I heard so many friends remark， "What a pity it is she's a girl！" that I felt a kind of compassion for the little baby. True， our family consisted of five girls and only one boy， but I did not understand at that time that girls were considered an inferior order of beings.
To form some idea of my surroundings at this time， imagine a two-story white frame house with a hall through the middle， rooms on either side， and a large back building with grounds on the side and rear， which joined the garden of our good Presbyterian minister， the Rev. Simon Hosack， of whom I shall have more to say in another chapter. Our favorite resorts in the house were the garret and cellar. In the former were barrels of hickory nuts， and， on a long shelf， large cakes of maple sugar and all kinds of dried herbs and sweet flag； spinning wheels， a number of small white cotton bags filled with bundles， marked in ink， "silk，" "cotton，" "flannel，" "calico，" etc.， as well as ancient masculine and feminine costumes.
Here we would crack the nuts， nibble the sharp edges of the maple sugar， chew some favorite herb， play ball with the bags， whirl the old spinning wheels， dress up in our ancestors' clothes， and take a bird's-eye view of the surrounding country from an enticing scuttle hole. This was forbidden ground； but， nevertheless， we often went there on the sly， which only made the little escapades more enjoyable.
The cellar of our house was filled， in winter， with barrels of apples， vegetables， salt meats， cider， butter， pounding barrels， washtubs， etc.， offering admirable nooks for playing hide and seek. Two tallow candles threw a faint light over the scene on certain occasions. This cellar was on a level with a large kitchen where we played blind man's buff and other games when the day's work was done. These two rooms are the center of many of the merriest memories of my childhood days.
I can recall three colored men， Abraham， Peter， and Jacob， who acted as menservants in our youth. In turn they would sometimes play on the banjo for us to dance， taking real enjoyment in our games. They are all at rest now with "Old Uncle Ned in the place where the good niggers go." Our nurses， Lockey Danford， Polly Bell， Mary Dunn， and Cornelia Nickeloy杙eace to their ashes杦ere the only shadows on the gayety of these winter evenings； for their chief delight was to hurry us off to bed， that they might receive their beaux or make short calls in the neighborhood. My memory of them is mingled with no sentiment of gratitude or affection. In expressing their opinion of us in after years， they said we were a very troublesome， obstinate， disobedient set of children. I have no doubt we were in constant rebellion against their petty tyranny. Abraham， Peter， and Jacob viewed us in a different light， and I have the most pleasant recollections of their kind services.
In the winter， outside the house， we had the snow with which to build statues and make forts， and huge piles of wood covered with ice， which we called the Alps， so difficult were they of ascent and descent. There we would climb up and down by the hour， if not interrupted， which， however， was generally the case. It always seemed to me that， in the height of our enthusiasm， we were invariably summoned to some disagreeable duty， which would appear to show that thus early I keenly enjoyed outdoor life. Theodore Tilton has thus described the place where I was born： "Birthplace is secondary parentage， and transmits character. Johnstown was more famous half a century ago than since； for then， though small， it was a marked intellectual center； and now， though large， it is an unmarked manufacturing town. Before the birth of Elizabeth Cady it was the vice-ducal seat of Sir William Johnson， the famous English negotiator with the Indians. During her girlhood it was an arena for the intellectual wrestlings of Kent， Tompkins， Spencer， Elisha Williams， and Abraham Van Vechten， who， as lawyers， were among the chiefest of their time. It is now devoted mainly to the fabrication of steel springs and buckskin gloves. So， like Wordsworth's early star， it has faded into the light of common day. But Johnstown retains one of its ancient splendors朼 glory still fresh as at the foundation of the world.
Standing on its hills， one looks off upon a country of enameled meadow lands， that melt away southward toward the Mohawk， and northward to the base of those grand mountains which are 'God's monument over the grave of John Brown.'"
Harold Frederic's novel， "In the Valley，" contains many descriptions of this region that are true to nature， as I remember the Mohawk Valley， for I first knew it not so many years after the scenes which he lays there.
Before I was old enough to take in the glory of this scenery and its classic associations， Johnstown was to me a gloomy-looking town. The middle of the streets was paved with large cobblestones， over which the farmer's wagons rattled from morning till night， while the sidewalks were paved with very small cobblestones， over which we carefully picked our way， so that free and graceful walking was out of the question. The streets were lined with solemn poplar trees， from which small yellow worms were continually dangling down. Next to the Prince of Darkness， I feared these worms. They were harmless， but the sight of one made me tremble. So many people shared in this feeling that the poplars were all cut down and elms planted in their stead. The Johnstown academy and churches were large square buildings， painted white， surrounded by these same sombre poplars， each edifice having a doleful bell which seemed to be ever tolling for school， funerals， church， or prayer meetings. Next to the worms， those clanging bells filled me with the utmost dread； they seemed like so many warnings of an eternal future.
Visions of the Inferno were strongly impressed on my childish imagination.
