her door and were never turned away.
But, as her house was small, and without a man, if they asked for
shelter, she sent them to the next neighbor.

Bred in such a quiet atmosphere I was usually very silent in my mother's
presence. When alone on the road, or in the fields, or with my
playthings I talked to myself a great deal; or rather I addressed
inanimate objects as if they were living beings, a habit which still
clings to me, although the voice is no longer needed. My days were full;
I found everywhere enough to keep my feet moving and my hands busy. I
was completely filled and satisfied with the earth just as I found it in
the town of Bellingham. When, however, evening came on and I had to go
into the house, everything shrank to the size of the room. I became
restless and fretful. Having exhausted every amusement which the house
afforded and, however sleepy, unwilling to go to bed, I sat down upon a
cricket at my mother's knee and kept saying, "tell me one little story."

One such evening I recall when the days were growing short and shorter
and the candle was lighted at half past four o'clock. It was a privilege
always granted me to light the candle. If no one happened to be looking
I blew it out for the pleasure of relighting it; for, like other
children I loved to play with fire and the candles and the open hearth
gave me ample opportunities. The bellows and I were intimate and
constant playmates. We played many a trick together; sometimes stealing
up behind one of my sisters and blowing into her ear, or going some
distance away from the candle I made a current of air which would sway
the candle flame, when my mother would exclaim, "how the wind does blow;
some door must be open." Then my titter would reveal the rogue, who was
reminded that it was his bedtime.

But, on the evening to which I have referred, I was a good boy having
expended my naughtiness during the day. There was a still calm
throughout the house and the intense cold had hushed the air over field
and wood. The candle was alight on the three-footed stand and my mother
was counting the stitches in the setting of a new stocking. As usual I
was coaxing for a story. Perhaps it was the red yarn which reminded my
mother of her red cloak, or some sudden flash of tender memories. When
she had fairly started the stocking so that she could knit without
counting or looking at her work she said, "I had a red cloak once; would
you like to hear about it?"