hood when I broke the silence of that little home.

The word "dead" set the first mile-stone in the long stretch of my
memory. That was because I tried so hard to comprehend it and further
because it kept repeating its challenge to my imagination. I often
wondered just what had become of my father and mother and I remember
that the day after I went to my aunt's home a great idea came to me. It
came out of the old dinner-horn hanging in the shed. I knew the power of
its summons and I slyly captured the horn and marched around the house
blowing it and hoping that it would bring my father up from the fields.
I blew and blew and listened for that familiar halloo of his. When I
paused for a drink of water at the well my aunt came and seized the horn
and said it was no wonder they were dead. She knew nothing of the
sublime bit of necromancy she had interrupted--poor soul!

I knew that she had spoken of my parents for I supposed that they were
the only people in the world who were dead, but I did not know what it
meant to be dead. I often called to them, as I had been wont to do,
especially in the night, and shed many tears because they came no more
to answer me. Aunt Deel did not often refer directly to my talents, but
I saw, many times, that no-wonder-they-died look in her face.

Children are great rememberers. They are the recording angels--the
keepers of the book of life. Man forgets--how easily!--and easiest of
all, the solemn truth that children do _not_ forget.

A few days after I arrived in the home of my aunt and uncle I slyly
entered the parlor and climbed the what-not to examine some white
flowers on its top shelf and tipped the whole thing over, scattering its
burden of albums, wax flowers and sea shells on the floor. My aunt came
running on her tiptoes and exclaimed: "Mercy! Come right out o' here
this minute--you pest!"

I took some rather long steps going out which were due to the fact that
Aunt Deel had hold of my hand. While I sat weeping she went back into
the parlor and began to pick up things.

"My wreath! my wreath!" I heard her moaning.

How well I remember that little assemblage of flower ghosts in wax! They
had no more right to associate with human beings than the ghosts of
fable. Uncle Peabody used to call them the "Minervy flowers" because
they were a present from his Aunt Minerva. When Aunt Deel returned to
the kitchen where I sat--a sorrowing little refugee hunched up in a
corner--she said: "