s on
the subject of names. She spells the old surname van der Marck--a little
_v_ and a little _d_ with an _r_ run in, the first two syllables written
like separate words, and then the big _M_ for Mark with a _c_ before the
_k_. But she will know better when she gets older and has more judgment.
Just now she is all worked up over the family history on which she began
laboring when she went east to Vassar and joined the Daughters of the
American Revolution. She has tried to coax me to adopt "van der Marck"
as my signature, but it would not jibe with the name of the township if
I did; and anyhow it would seem like straining a little after style to
change a name that has been a household word hereabouts since there were
any households. The neighbors would never understand it, anyhow; and
would think I felt above them. Nothing loses a man his standing among us
farmers like putting on style.

I was born of Dutch parents in Ulster County, New York, on July 27,
1838. It is the only anniversary I can keep track of, and the only
reason why I remember it is because on that day, except when it came on
a Sunday, I have sown my turnips ever since 1855. Everybody knows the
old rhyme:

"On the twenty-seventh of July
Sow your turnips, wet or dry."

And wet or dry, my parents in Ulster County, long, long ago, sowed their
little red turnip on that date.

I often wonder what sort of dwelling it was, and whether the July heat
was not pretty hard on my poor mother. I think of this every birthday.
I guess a habit of mind has grown up which I shall never break off; the
moment I begin sowing turnips I think of my mother bringing forth her
only child in the heat of dog-days, and of the sweat of suffering on her
forehead as she listened to my first cry. She is more familiar to me,
and really dearer in this imaginary scene than in almost any real memory
I have of her.

I do not remember Ulster County at all. My first memory of my mother is
of a time when we lived in a little town the name and location of which
I forget; but it was by a great river which must have been the Hudson I
guess. She had made me a little cap with a visor and I was very proud of
it and of myself. I picked up a lump of earth in the road and threw it
over a stone fence, covered with vines that were red with autumn
leaves--woodbine or poison-ivy I suppose. I felt very big, and ran on
ahead of my mother until she called to me to stop for fear of my falling
int