“But he thought on ‘Beauty’s’ flower, And he popped into a bower, And he plucked the fairest rose That grew beneath his nose.” I remember the theatre well, and the puppets. They were quite unearthly in their beauty,--all except the “Beast,” a strange, fur-covered monstrosity. The “Prince” was gilded in a most enchanting manner, and his mustache curled with an expression of royal pride. I have seen no other prince like him. All this was at Green Peace; but many as are the associations with her beloved presence there, it is at the Valley that I most constantly picture our mother. She loved the Valley more than any other place on earth, I think; so it is always pleasant to fancy her there. Study formed always an important part of her life. It was her delight and recreation, when wearied with household cares, to plunge into German metaphysics, or into the works of the Latin poets, whom she greatly loved. She has told, in one of her own poems, how she used to sit under the apple-trees with her favorite poet,-- “Here amid shadows, lovingly embracing, Dropt from above by apple-trees unfruitful, With a chance scholar, caught and held to help me, Read I in Horace,” etc. But I do not think she had great need of the “chance scholar.” I remember the book well,--two great brown volumes, morocco-bound, with “Horatius Ed. Orelli” on the back. We naturally supposed this to be the writer’s entire name; and to this day, ‘Quintus Horatius Flaccus’ (though I have nothing to say against its authenticity) does not seem to me as _real_ a name as “Horatius Ed. Orelli.” Our mother’s books,--alas that we should have been so familiar with the outside of them, and have known so little of the inside! There was Tacitus, who was high-shouldered and pleasant to handle, being bound in smooth brown calf. There was Kant, who could not spell his own name (we thought it ought to begin with a C!). There was Spinoza, whom we fancied a hunchback, with a long, thin, vibrating nose. (“What’s in a name?” A great deal, dear Juliet, I assure you.) Fichte had a sneezing sort of face, with the nose all “squinnied up,” as we used to say; and as for Hilpert, who wrote the great German dictionary, there can be no reasonable doubt that he was a cripple and went on crutches, though I have no authority to give for the fact beyond the resemblance of his name to the Scotch verb “hirple,” meaning “to hobble.” Very, very much our mother loved her books. Yet how quickly were they laid aside when any head was bumped, any knee scratched, any finger cut! When we tumbled down and hurt ourselves, our father always cried, “Jump up and take another!” and that was very good for us; but our mother’s kiss made it easier to jump up.