vel with Leah's shoulder, and I had
years ahead in which to elevate it. Grandma at the window was witness,
and I was entirely happy. If I caught cold from going bareheaded, so
much the better; mother would give me rock candy for my cough.

For the long winter evenings there was plenty of quiet occupation. I
liked to sit with the women at the long bare table picking feathers
for new featherbeds. It was pleasant to poke my hand into the
soft-heaped mass and set it all in motion. I pretended that I could
pick out the feathers of particular hens, formerly my pets. I
reflected that they had fed me with eggs and broth, and now were going
to make my bed so soft; while I had done nothing for them but throw
them a handful of oats now and then, or chase them about, or spoil
their nests. I was not ashamed of my part; I knew that if I were a hen
I should do as a hen does. I just liked to think about things in my
idle way.

Itke, the housemaid, was always the one to break in upon my
reflections. She was sure to have a fit of sneezing just when the heap
on the table was highest, sending clouds of feathers into the air,
like a homemade snowstorm. After that the evening was finished by our
picking the feathers from each other's hair.

Sometimes we played cards or checkers, munching frost-bitten apples
between moves. Sometimes the women sewed, and we children wound yarn
or worsted for grandmother's knitting. If somebody had a story to tell
while the rest worked, the evening passed with a pleasant sense of
semi-idleness for all.

On a Saturday night, the Sabbath being just departed, ghost stories
were particularly in favor. After two or three of the creepy legends
we began to move closer together under the lamp. At the end of an hour
or so we started and screamed if a spool fell, or a window rattled. At
bedtime nobody was willing to make the round of doors and windows, and
we were afraid to bring a candle into a dark room.

I was just as much afraid as anybody. I am afraid now to be alone in
the house at night. I certainly was afraid that Saturday night when
somebody, in bravado, suggested fresh-baked buns, as a charm to dispel
the ghosts. The baker who lived next door always baked on Saturday
night. Who would go and fetch the buns? Nobody dared to venture
outdoors. It had snowed all evening; the frosted windows prevented a
preliminary survey of the silent night. _Brr-rr!_ Nobody would take
the dare.

Nobody but me. Oh, how the c