State. 1825—­Elected President of the United States. 1830—­Elected a Member of Congress, and represented the district
      for seventeen years.
1848—­Stricken with paralysis February Twenty-first in the
      Capitol, and died the second day after.

* * * * *

“Aren’t we staying in this room a good while?” said June; “you have sat there staring out of that window looking at nothing for just ten minutes, and not a word have you spoken!”

Mr. Spear had disappeared into space, and so we made our way across the little hall to the room that belonged to Mr. Adams.  It was in the disorder that men’s rooms are apt to be.  On the table were quill-pens and curious old papers with seals on them, and on one I saw the date, June Sixteenth, Seventeen Hundred Sixty-eight—­the whole document written out in the hand of John Adams, beginning very prim and careful, then moving off into a hurried scrawl as spirit mastered the letter.  There is a little hair-covered trunk in the corner, studded with brass nails, and boots and leggings and canes and a jackknife and a bootjack, and, on the window-sill, a friendly snuffbox.  In the clothespress were buff trousers and an embroidered coat, and shoes with silver buckles, and several suits of every-day clothes, showing wear and patches.

On up to the garret we groped, and bumped our heads against the rafters.  The light was dim, but we could make out more apples on strings, and roots and herbs in bunches hung from the peak.  Here was a three-legged chair and a broken spinning-wheel, and the junk that is too valuable to throw away, yet not good enough to keep, but “some day may be needed.”

Down the narrow stairway we went, and in the little kitchen, Sammy, the artist, and Mr. Spear, the custodian, were busy at the fireplace preparing dinner.  There is no stove in the house, and none is needed.  The crane and brick oven and long-handled skillets suffice.  Sammy is an expert camp-cook, and swears there is death in the chafing-dish, and grows profane if you mention one.  His skill in turning flapjacks by a simple manipulation of the long-handled griddle means more to his true ego than the finest canvas.

June offered to set the table, but Sammy said she could never do it alone, so together they brought out the blue china dishes and the pewter plates.  Then they drew water at the stone-curbed well with the great sweep, carrying the leather-baled bucket between them.

I was feeling quite useless and asked, “Can’t I do something to help?”

“There is the lye-leach—­you might bring out some ashes and make some soft soap,” said June pointing to the ancient leach and soap-kettle in the yard, the joys of Mr. Spear’s heart.

Sammy stood at the back door and pounded on the dishpan with a wooden spoon to announce that dinner was ready.  It was quite a sumptuous meal:  potatoes baked in the ashes, beans baked in the brick oven, coffee made on the hearth, fish cooked in the skillet, and pancakes made on a griddle with a handle three feet long.