Una Hawthorne, the eldest daughter, once made us a visit at Lawton’s Valley. She was tall and handsome, with a skin like alabaster and masses of red-gold hair. Julian, the only son, was of the same type. He was one of the handsomest young men I ever saw,--tall, athletic, romantic-looking, with a touch of unconventionality in his dress that was very becoming. Later in life, I met Julian Hawthorne, when I visited my sister Florence in Plainfield, where he lived for some years. One remark of his I have always remembered. We had been speaking of the elder Hawthorne, and Julian said, with a sigh: “My father is the worst enemy I have. It would not be so bad if I had chosen a different calling, but whatever I write must always be compared with what he wrote!” I felt a certain sympathy with him; a great name is very hard to “live up to.” The mention of the nursery bookcase recalls certain priceless volumes I do not often find to-day in the nurseries I visit. As our books were chosen by my mother with greatest care, I hope by mentioning some of my earliest book friends to hand on a good tradition: “The King of the Golden River” by Ruskin; Hans Andersen’s “Little Rudy”; “The Huggermuggers and Kobbletozo” by Christopher Cranch; Grimm’s Tales; Mrs. Barbauld’s Poems; Bulfinch’s “Age of Fable”; Edward Lear’s immortal “Book of Nonsense”; “Alice in Wonderland”, “The Bab Ballads”, the Franconia Stories, and Kingsley’s “Water Babies”; to the authors of every one of these books I owe an imperishable debt. If you have never read them there is still time, for they are for every age and condition! CHAPTER III GREEN PEACE “This is green peace!” Mama exclaimed that July day she took possession of our South Boston home. The title clung, like many of her nicknames, snapped out on the spur of the moment. What other six acres ever held such wonders as Green Peace? The house, full of odd turns and stairways, was “built on” piecemeal to the original cottage, as the family increased. The big living room, with the conservatory on the south side, had a mighty fireplace on the north, where for nine months of the year cannel coal sputtered or pine knots flared. Papa was a fire worshiper; the flame on our hearthstone was rarely quenched. The floor was covered by the Gobelin carpet from the old Joseph Bonaparte house at Bordentown. The central medallion inclosed a profile portrait of a royal couple of that short-lived dynasty; in the corners heraldic fishes disported themselves, surrounded by a pale strawberry ribbon on a ground of soft gold. Near the fireplace stood the tall sixteenth century cabinet from the Palace of the Popes at Avignon, purchased by our parents on their wedding journey, together with the Roman cabinet and the oak and ebony prie-dieu, and brought home from Europe to set up housekeeping in South Boston; this was in the year 1844, before the craze for old Italian furniture had struck our country.