Although I never dared to touch my aunt’s sacred lilies, I have good cause to remember stealing some common flowers from an apothecary, Peter Lawson, who also answered the purpose of a regular physician to most of the poor people of the town and adjacent country.  He had a pony which was considered very wild and dangerous, and when he was called out of town he mounted this wonderful beast, which, after standing long in the stable, was frisky and boisterous, and often to our delight reared and jumped and danced about from side to side of the street before he could be persuaded to go ahead.  We boys gazed in awful admiration and wondered how the druggist could be so brave and able as to get on and stay on that wild beast’s back.  This famous Peter loved and when she anxiously took me in her arms and inquired what was the matter, I told her that I had swallowed my tongue.  She only laughed at me, much to my astonishment, when I expected that she would bewail the awful loss her boy had sustained.  My sisters, who were older than I, oftentimes said when I happened to be talking too much, “It’s a pity you hadn’t swallowed at least half of that long tongue of yours when you were little.”

It appears natural for children to be fond of water, although the Scotch method of making every duty dismal contrived to make necessary bathing for health terrible to us.  I well remember among the awful experiences of childhood being taken by the servant to the seashore when I was between two and three years old, stripped at the side of a deep pool in the rocks, plunged into it among crawling crawfish and slippery wriggling snake-like eels, and drawn up gasping and shrieking only to be plunged down again and again.  As the time approached for this terrible bathing, I used to hide in the flowers and had a fine garden surrounded by an iron fence, through the bars of which, when I thought no one saw me, I oftentimes snatched a flower and took to my heels.  One day Peter discovered me in this mischief, dashed out into the street and caught me.  I screamed that I wouldna steal any more if he would let me go.  He didn’t say anything but just dragged me along to the stable where he kept the wild pony, pushed me in right back of its heels, and shut the door.  I was screaming, of course, but as soon as I was imprisoned the fear of being kicked quenched all noise.  I hardly dared breathe.  My only hope was in motionless silence.  Imagine the agony I endured!  I did not steal any more of his flowers.  He was a good hard judge of boy nature.

I was in Peter’s hands some time before this, when I was about two and a half years old.  The servant girl bathed us small folk before putting us to bed.  The smarting soapy scrubbings of the Saturday nights in preparation for the Sabbath were particularly severe, and we all dreaded them.  My sister Sarah, the next older than me, wanted the long-legged stool I was sitting on awaiting my turn, so she just tipped me off.  My chin struck on the edge of the bath-tub,