“In a recently published life of uncle,” said I, “the author speaks of grandmamma as often working in the fields, and describes her as large and muscular, and possessing the strength of a man.  Is not that an exaggeration?”

“Mother was above medium height,” was mamma’s reply, “but her figure was slender, with small and well-shaped hands and feet.  It was her pride that water could flow under the arch of her instep; and her fingers, notwithstanding the hard toil of daily life, remained so flexible, that, when fifty years old, she could still bend them backwards to form a drinking-cup.”

“Let me tell you, Aunt Esther,” interposed Ida, “how grandmamma is remembered in Vermont.  When Gabrielle and I were quite small children, we went there on a visit, and papa took us to see some old lady (whose name I have forgotten) residing in Westhaven.  This lady had known grandmamma very well, and, after contemplating Gabrielle and I for some time, remarked curtly, ’Neither of you children are as handsome as your grandmother was.’”

This uncomplimentary remark caused us all to laugh heartily.  Mamma then resumed her story.

“As for field labor, your grandmother may, while we were in New Hampshire, have sometimes assisted father for a day or two during the pressure of haying or harvesting time; but never, since I was old enough to observe, can I recollect seeing her work in the fields.  Certainly mother was not a woman to hesitate to do cheerfully whatever necessity required.  But she had quite enough to occupy herself at home with the entire duties of a house, with the spinning, weaving, and making up of all the linen and woollen cloth that the household used; and the care and early instruction of her little ones—­for it was her pride that all of her children learned to read before going to school.  I remember that when I was first sent to school, at the age of four, the teacher, with a glance at my tiny figure (for I was a small, delicate child), called me up to read to her, and opened the book at the alphabet.  Deeply injured, I informed her that I knew my letters, and could read over in ’An old man found a rude boy in one of his apple-trees,’—­a fable that all familiar with Webster’s Spelling-book will remember.

“My first distinct recollection of mother is in the dark days in New Hampshire.  Father, as you know, had lost everything that he possessed, and was obliged to fly into the next State to escape imprisonment for debt.  After he left, his furniture was attached and sold.  I remember seeing strange, rough men in the house, who pulled open all the trunks and chests of drawers, and tossed about the beautiful bed and table linen that mother had wrought before her marriage.  Another picture, too, is impressed indelibly upon my mind—­how mother followed the sheriff and his men about from room to room with the tears rolling down her face, while brother Horace, then a little white-haired boy, nine years old, held her hand and tried to comfort her, telling her not to cry—­he would take care of her.