part of a very severe winter, and who has recently died at the age of almost ninety, assured me that she was not spared by her parents, but borne out to the house of public worship a few hours after her first appearance, which chanced to be on Sunday. Her father being the minister, it was deemed that any abatement of the strictest requisition would be singularly improper; but tempering the zeal of piety with the solicitude of love, she was enveloped in a white satin bag, elaborately tied around the tiny neck, and preserved as an heirloom in the family.
This extreme primitive usage did not permit the mother the privilege of dedicating, in person, her offspring at the hallowed font. My father presented his own little, waif to the good pastor for the blessed rite, accompanied by the nurse and a faithful servant woman. The latter, after the frost of fourscore had settled upon her, was fond of relating the scene, with its minutest circumstances, as one of some note in her annals. I, too, must speak of her; for in her line of life she was an example worthy of comment and imitation.
Faithful Lucy Calkins! Methinks I see her now, in the costume of early days, a neat calico short wrapper, and in winter one of green baize, with shining black skirt and blue checked apron. There would she be, churning butter of golden hue, or drawing from a large brick oven the most delicate bread, or feeding her flock of poultry, or, perchance, lecturing the waiter-boy, who
