Far away among the New England hills stands a large, old-fashioned farmhouse, around whose hearth-stone not many years agone, a band of merry, noisy children played, myself the merriest, noisiest of them all. It stood upon an eminence overlooking a broad strip of rolling meadow-land, at the extremity of which was the old grey rock, where the golden rod and sassafras grew, where the green ivy crept over the crumbling wall, and where, under the shadow of the thorn-apple tree, we built our play-houses, drinking our tea from the acorn saucers, and painting our dolls’ faces with the red juice of the poke berries, which grew there in great abundance. Just opposite our house, and across the green …
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