could work faster than the others. They received four cents a pair from the store and took their pay mainly in goods. Once, when their half-yearly account for shoe-sewing was settled, their credit showed a balance of just six cents; and they all agreed that that ought to go to Eliza, the eldest sister, because she had helped the mother so much with the housework.
Lucy's childhood in the main was happy, in spite of the hard work. After their chores were done, the children were left to their own pleasures. They had a cosset sheep named Top, and when little Lucy jumped rope, so lightly that it often seemed to her as if she had no flesh, Top would jump too, putting down its head and kicking up its heels. They also had a dog, old Bogue, who helped them herd the cows.
The children early learned to know all the wild f l owers, the trees, the birds, their songs, their nests, and the color of their eggs. They knew the remarkable rock formations in the valley, called "The Rock House," all the brooks and ponds, the Hemlock Hill, and every boulder that was a good place for play.
Lucy reveled in all the beauty of the world. When she had done well in her lessons, she found it a sufficient reward to be allowed to sit on the school-room floor, where she could look up through the window and watch the flickering green leaves of the white birch trees.
If ready money was scarce, good food was plentiful. She said, in recalling her childhood:
"We had barrels of meat, and of apples; plenty of fresh milk, cream, butter, cheese and eggs; peaches, quinces, innumerable varieties of plums, and every kind of berries, and all of them fresh. We had delicious honey, more than we could eat. The bread was rye and Indian, light and dry. On gray and showery days, not good for work, the boys would go to the woods to hunt, and bring home game — squirrels, woodchucks and abundance of wild pigeons. We all worked hard, but we all worked together; and we had the feeling that everything was ours — the calves, the stock, the butter and cheese."
Chapter II
The family circle in the evenings was a large one. Father Stone built magnificent fires in the great open fireplace, which stretched a long way across one side of the room; in front of it, at a safe distance, stood a large, high-backed settle that kept off the draughts. Near one end of the circle stood a small square table with a light on it, and those who were studying or sewing sat near it. The row of the others extended clear around the fire. There were Father and Mother Stone, the seven children who lived to grow up, — Francis, William Bowman, Eliza, Rhoda, Luther, Lucy and Sarah; and in the corner nearest the brick oven, old Aunt Sally, knitting. Often the neighborhood blacksmith sat there, telling stories of bears, wolves and Indians; and there was generally one or more of three old drunkards, who had been Father Stone's schoolmates, and whom he would never turn away. They often came and quartered themselves upon him for long visits. They were an affliction to Mother Stone, who had to cook for them and wash their clothes. She thought them a bad influence for the children; but the children regarded them with disgust. Once Luther and Lucy conspired secretly to break the jug of rum that one of them had hidden by a stone wall, when he came to spend a week-end.
On winter nights the children often roasted apples on the hearth, and popped corn. Two or three times in the course of the evening, one of them would be sent down cellar to bring up a quart mug of cider. It was passed from hand to hand, and they all drank from it. Tea and coffee were not used in this household.
On Sunday two wagonloads of the family were driven to church, and the rest walked. Those who rode one Sunday walked the next. The children too small to attend were gathered around the mother at home, while she read them Bible stories.
Once, as she went through the fields in summer, Lucy saw a large snake asleep upon a rock in the sun. Most little barefooted girls would have run away. Lucy picked up a heavy stone, approached softly, poised the stone exactly above the reptile's head and dropped it, crushing the head to pieces. The act was symbolic. Her whole life was, metaphorically, a bruising of the serpent's head.
Most brave men and women are courageous because they overcome their fears. Lucy was one of the very few persons who seem to have been born incapable of fear. She could feel terror for those whom she loved; but, for herself, she did not know what fear was. In her later life, in alarms arising from fire or thieves, we never saw her fluttered. She said in her old age that, during all the mobs and tumults of the antislavery time, she was never conscious of a quickened heartbeat. She laid it to the fact that she had been brought up on a farm and so had "good calm nerves." But it was not due to her bodily health. In her last illness, when her physical strength was all gone, her serene courage remained.
The overmastering purpose of her life took possession of her in childhood. She very early became indignant at the way in which she saw her mother and other women treated by their husbands and by the laws, and she silently made up her mind that those laws must be changed. Only wait until she was older! Then, one day, as she was reading the Bible, with the big book resting upon her little short legs, she came upon the words, "Thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee." She was filled with horror. She knew that the laws and the customs were against the women, but it had never occurred to her that God could be against them. She went to her mother and asked, "Is there anything that will put an end to me?" Annihilation was what she craved. Seeing the child's agitation, the mother questioned her, learned the trouble, and then, stroking Lucy's hair away from her hot forehead, told her gently that it was the curse of Eve, and that it was women's duty to submit. "My mother always tried to submit. I never could," Lucy said. For a short time she was in despair. Then she made up her mind to go to college, study Greek and Hebrew, read the Bible in the original, and satisfy herself as to whether such texts were correctly translated.
When her father heard of her wish to go to college, he said to his wife, in all seriousness, "Is the child crazy?" It had not surprised him when his two elder sons wanted to go to college, but such a thing was unheard of in the case of a girl. Lucy herself had her misgivings, and asked her brother privately whether it was possible for a girl to learn Greek.
She had a keen appetite for reading matter. The stagecoach passed the schoolhouse door, and sometimes travelers would throw out a handful of tracts or other pamphlets for the children to pick up. Lucy was so eager to get them that once, nimble as a young chamois, she darted through the open window. When she came back with her prize, the teacher stood in the door and said, "You must come in as you went out," and made her climb in through the window, to her great mortification.
The only papers taken by the family were the Massachusetts Spy and the Advocate of Moral Reform; but they borrowed the Youth's Companion and read it eagerly. When the children grew older, they subscribed for the Liberator and the Anti-Slavery Standard. Later, they took the Oberlin Evangelist for years.
They had few books. Among these, Lucy's especial delight was Guthrie's "Geographical, Historical and Commercial Grammar of the World", printed in London in 1788. They had also Fox's "Book of Martyrs", Edwards on the Affections, and a big volume gotten out by the Baptists, who were at that time intensely unpopular. It showed a certain liberality of mind on Father Stone's part that he should have bought a book setting forth the views of a denomination which was the object of so much public odium.
The only storybook in the house was "Charlotte Temple." This Was said to be both true and instructive, so the children were allowed to read it. But, in general, novels were classed with cards, dancing and the theater, as utterly sinful.
The first novel Lucy ever saw was "The Children of the Abbey." Her elder sister Rhoda, teaching school in a neighboring village, read it and told Lucy about it, and, at her eager request, borrowed it for her. Lucy used to lock herself into her room to read it. While
