"And you're a regular tomboy. Girls don't train around that way in the city."

Janey had begun to rip out the old seam. She sighed a little, and wished she was sewing carpet-rags. That was such easy work.

"Hanny sews a great deal faster than you," she said to Polly. "See what a pile she has. I will wind them up."

It made quite a ball, and was a little rest from the ripping, that sounded so easy and yet was tedious. But Janey persevered, and finally, after turning about a time or two, came to the middle with a sigh of relief. Polly had been working like a steam-engine for ten minutes, and picked out a good many long pieces, so she had a ball as large as Hanny's.

Then they put on their sun-bonnets, and ran down to the Bristows', which was in the turn of the road. There were three girls,--one of nine who was almost as big as Hanny, and the one of eleven, much taller.

They all had a good drink of buttermilk: Mrs. Bristow had just been churning. Then they went out to the barn and played "hide-and-seek," and had a noisy, jolly time. They sat down and fanned themselves with their aprons, and presently started out for some blackberries.

"There's a German settlement down below, and the children are up here every day picking berries. You can't have anything now, unless it is planted in your own garden. We have some lovely big blackberries, when they get ripe."

Then the girls ran a race. Hanny was out of breath presently, and stopped, so did little Kitty Bristow. But Julie Bristow beat in the race. Polly wanted to run again; but the others were tired.

Mrs. Bristow gave Janey a beautiful, big pot-cheese to take home; and it was just delicious.

One of the cousins from Fordham had been down. The children were all to come up and spend the day to-morrow, and Mrs. Odell was invited to supper.

Hanny felt a little lonely. If she could just see her father and Joe, and her mother and the boys. But she slept very soundly; and truly she wasn't homesick when they all came to breakfast in the morning. Janey hurried around and did her work, and they were soon ready to be off. A day meant all day, then.

It was a pretty country walk, with here and there a house, and one little nest of Irish emigrants. Some of the women had their wash-tubs out of doors, and were working and gossiping. Then there was St. John's College, with its pretty, shady grounds, and on the other side a hotel where the trains stopped as they went up and down. After that, you climbed a long hill that wound a little, and on one side there was a row of beautiful, stately cherry-trees that were a sight to behold in their early bloom and in the rich harvest of fruiting.

Just at the brow of the hill stood a rather quaint house, with the end to the street. It was built against the side of the hill. You ascended a row of stone steps, and reached the lower floor, which was a dining-room with a wide stone-paved area, then you went up several more steps to a cheerful sunny room, and this was the kitchen. When you went upstairs again, one side of the house was just even with the ground, and the other up a whole story. Here was a parlour, a sitting-room, several sleeping chambers; but what the little girl came to love most of all was a great piazza built over the area downstairs, with a row of wide steps.

When you were up there, you were two stories above the street, and you could look down the long hill and all about. It was a beautiful prospect. Afterward, the little girl found some chalets in Switzerland that made her think of this odd house that had been added to since the first cottage was built.

There was always a host of people in the old house. Hospitality must have been written on its very gates, for relatives, unto the third and fourth generation, were continually made welcome: a sweet, placid grandmother who had seen her daughter, the housemother, laid away to her silent resting-place, and who had tried to supply her place to the children; the father; the aunt who took part of the care; the sons and daughters, some of whom had grown up and married, and whose children made glad the old home.

There was a houseful of them now; but there was a wide out-of-doors for them to play in. A few hundred feet farther up, where the road turned and ran off to Kingsbridge, as well as to the Harlem River, stood the village smithy; and the Major, who had been in the War of 1812, had relegated the business mostly to his sons. He enjoyed the coming and going, the bright young faces, and had a hearty welcome for the children, though he sometimes pretended to scold them.

A queer tract of land it was, with a great rift of rock running through it where the children played house, and had parties, and occasionally took their dinner out to eat in picnic fashion. Just beyond the strata of rock, on the good ground, stood two splendid apple-trees called "Jersey Sweetings," and for nearly two summer months their bounty was the delight of the children. Farther down, the ground sloped abruptly and settled into a pleasant orchard; then another sudden decline, and here a pretty stream came purling through, making a tiny cascade as it tumbled over the rocks.

The little girl was deeply touched by beauty; and as they ran around she stopped now and then to drink in the shady vistas and wild nooks that seemed fairy-haunted. She had been reading a little mythology, and she could believe in a great many things. There were places where she looked to see Pan piping on his reed, and dryads and nymphs coming out of the groves.

How they did run and play! The air was merry with shouts and laughter.

Some of them took off their shoes and stockings, and waded in the brook.

And one of the big boys proposed that on Saturday afternoon they should go down to the Harlem River and get some crabs and clams.

There were enough children for a second table, and that was laid in the upper kitchen. Auntie thought they must be starved; but instead they had been stuffed with sweet apples. Still most of them did justice to the bountiful dinner.

"This little girl looks tired out," said grandmother. "I think she had better stay in and rest a while."

Hanny was very glad to do this. While grandmother took her nap, she went upstairs where the grown-up people were talking and sewing. She wished she had brought her crocheting; but Polly had laughed her out of it.

Then she took up a book, and was soon lost in that. It was an English novel, as most of our novels were then, "Time the Avenger."

"That is a rather sad book for a little girl," said Cousin Jennie. "I'll see if I can't find you something better. You look as if you were fond of reading. You are Vermilye Underbill's little girl. And your brother George has gone to California. I know him quite well, and the Yonkers family. I suppose he hasn't found his nugget of gold yet?"

The little girl smiled, and said she did not think he had yet. His letters had been full of the wonderful country; and it took so long to get a letter.

"Here are some magazines with pictures and verses. Are you fond of poetry? Maybe you are a poet. You have a delicate, ethereal look."

"Do poets have that?" asked Hanny. "I know a girl who writes verses and stories; but she isn't at all ethereal. I'm quite sure I couldn't write verses or anything," and she gave a soft laugh.

"Well, I think geniuses look quite like other people. I've seen a number of them lately. We have a genius living up the road, and ever so many people come to see him. Some quite famous ladies."

Hanny opened her eyes very wide.

"Let me see--I think I can find one of his poems." She took a pile of magazines from the top of the high old-fashioned bureau. "Oh, yes,--though, like 'Time the Avenger,' I think it's too old for you. I 'm not very fond of poetry. Here is 'Annabel Lee.'"

Then Cousin Jennie was called into the other room, where some one wanted to talk about the best way to ruffle a lawn skirt. Should the ruffles be on the straight or bias?

Hanny read the verses over and over, and saw the city by the sea where dwelt beautiful Annabel Lee, and how her high-born kinsman, who came in great state in a chariot, carried her away from the one who loved her so dearly. But when, later on, she came to know and understand the poem, and the high-born kinsman had come for some of those she held most dear, she could always go back to the vague mysterious awe that filled and thrilled her then. She sat as if in a trance until grandmother, who had taken her nap, came and took the arm-chair beside the open window.

"Well, are you rested?" said grandmother, cheerfully. "I should think Janey and Polly would wear you out. It isn't a good thing for little girls to run too much. But everything has changed since my day. Although I think they ran and played then; but they had to help work, there was so much out-of-doors work. Everything is easier now. There are so many improvements. And, oh, how much there is to read! I'm not sure that is so good for them."

"But it is very delightful," returned the little girl.

"If it only made people wiser!"

"But they are growing curiously wise," said Hanny. "There is the telegraph. It seemed so queer that you could make a bit of wire talk, that at first people didn't believe it. Uncle Faid did not when he saw it at the Fair."

"And people laughed about the steamboat, I remember, and the idea of railroad trains drawn by an engine. Yes, there are a good many strange things. And steamships crossing the ocean. There used to be sailing-vessels, and it took such a long while."

Hanny told grandmother about her friend who had gone abroad; and grandmother, in return, told her about some Welsh ancestors who had to fly for their lives on account of being mixed up with some insurrection about a young prince, and the stormy time they had coming over,--how they were driven up and down the coast, and their voyage consumed two months. They were almost out of provisions, and suffered many hardships.

So the wisdom of the world had amounted to something.

The children came in. They were going up the road, and didn't Hanny want to join them? Mrs. Odell said they must not stay very long, she was going home before supper.

There was a protest about this; but Mrs. Odell said there were people and children enough without them, and she had told her husband they would be home to supper.

"Do we go by the poet's house?" Hanny asked as they passed the cross-road.

"The poet?" Two or three of the children stared blankly.

"Oh, Hanny means that Mr. Poe. Why, yes; it's the old Cromwell house. It isn't much to see. There, that little cottage."

No, it was not much to see,--a very bird's nest house with a great tree shading it, and a little porch at the side. A rather thin elderly woman sat sewing in a rocking-chair. She did not even look up at the children.

They were full of fun and nonsense, and presently were joined by two neighbouring girls. They went up by the old church, and then they wandered to the graveyard. It was a rather neglected place, as country graveyards were wont to be at that time. Some red clovers were in bloom, and a few belated buttercups. The trees were rather straggling, a few magnificent in their age. There were long-armed rose-trees that had done their best in the earlier season, a few wild roses, pale from growing in the shade, and the long slender blades of grass fell about in very weakness. There were some curious inscriptions; there were places where relatives of several of the children were buried.

"Oh, Hanny, come here," said Cousin Ann. "That Mr. Poe's wife is buried here. It's the Valentine plot. They're going to take her away sometime.

They're all very poor, you know. She died in the winter. People said she was beautiful; but,"--Ann lowered her voice,--"they were awful poor, and it is said she didn't have comfortable things. I should hate to be so poor; shouldn't you?"

Hanny shuddered. She was glad to get out in the sunshine again with her few wild flowers in her hand.

Bessie Valentine made them come in and have a chunk of cake, and it was a chunk indeed. Those who liked had a glass of buttermilk.

Cousin Jennie had gone up to the corner to look for them. Hanny espied her, and ran forward.