The following _Listener_ editorial, from my mother’s pen, tells of an excursion to Fresh Pond and of her falling down. She never learned to be thoroughly at home on ice, like her own ducklings: _The Listener_ _January 11th, 1855_. EDITOR’S TABLE We do not know that the week just past had in it any event more important than the great Stevenson and Howe sleigh-ride, which took place on Monday last—the Stevenson school sleigh-ride, in the great Howe sleigh. The young ladies looked and behaved their very best. Miss Loring’s bonnet and yellow ribbons were remarkably becoming—shouldn’t wonder if other Judges than Judge Loring thought “our Gal” very good looking. Arrived at the pond, sliding became the order of the day. Misses Kate Selfridge and Susie Sargent were last seen with Mrs. Howe between them, like two little steam-tugs towing out a seventy-four. The 74 went down (on the ice) and the tugs scattered. Mr. Henry Marion (Bunker) Howe distinguished himself by a bump on the head, Mr. Bradford went about like a dear old Puss in Boots. After a good deal of slip-sliding, the party adjourned to the Hotel, where hot lemonade was demanded, drunk, and paid for, the young ladies supplying the spirits. The ride home was chiefly remarkable for the hearty cheering of sleighs and dirt-carts and hissing of toll-gate men. Among our friends and playmates was Mary Adams, the youngest daughter of Charles Francis Adams, Sr. The town residence of the family was in Mount Vernon Street, only a stone’s-throw from the State House. It was a simple brick structure, of the fashion then prevailing. That early style of architecture gave an air of solidity and dignity not always found in the more ornate fashions of to-day. The Adams house was built in the English-basement style, the pleasant dining-room looking out upon Mount Vernon Street. Like the neighboring residences, it stood some twenty or thirty feet back from the sidewalk, a paved court leading up to the door and giving the abode a certain air of privacy and retirement. Spacious parlors ran across the entire front of the second story, the building being a wide one. At the rear, a ball-room had been built on, and I remember a delightful children’s party there. To say that we played at “pillows and keys” with John Quincy Adams and Charles Francis Adams, Jr., has a historic, almost a presidential sound. At supper there was a ring in the cake, an essential feature of these juvenile entertainments. We drew lots out of a silk hat, and the prize fell to my share. As the slips were not folded up, “Ring,” written on one larger than the rest, was plainly discernible to my youthful eyes. The recording angel suggests in mitigation that greater care should have been taken to disguise that royal slip!