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"There is a miller in our town,
How dreadful is his case;
I fear unless he does repent
He'll meet with sad disgrace."

Sooner or later, I have been informed, nearly every budding poet takes to writing obituaries. My own experience at least bears out the statement; though I was among the gayest of the gay myself, the demise of any of the neighbors would cause my muse to shed a few sympathetic tears. How glad I am, however, that none of these early productions were preserved! What did a child, full of life as I was, understand of death?

It will be more appropriate, therefore, to say some-thing about our games in Ridgefield. Every evening twelve or fourteen of us girls and boys were accustomed to gather on the common, which was directly opposite our house, and play at blind man's buff, London Bridge, hiding the thimble, or some other game that the little folks still enjoy. We had besides another one, which was named "spinning wheel," because we used to bend down the mullen plant and use it to imitate the motion of the tread of a spinning wheel, while all danced and sang an appropriate round, or some popular song of the day. One of these now remembered was "Scotland Is Burning"; and there were a score of others that have now long since passed into oblivion.

Sometimes we made a ring by joining hands and circled around a boy and a girl, who stood in the center and represented a newly married couple. Meanwhile we exhorted the boy,

"Now you're married, you must be good,
And keep your wife in oven-wood."

Some of the sentimental songs of the day were very beautiful and as well liked by the children as the modern "rag-time" ditties are by this generation. Many of them are still fresh in my mind and I will quote a stanza from one of them. "The Rose of Allandale" begins as follows, --

"The morn was fair, the sky was clear,
No breath came o'er the sea,
When Mary left her Highland cot
And wandered forth with me.

"Though flowers decked the mountain-side,
And fragrance filled the vale,
By far the sweetest flower there
Was the Rose of Allandale."

Among the playmates who used to gather on the village green was Sylvester Main, who was two or three years older than I. He was a prime favorite with the gentler sex, for he used to protect us from the annoyances of more mischievous boys. In the autumn of 1834 mother and I left Ridgefield and went to live again in Westchester County; and I then bade my friend, Syl-vester, adieu. Not until thirty years later did we meet again, this time, strangely enough, in the office of William B. Bradbury with whom he was afterwards a business partner; and from 1864 to the time of his death in 1873 we worked together constantly.

During the winter months a music teacher came to Ridgefield twice a week to give singing lessons. As a text book we used the famous "Handel and Hadyn Collection," which was first published in 1832 by the celebrated Dr. Lowell Mason; and from time to time we eagerly bought the revised editions as they were issued. While our chorus was singing an unfamiliar tune, "Lisbon," one evening the rest of the singers broke down, leaving me carrying the air all alone; and you may be sure I was much frightened at the sound of my own voice, and would have cried, had not the teacher spoken kind words assuring me that I had not committed any offense. I can still hear some of the sweet voices of my friends reverberating through the old Presbyterian meeting-house; the tuning fork of the choirmaster as he "set" the pitch; and the deep mellow tenor of the minister as he answered the choir from the pulpit.

Meanwhile my imagination was always looking for something of interest, and it was often satisfied with romantic tales of wild life in the West, or the story of Robin Hood and his remarkable brigands. Some member of our household was in the habit of reading aloud during the long winter evenings; and many a night, when they supposed me to be asleep, I was eagerly catching every word that was read. "Don Quixote" interested me somewhat, but a certain story that bears the tell-tale title of "Rhinaldo Rhinaldine, the Bandit," captivated my fancy completely; and from that winter until the present I have always been a warm admirer of that class of heroes, -- the good bandits of the story books. But I have not been fortunate enough to meet any of them in real life.

Not many months passed ere my mind was teeming with sundry and diverse accounts of charitable bandits whose habits in general were to rescue poor wayfarers and send them on their journey with money in their purses. For the sake of variety a few bad robbers were sometimes thrown in; but sooner or later their chief would always emerge when they least expected it and compelled them to return their dishonest gains; and the end of the story was not reached until they repented of their mode of life and actually reformed, though, in some cases, a term in prison was necessary to settle them in their new purpose.

Another class of tales related to Sunday-school children and how they went among the by-ways and hedges to compel the less fortunate ones to come in. One of my stories described a child left alone in the world by the death of both parents. In due time this little girl was adopted by a lady whose daughter was the wife of a sea captain, who had gone on a voyage; and just as they were sitting down to supper one evening he returned. But there was also a stranger with him, and he proved to be an uncle to the orphan girl; and though he took her home to live with him, she never forgot her former protector and friend.