At home and at school we were educated to hate the

English. When we remember that, every Fourth of July, the Declaration

was read with emphasis, and the orator of the day rounded all his

glowing periods with denunciations of the mother country, we need not

wonder at the national hatred of everything English. Our patriotism in

those early days was measured by our dislike of Great Britain.

In September occurred the great event, the review of the county militia,

popularly called "Training Day." Then everybody went to the race course

to see the troops and buy what the farmers had brought in their wagons.

There was a peculiar kind of gingerbread and molasses candy to which we

were treated on those occasions, associated in my mind to this day with

military reviews and standing armies.

Other pleasures were, roaming in the forests and sailing on the mill

pond. One day, when there were no boys at hand and several girls were

impatiently waiting for a sail on a raft, my sister and I volunteered to

man the expedition. We always acted on the assumption that what we had

seen done, we could do. Accordingly we all jumped on the raft, loosened

it from its moorings, and away we went with the current. Navigation on

that mill pond was performed with long poles, but, unfortunately, we

could not lift the poles, and we soon saw we were drifting toward the

dam. But we had the presence of mind to sit down and hold fast to the

raft. Fortunately, we went over right side up and gracefully glided down

the stream, until rescued by the ever watchful Peter. I did not hear the

last of that voyage for a long time. I was called the captain of the

expedition, and one of the boys wrote a composition, which he read in

school, describing the adventure and emphasizing the ignorance of the

laws of navigation shown by the officers in command. I shed tears many

times over that performance.