“In those days,” says Mrs. Stowe, “none of the attentions were paid to children that are now usual.  The community did not recognize them..  There was no child’s literature; there were no children’s books.  The Sunday-school was yet an experiment in a fluctuating, uncertain state of trial.  There were no children’s days of presents and fetes, no Christmas or New Year’s festivals.  The annual thanksgiving was only associated with one day’s unlimited range of pies of every sort—­too much for one day—­and too soon things of the past.  The childhood of Henry Ward was unmarked by the possession of a single child’s toy as a gift from any older person, or a single fete.  Very early, too, strict duties devolved upon him.  A daily portion of the work of the establishment, the care of the domestic animals, the cutting and piling of wood, or tasks in the garden, strengthened his muscles and gave vigor and tone to his nerves.  From his father and mother he inherited a perfectly solid, healthy organization of brain, muscle, and nerves, and the uncaressing, let-alone system under which he was brought up gave him early habits of vigor and self-reliance.”

When but three or four years old he was sent to the Widow Kilbourn’s school, where he said his letters twice a day, and passed the rest of his time in hemming a brown towel or a checked apron.  It was not expected that he would learn very much from Marm Kilbourn, but the school kept him out of the way of the “home folks” for the greater part of the day.

He was a winning, sweet-faced child, with long golden curls, of which he was very proud.  Some of his female playfellows at school, thinking it a shame that a boy should look so much like a girl, cut off one or two of his curls with a pair of shears made of scraps of tin, and when the little fellow complained of his loss at home it was decided that the best way to protect him from such attacks in future was to cut his hair close to his head, which was done at once.  Little Henry was commonly thought a dull child.  His memory was lamentably deficient, and his utterance was thick and indistinct, so much so that he could scarcely be understood in reading or speaking.  This was caused partly by an enlargement of the tonsils of his throat, and partly by timidity.  The policy of repression worked badly in his case, and had there not been so much real good at the basis of his character it might have led this gentle, yearning boy far from the useful channel along which his life has flown.

His stepmother was a lady of fine mental culture, of elegant breeding and high character, but she was an invalid, and withal thoroughly imbued with the gloomy sternness of her husband’s faith.  One day little Henry, who was barely able to manage the steady-going old family horse, was driving her in the chaise.  They passed a church on their way, and the bell was tolling for a death.  “Henry,” said Mrs. Beecher, solemnly, “what do you think of when you hear a bell tolling like that?” The boy colored and hung his head in silence, and the good lady went on. “I think, was that soul prepared?  It has gone into eternity.”  The little fellow shuddered, in spite of himself, and thought, no doubt, what a dreadful thing it was to be a Christian.