e old thrill
comes back when she recalls the inflection of her father's voice as he
would cry in imitation of the captain: "John Maynard!" and then give
the reply. "Aye, aye, sir!" His other until it sank to a mere gasp:
favourite was the story of Clemanthe, and her lover's immortal answer
to her question: "Shall we meet again?"

To this mother at forty-six, and this father at fifty, each at
intellectual top-notch, every faculty having been stirred for years by
the dire stress of Civil War, and the period immediately following, the
author was born. From childhood she recalls "thinking things which she
felt should be saved," and frequently tugging at her mother's skirts
and begging her to "set down" what the child considered stories and
poems. Most of these were some big fact in nature that thrilled her,
usually expressed in Biblical terms; for the Bible was read twice a day
before the family and helpers, and an average of three services were
attended on Sunday.

Mrs. Porter says that her first all-alone effort was printed in wabbly
letters on the fly-leaf of an old grammar. It was entitled: "Ode to the
Moon." "Not," she comments, "that I had an idea what an 'ode' was,
other than that I had heard it discussed in the family together with
different forms of poetic expression. The spelling must have been by
proxy: but I did know the words I used, what they meant, and the idea I
was trying to convey.

"No other farm was ever quite so lovely as the one on which I was born
after this father and mother had spent twenty-five years beautifying
it," says the author. It was called "Hopewell" after the home of some
of her father's British ancestors. The natural location was perfect,
the land rolling and hilly, with several flowing springs and little
streams crossing it in three directions, while plenty of forest still
remained. The days of pioneer struggles were past. The roads were
smooth and level as floors, the house and barn commodious; the family
rode abroad in a double carriage trimmed in patent leather, drawn by a
matched team of gray horses, and sometimes the father "speeded a
little" for the delight of the children. "We had comfortable clothing,"
says Mrs. Porter, "and were getting our joy from life without that
pinch of anxiety which must have existed in the beginning, although I
know that father and mother always held steady, and took a large
measure of joy from life in passing."

Her mother's health, which always ha