The old house is still standing. Some of the original shingles and clapboards, covering a solid wall of home-made bricks, are still in a good state of preservation, especially on the west end. The innovation of a modern porch has added to rather than detracted from the pleasing appearance of the house. The diamond paned windows that were imported from England have been removed. Inside, the smoothly finished beams, the great fireplaces with panelled sides, the heavy doors, the broad, low steps, the fine woodwork in staircase and mantel, all speak of former pride and prosperity. Many an ancient legend is related concerning this old dwelling. Under the attic eaves is still shown a bunk known as Booth's bin, on account of an Indian slave by that name who for many years slept in it. Many years ago David Adams, while on a visit to Deny, New Hampshire, took with him a slave who became suddenly ill. No regular physician could be secured who was willing to attend him, so a cow doctor was called. He advised a hot bath. As nothing could be found large enough for the bath, an old dug-out was dragged up from the river, pitched, and filled with boiling water, into which the negro was unceremoniously thrust but escaped with his life. During a fire that occurred in this house sometime during the residence of Abraham Adams, this slave wished to aid in putting it out, he rushed up over the stairs to cut a hole in the roof with a hatchet. The hatchet was dull and the roof was high, so he battered it with his head until a hole was made. Somewhere on the bridle-path that led to the house in the early days of its occupancy there lived for a time a little band of twenty-five Indians, many of whom died there. One beautiful day in the early spring Mother Anne sauntered down the lane and strolled across the fields, as was her custom, to sit down outside the wigwam and chat with the old squaw. She was all alone, as Quanto, the brave, was absent attending to work around the place. Soon the old squaw stirred up the blaze of the camp-fire and set the kettle on to boil, making ready for the return of her husband for the midday meal. She put in beef and turnips, for it was before the days of potatoes. The smell of the savory stew was most appetizing, and Mother Anne, who had been often urged to partake of the Indian hospitality, decided this time to accept. Suddenly a slight rustle in the branches caused her to turn her head, and there by her side stood the brave, Quanto, who had come out silently from the shadows. His blankets were cast aside, and twined around his arm and shoulder was a big black snake which he held by its head. With the characteristic grunt of the Indian he saluted his guest, then stepping quickly forward, he removed the cover of the kettle with his left hand and with his right threw the writhing snake into the stew. Needless to say, Mother Anne's important household duties called her home before the meal was ready.