Transcriber’s Note Italic text displayed as: _italic_ A Winter in Retirement Or Scattered Leaves By Hannah Blaney Washburn [Illustration: Decoration] Frank Allaben Genealogical Company Forty-Second Street Building, New York _Copyright, 1914, by Frank Allaben Genealogical Company_ PREFACE The scene of this little sketch is laid in one of the most delightful of our sea-coast residences, as it respects local situation; one of the earliest settlements of New England, and the birthplace of many individuals, whose memory, though perhaps unknown to fame, is cherished by their descendants to the third and fourth generation. With the hope that it may be received with favor, and do good, the writer, who is herself a native of Lynn, offers it to the public. H. B. W. A WINTER IN RETIREMENT OR SCATTERED LEAVES CHAPTER I A home on Ocean’s sounding shore Would be the home for me, Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar, ’Tis the music of the Sea. There is no prospect more lovely and attractive to those who were born upon its shores, than that of the Ocean. In the heat and sunshine of a bright summer day, there is a delicious coolness and refreshment in the breezes which float over its waters never to be forgotten by the wanderer from his native home, and even the hollow murmuring of its waves, when presaging an approaching storm, and their wild roar when the tempest is abroad in its fury, is remembered with a sort of pleasure as being the lullaby for many a calm and sound night’s sleep. In sickness, when far away from the land of his birth, the exile will remember its pure and healthful atmosphere, and in his dreams, perhaps, fancy himself treading the pebbly shore, and feeling the pleasant air upon his fevered brow. Such a fond remembrance has led to the location of the scene of this tale, a remembrance which will exist as long as memory remains. * * * * * “And this is the end of all our plans and anticipations for the winter? Oh, Mary, what shall we do through this long dreary season of nearly six months? No balls, no parties, indeed, no society, shut up in my aunt’s lonely house, with nothing to amuse us but the sound of the dismal waves, dashing against the rocks, the mournful wind, whistling through that forest of apple trees, and not a man to be seen but old Philip”—and here the voice of the speaker was stopped by her tears which were, however, soon soothed by the mild and gentle voice of her sister.