and part of Deering’s Oaks lie in full view. [8] The Oaks are within a few minutes’ walk.  Back-Cove is seen beyond, and rising far above the blue White Mountains.  The Arsenal stares us in the face, if we look out the end windows and the Westbrook meeting-house is nearer than Mr. Vail’s by a quarter of a mile.  I never believed there was anything half so fine in this region.  I think nothing of walking anywhere now.  One day, after various domestic duties, I worked in my tiny garden four hours, and in the afternoon a party of girls came up for me to go with them to Bramhall’s hill.  We walked from three till half past six, came back and ate a hasty, with some of us a furious supper, and then all paraded down to second parish to singing-school.  I expect to live out in the air most of the summer.  I mean to have as pleasant a one as possible, because we shall never live so near the Oaks and other pretty places another summer.  If you were not so timid I should wish you were here to run about with me, but who ever heard of E. T. running?  Now, Ellen, I never was meant to be dignified and sometimes—­yea, often—­I run, skip, hop, and once I did climb over a fence!  Very unladylike, I know, but I am not a lady.

In the fall of 1837 Mrs. Payson moved again.  The incident deserves mention, as it brought Lizzy into daily intercourse with the Rev. Mr. French and his wife.  Mr. French was rector of the Episcopal church in Portland, and afterward Professor and Chaplain at West Point.  He was a man of fine literary culture and Mrs. French was a very attractive woman.  In a letter dated “Night before Thanksgiving,” and addressed to the early friend already mentioned, Lizzy refers to this removal and also gives a glimpse of her active home life: 

I have been busy all day and am so tired I can scarcely hold a pen.  Amidst the beating of eggs, the pounding of spices, the furious rolling of pastry of all degrees of shortness, the filling of pies with pumpkins, mince-meat, apples, and the like, the stoning of raisins and washing of currants, the beating and baking of cake, and all the other ings, (in all of which I have had my share) thoughts of your ladyship have somehow squeezed themselves in.  We have really bidden adieu to “Pumpkin Place,” as Mrs. Willis calls it, and established ourselves in a house formerly occupied by old Parson Smith—­and very snug and comfortable we are, I assure you.

In the midst of our “moving,” after I had packed and stowed and lifted, and been elbowed by all the sharp corners in the house, and had my hands all torn and scratched, I spied the new “Knickerbocker” ’mid a heap of rubbish and was tempted to peep into it.  Lo and behold, the first thing that met my eye was the Lament of the Last Peach. [9] I didn’t care to read more and forthwith returned to fitting of carpets and arranging tables and chairs and bureaus—­but all the while meditating how I should be revenged upon you.  As to ——­’s