vine-covered house to a large new one. The family consisted of my
father and mother, two older half-brothers, and, afterward, a
little sister, Mildred. My earliest distinct recollection of my
father is making my way through great drifts of newspapers to his
side and finding him alone, holding a sheet of paper before his
face. I was greatly puzzled to know what he was doing. I imitated
this action, even wearing his spectacles, thinking they might
help solve the mystery. But I did not find out the secret for
several years. Then I learned what those papers were, and that my
father edited one of them.

My father was most loving and indulgent, devoted to his home,
seldom leaving us, except in the hunting season. He was a great
hunter, I have been told, and a celebrated shot. Next to his
family he loved his dogs and gun. His hospitality was great,
almost to a fault, and he seldom came home without bringing a
guest. His special pride was the big garden where, it was said,
he raised the finest watermelons and strawberries in the county;
and to me he brought the first ripe grapes and the choicest
berries. I remember his caressing touch as he led me from tree to
tree, from vine to vine, and his eager delight in whatever
pleased me.

He was a famous story-teller; after I had acquired language he
used to spell clumsily into my hand his cleverest anecdotes, and
nothing pleased him more than to have me repeat them at an
opportune moment.

I was in the North, enjoying the last beautiful days of the
summer of 1896, when I heard the news of my father's death. He