It was worth while to have measles and things of that sort, not because one had stewed prunes and cream-toast--oh, no!--but because our mother sat by us, and sang “Lord Thomas and Fair Elinor,” or some mystic ballad. The walks with her are never to be forgotten,--twilight walks round the hill behind the house, with the wonderful sunset deepening over the bay, turning all the world to gold and jewels; or through the Valley itself, the lovely wild glen, with its waterfall and its murmuring stream, and the solemn Norway firs, with their warning fingers. The stream was clear as crystal, its rocky banks fringed with jewel-weed and rushes; the level sward was smooth and green as emerald. By the waterfall stood an old mill, whose black walls looked down on a deep brown pool, into which the foaming cascade fell with a musical, rushing sound. I have described the Valley very fully elsewhere,[2] but cannot resist dwelling on its beauty again in connection with our mother,--who loved so to wander through it, or to sit with her work under the huge ash-tree in the middle, where [Illustration: JULIA WARD HOWE. (From a recent photograph.)] our father had placed seats and a rustic table. Here, and in the lovely, lonely fields, as we walked, our mother talked with us, and we might share the rich treasures of her thought. “And oh the words that fell from her mouth Were words of wonder and words of truth!” One such word, dropped in the course of conversation as the maiden in the fairy-story dropped diamonds and pearls, comes now to my mind, and I shall write it here because it is good to think of and to say over to one’s self:-- “I gave my son a palace And a kingdom to control,-- The palace of his body, The kingdom of his soul.” In the Valley, too, many famous parties and picnics were given. The latter are to be remembered with especial delight. A picnic with our mother and one without her are two very different things. I never knew that a picnic could be dull till I grew up and went to one where that brilliant, gracious presence was lacking. The games we played, the songs we sang, the garlands of oak and maple leaves that we wove, listening to the gay talk if we were little, joining in it when we were older; the simple feast, and then the improvised charades or tableaux, always merry, often graceful and lovely!--ah, these are things to remember! Our mother’s hospitality was boundless. She loved to fill the little house to overflowing in summer days, when every one was glad to get out into the fresh, green country. Often the beds were all filled, and we children had to take to sofas and cots: once, I remember, Harry slept on a mattress laid on top of the piano, there being no other vacant spot.