irs, tables, and the one or two
pictures--all ring true. In the kitchen are washtubs and butter-ladles and
bowls; and the lantern hanging by the chimney, with a dipped candle
inside, has a carefully scraped horn face. It is a lanthorn. In the
cupboard across the corner are blue china and pewter spoons and steel
knives, with just a little polished-brass stuff sent from England. Down in
the cellar, with its dirt walls, are apples, yellow pumpkins and
potatoes--each in its proper place, for Abigail was a rare good
housekeeper. Then there is a barrel of cider, with a hickory spigot and an
inviting gourd. All tells of economy, thrift, industry and the cunning of
woman's hands.

In the kitchen is a funny cradle, hooded, and cut out of a great pine log.
The little mattress and the coverlet seem disturbed, and you would declare
the baby had just been lifted out, and you listen for its cry. The rocker
is worn by the feet of mothers whose hands were busy with needles or wheel
as they rocked and sang. And from the fact that it is in the kitchen, you
know that the servant-girl problem then had no terrors.

Overhead hang ears of corn, bunches of dried catnip, pennyroyal and
boneset, and festooned across the corner are strings of dried apples.

Then you go upstairs, with conscience pricking a bit for thus visiting the
house of honest folks when they are away, for you know how all good
housewives dislike to have people prying about, especially in the upper
chambers--at least June said so!

The room to the right was Abigail's own. You would know it was a woman's
room. There is a faint odor of lavender and thyme about it, and the white
and blue draperies around the little mirror, and the little feminine
nothings on the dresser, reveal the lady who would appear well before the
man she loves.

The bed is a high, draped four-poster, plain and solid, evidently made by
a ship-carpenter who had ambitions. The coverlet is light blue, and
matches the draperies of windows, dresser and mirror. On the pillow is a
nightcap, in which even a homely woman would be beautiful.

There is a clothespress in the corner, into which Mr. Spear says we may
look. On the door is a slippery-elm button, and within, hanging on wooden
pegs, are dainty dresses; stiff, curiously embroidered gowns they are,
that came from across the sea, sent, perhaps, by John Adams when he went
to France, and left Abigail here to farm and sew and weave and teach the
children. Jun