It was hollow, and we children
used to play about inside of it, and knock knots of wood from the rough
bark. We all slept in a kind of attic, and my mother always came and
kissed us when we were in bed. I used to wake up and see her bending
over me, a candle in her hand. There was a curious kind of pole
projecting from the wall over my bed. Once I was dreadfully frightened
because my eldest brother made me hang to it by my hands. That is all
I remember about our old home. It has been pulled down long ago, or I
would journey there to see it.
A little further down the road was a large house with big iron gates to
it, and on the top of the gate pillars sat two stone lions, which
were so hideous that I was afraid of them. Perhaps this sentiment was
prophetic. One could see the house by peeping through the bars of the
gates. It was a gloomy-looking place, with a tall yew hedge round it;
but in the summer-time some flowers grew about the sun-dial in the grass
plat. This house was called the Hall, and Squire Carson lived there. One
Christmas--it must have been the Christmas before my father emigrated,
or I should not remember it--we children went to a Christmas-tree
festivity at the Hall.
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