flicker of foolish, weak humanity in her struggling
spirit, she spoke no more. When they came to her a moment later, a tiny
bird that had lit upon her breast flew away; and the hand that they
lifted from Carry's head fell lifeless at her side.

A JERSEY CENTENARIAN

I have seen her at last. She is a hundred and seven years old, and
remembers George Washington quite distinctly. It is somewhat confusing,
however, that she also remembers a contemporaneous Josiah W. Perkins of
Basking Ridge, N. J., and, I think, has the impression that Perkins was
the better man. Perkins, at the close of the last century, paid her some
little attention. There are a few things that a really noble woman of a
hundred and seven never forgets.

It was Perkins, who said to her in 1795, in the streets of Philadelphia,
"Shall I show thee Gen. Washington?" Then she said careless-like (for
you know, child, at that time it wasn't what it is now to see Gen.
Washington), she said, "So do, Josiah, so do!" Then he pointed to a
tall man who got out of a carriage, and went into a large house. He was
larger than you be. He wore his own hair--not powdered; had a
flowered chintz vest, with yellow breeches and blue stockings, and a
broad-brimmed hat. In summer he wore a white straw hat, and at his farm
at Basking Ridge he always wore it. At this point, it became too evident
that she was describing the clothes of the all-fascinating Perkins: so I
gently but firmly led her back to Washington. Then it appeared that she
did not remember exactly what he wore. To assist her, I sketched the
general historic dress of that period. She said she thought he was
dressed like that. Emboldened by my success, I added a hat of Charles
II., and pointed shoes of the eleventh century. She indorsed these with
such cheerful alacrity, that I dropped the subject.

The house upon which I had stumbled, or, rather, to which my horse--a
Jersey hack, accustomed to historic research--had brought me, was
low and quaint. Like most old houses, it had the appearance of being
encroached upon by the surrounding glebe, as if it were already half in
the grave, with a sod or two, in the shape of moss thrown on it, like
ashes on ashes, and dust on dust. A wooden house, instead of acquiring
dignity with age, is apt to lose its youth and respectability together.
A porch, with scant, sloping seats, from which even the winter's snow
must have slid uncomfortably, projected from a doorway that