In those old days in western Massachusetts cooking-stoves were unknown. The pots were hung above the fire, the meats were broiled over the coals or before them, and the baking was done in a brick oven. Neither were there ice-closets nor travelling butchers. The winter's stock of meat was laid in with the first cold weather; the chickens were killed and packed in snow in the cellar, to be brought out as they were needed; and pies were made in large quantities, and frozen and put away for future use; and the foot-stove was taken down from the shelf. This was a small iron box with holes in the top, and into it were put live coals. The box was carried in the hand, and used in place of a footstool in "meeting"; but even with this mitigation the cold was felt intensely. The conflict in a conscientious pastor's mind between his sense of duty and his kindness of heart was often severe and painful. Mrs. Field used to say that the most difficult act her husband was ever called upon to perform was to refuse church membership to those who had accepted Dr. Channing's views. She was naturally more pitiful than he. A revivalist who had come to the village in the course of his mission took occasion at a service publicly to arraign one of the prominent men of the town for drunkenness. Mrs. Field strongly disapproved of the time and place chosen for the rebuke, and on her way home from the meeting expressed her disapproval, and when she reached her gate said, "Wait, Cyrus, and when Mr. ---- passes bring him to me and I will pick his bones for him" (Micah iii. 2). She would not have approved of the method adopted, according to a story current in her son Cyrus's family, by a pious man in Connecticut who, when he thought himself imposed upon by his neighbors, would say, with a long drawl, "Leave them to the Lord, leave them to the Lord--he'll smite them hip and thigh." Her son always remembered, as one of the strongest impressions of his childhood, the deep and lasting grief of his mother at parting with her eldest daughter, who married and went to Smyrna, Asia Minor, as a missionary, when he was but ten years old. An old lady in Stockbridge tells to his niece this story of him at about the same age. "Your grandmother had been very ill. I watched with her; many of us watched. I thought to keep her from talking by coming up behind her to give her medicine, but she found out who I was and talked a great deal. After she was better she still needed some one to sleep in her room, keep up the fire and give her medicine. Your uncle Cyrus did this one whole winter when he was a little boy, I should think not ten. It was lovely of him." And it was just like him. He always remembered that during this same illness his mother called him to her and said, "Cyrus, the doctor says I am very ill, but I shall be up to-morrow." And he would add, "She was."