Van Alstyne’s Ferry consisted of a scow, propelled by horsepower, and equipped with a hinged platform at each end which, when let down to touch the shelving shore, afforded the means of ingress and egress. It was a good big scow, big enough, indeed, to carry two teams at once if due care was taken in getting on and off over the swinging platform. It was steered by a great oar in the competent hands of Myndert Van Alstyne who navigated the craft, while his brother Wynant collected the fares and kept the machinery in motion with the aid of a hickory gad. We arrived at Springfield toward evening and took rooms for the night at the Massasoit House. It was here we found the first evidences of being strangers in a strange land, which my Dutch relatives predicted would of necessity prove annoying. We were hungry, and the hotel supper was anything but satisfying. As everyone knows, the New Netherlanders are hearty good trencher-folk. At our house, we always had a full table, and at Grandpa Van Der Zee’s there had to be more on the board than could possibly be consumed or there was not enough to please the Baas. At the Massasoit, there was a fair show in the dining-room, but on trial the things provided were not acceptable. The milk was thin, and the butter and eggs not at all like those at home, fresh from the farm. This, however, could be understood and allowed for. The cows and the hens were English and, therefore, naturally inferior to ours, so that couldn’t be helped. What could not be condoned and what I indignantly resented was the barefaced fraud practiced on unwary travelers in the matter of the “piece de resistance,” the main feature of the meal as it appeared to me. This was a good sized cake or possibly plum pudding, piled up in round slices on a large salver in the middle of the table. Counting on this delectable looking, rich brown confection to make up for the shortcomings of the supper, I secured a generous section, and eagerly took a boy’s big bite. Consternation and dismay were at once realized for all the words could mean! The cake-pudding did not turn to ashes in my mouth—it was already ashes—ashes, sawdust and molasses. Althea, seeing my disappointment and disgust, declined partaking of the delicacy, but father managed to eat some of it, explaining that it was Boston brown bread. CHAPTER IV. A BAD BEGINNING