“’Twas on a winter morning, The weather wet and wild, Two hours before the dawning The father roused his child, Her daily morsel bringing, The darksome room he paced, And cried, ‘The bell is ringing-- My hapless darling, haste!’ · · · · · · The overlooker met her As to her frame she crept; And with his thong he beat her, And cursed her when she wept. It seemed as she grew weaker, The threads the oftener broke, The rapid wheels ran quicker, And heavier fell the stroke.” The song goes on to tell the sad story of her death while her “pitying comrades” were carrying her home to die, and ends:-- “That night a chariot passed her, While on the ground she lay; The daughters of her master, An evening visit pay. Their tender hearts were sighing, As negroes’ wrongs were told, While the white slave was dying Who gained her father’s gold.” In contrast with this sad picture, we thought of ourselves as well off, in our cosey corner of the mill, enjoying ourselves in our own way, with our good mothers and our warm suppers awaiting us when the going-out bell should ring. Holidays came when repairs to the great mill-wheel were going on, or some late spring freshet caused the shutting down of the mill; these were well improved. With what freedom we enjoyed those happy times! My summer play-house was the woodshed, which my mother always had well filled; how orderly and with what precision the logs were sawed and piled with the smooth ends outwards! The catacombs of Paris reminded me of my old playhouse. And here, in my castle of sawed wood, was my vacation retreat, where, with my only and beloved wooden doll, I lunched on slices of apple cut in shape so as to represent what I called “German half-moon cakes.” I piled up my bits of crockery with sticks of cinnamon to represent candy, and many other semblances of things, drawn from my mother’s housekeeping stores. The yard which led to the shed was always green, and here many half-holiday duties were performed. We children were expected to scour all the knives and forks used by the forty men-boarders, and my brothers often bought themselves off by giving me some trifle, and I was left alone to do the whole. And what a pile of knives and forks it was! But it was no task, for did I not have the open yard to work in, with the sky over me, and the green grass to stand on, as I scrubbed away at my “stent”? I don’t know why I did not think such long tasks a burden, nor of my work in the mill as drudgery. Perhaps it was because I _expected_ to do my part towards helping my mother to get our living, and had never heard her complain of the hardships of her life.