Far away among the New England hills stands a large, old-fashioned farmhouse¹, around whose hearth-stone not many years agone, a band of merry, noisy children played, myself the merriest, noisiest of them all. It stood upon an eminence² overlooking a broad strip of rolling meadow-land, at the extremity³ of which was the old grey rock, where the golden rod and sassafras grew, where the green ivy⁴ crept over the crumbling⁵ wall, and where, under the shadow of the thorn-apple tree, we built our play-houses, drinking our tea from the acorn⁶ saucers, and painting our dolls’ faces with the red juice of the poke⁷ berries, which grew there in great abundance.

 

Just opposite our house, and across the green meadow, was a shady grove⁸, where, in the spring-time, the singing birds made their nests, and where, when the breath of winter was on the snow-clad hills, Lizzie, Carrie, and I, and our taller, stronger brothers dragged our sleds, dashing 10swiftly down the steep hill, and away over the ice-covered valley below. Truly, ours was a joyous⁹ childhood, and ours a happy home; for never elsewhere fell the summer’s golden sunlight so softly, and never was music sweeter than was the murmur¹⁰ of the dancing water-brook¹¹ which ran past our door, and down the long green lane, losing itself at last in the dim old woods, which stretched away to the

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