When ten-year-old Laura wrote, in a certain precious little volume bound in Scotch plaid, “Whence these longings after the infinite?” (I cannot remember any more!) be sure that if any eyes were suffered to rest upon the sacred lines they were those kind, clear, understanding gray eyes of our mother. Through all and round all, like a laughing river, flowed the current of her wit and fun. No child could be sad in her company. If we were cold, there was a merry bout of “fisticuffs” to warm us; if we were too warm, there was a song or story while we sat still and “cooled off.” We all had nicknames, our own names being often too sober to suit her laughing mood. We were “Petotty,” “Jehu,” “Wolly,” and “Bunks of Bunktown.” [Illustration: JULIA ROMANA HOWE.] On one occasion our mother’s presence of mind saved the life of the child Laura, then a baby of two years old. We were all staying at the Institution for some reason, and the nursery was in the fourth story of the lofty building. One day our mother came into the room, and to her horror saw little Laura rolling about on the broad window-sill, the window being wide open; only a few inches space between her and the edge, and then--the street, fifty feet below! The nurse was, I know not where,--anywhere save where she ought to have been. Our mother stepped quickly and quietly back out of sight, and called gently, “Laura! come here, dear! Come to me! I have something to show you.” A moment’s agonized pause,--and then she heard the little feet patter on the floor, and in another instant held the child clasped in her arms. If she had screamed, or rushed forward, the child would have started, and probably would have fallen and been dashed to pieces. It was very strange to us to find other children holding their revels without their father and mother. “Papa and Mamma” were always the life and soul of ours. Our mother’s letters to her sister are delightful, and abound in allusions to the children. In one of them she playfully upbraids her sister for want of attention to the needs of the baby of the day, in what she calls “Family Trochaics”:-- “Send along that other pink shoe You have been so long in knitting! Are you not ashamed to think that Wool was paid for at Miss Carman’s With explicit understanding You should knit it for my baby? And that baby’s now a-barefoot, While your own, no doubt, has choice of Pink, blue, yellow--every color, For its little drawn-up toe-toes, For its toe-toes, small as green peas, Counted daily by the mother, To be sure that none is missing!” Our mother could find amusement in almost anything. Even a winter day of pouring rain, which made other housewives groan and shake their heads at thought of the washing, could draw from her the following lines:-- THE RAINY DAY. (_After Longfellow._)