CHAPTER I.

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

I believe I will tell you the story of Grandma Parlin's little
childhood, as nearly as possible in the way I have heard her tell it
herself to Flyaway Clifford.

* * * * *

Well, then, Grandma Parlin, her face full of wrinkles, lay in bed under
a red and green patchwork quilt, with her day-cap on. That is, the one
who was going to be Grandma Parlin some time in the far-off future.

She wouldn't have believed it of herself now if you had told her. You
might as well have talked to the four walls. Not that she was deaf: she
had ears enough; it was only brains she lacked--being exactly six hours
old, and not a day over.

This was more than seventy years ago, little reader, for she was born on
New Year's day, 1800,--born in a town we will call Perseverance, among
the hills in Maine, in a large, unpainted house, on the corner of two
streets, in a bedroom which looked out upon the east.

Her mother, who was, of course, our little Flyaway's great grandmother,
lay beside her, with a very happy face.

"Poor little lamb," said she, "you have come into this strange world
just as the new century begins; but you haven't the least idea what you
are undertaking!--I am going to call this baby Patience," said she to
the nurse; "for if she lives she will have plenty of trouble, and
perhaps the name will help her bear it better."

And then the good woman lay silent a long while, and prayed in her heart
that the little one might grow up in the fear of the Lord. She had
breathed the same wish over her other eight children, and now for this
ninth little darling what better prayer could be found?

"She's the sweetest little angel picter," said Siller Noonin, smoothing
baby's dot of a nose; "I guess she's going to take after your side of
the house, and grow up a regular beauty."

"We won't mind about looks, Priscilla," said Mrs. Lyman, who was
remarkably handsome still. "'Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but
the woman that feareth the Lord shall be praised.'"

"Well, well, what a hand Mrs. Lyman is for Scripter," thought Siller, as
she bustled to the fireplace, and began to stir the gruel which was
boiling on the coals. Then she poured the gruel into a blue bowl,
tasting it to make sure it was salted properly. Mrs. Lyman kept her eyes
closed all the while, that she might not see it done, for it was not
pleasant to know she must use the spoon after Priscill