There were not many homes in Boston at this period that had even so near an approach to fairyland as a violin. Those were hard times for children, and especially for those with lively imaginations, which gift little Benjamin had in no common degree. There were Indians in those times, and supposed ghosts and witches, but no passing clouds bore angels' chariots; there were no brownies among the wild rose bushes and the ferns. There was one good children's story in every home--that of "Joseph" in the Bible, still, as always, the best family story in all the world. CHAPTER II. UNCLE BENJAMIN, THE POET. MRS. FRANKLIN has said that she could hardly remember the time in her son's childhood when he could not read. He emerged almost from babyhood a reader, and soon began to "devour"--to use the word then applied to his habit--all the books that fell within his reach. When about four years old he became much interested in stories told him by his father of his Uncle Benjamin, the poet, who lived in England, and for whom he had been named, and who, it was hoped, would come to the new country and be his godfather. The family at the Blue Ball was quick to notice the tendencies of their children in early life. Little Benjamin Franklin developed a curious liking for a trumpet and a gun. He liked to march about to noise, and this noise he was pleased to make himself--to blow his own trumpet. The family wrote to Uncle Benjamin, the poet, then in England, in regard to this unpromising trait, and the good man returned the following letter in reply: _To my Namesake, on hearing of his Inclination to Martial Affairs. July 7, 1710._ "Believe me, Ben, it is a dangerous trade; The sword has many marred as well as made; By it do many fall, not many rise-- Makes many poor, few rich, not many wise; Fills towns with ruin, fields with blood beside; 'Tis sloth's maintainer, and the shield of pride; Fair cities, rich to-day in plenty flow, War fills with want to-morrow, and with woe; Ruined estates, victims of vice, broken limbs, and scars Are the effects of desolating wars." One evening, as the tallow chandler was hurrying hither and thither in his apron and paper cap, the door opened with a sharp ring of the bell fastened by a string upon it. The paper cap bobbed up. "Hoi, what now?" said the tallow chandler. "A letter from England, sirrah. The Lively Nancy has come in. There it is." The tallow chandler held the letter up to the fire, for it had been a _melting_ day, as certain days on which the melting of tallow for the molds were called. He read "Benjamin Franklin," and said: "That's curious--that's Brother Ben's writing. I would know that the world over." He put the letter in his pocket. He saw Dame Franklin looking through the transom over the door, and shook his head.