We had so many friends that I hardly know where to begin. First of all, perhaps, I should put the dear old Scotch lady whom we called “D. D.” She had another name, but that is nobody’s business but her own. D. D. was a thousand years old. She always said so when we asked her age, and she certainly ought to have known. No one would have thought it to look at her, for she had not a single gray hair, and her eyes were as bright and black as a young girl’s. One of the pleasantest things about her was the way she dressed, in summer particularly. She wore a gown of white dimity, always spotlessly clean, made with a single plain skirt, and a jacket. The jacket was a little open in front, showing a handkerchief of white net fastened with a brooch of hair in the shape of a harp. Fashions made no difference to D. D. People might wear green or yellow or purple, as they pleased,—she wore her white dimity; and we children knew instinctively that it was the prettiest and most becoming dress that she could have chosen.

Another wonderful thing about D. D. was her store-closet. There never was such a closet as that! It was all full of glass jars, and the jars were full of cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves and raisins, and all manner of good things. Yes, and they were not screwed down tight, as jars are likely to be nowadays; but one could take off the top, and see what was inside; and if it was cinnamon, one might take even a whole stick, and D. D. would not mind. Sometimes a friend of hers who lived at the South would send her a barrel of oranges (she called it a “bar’l of awnges,” because she was Scotch, and we thought it sounded a great deal prettier than the common way), and then we had glorious times; for D. D. thought oranges were very good for us, and we thought so too. Then she had some very delightful and interesting drawers, full of old daguerreotypes and pieces of coral, and all kinds of alicumtweezles. Have I explained before that “alicumtweezles” are nearly the same as “picknickles” and “bucknickles”?

D. D.’s son was a gallant young soldier, and it was his hair that she wore in the harp-shaped brooch. Many of the daguerreotypes were of him, and he certainly was as handsome a fellow as any mother could wish a son to be. When we went to take tea with D. D., which was quite often, we always looked over her treasures, and asked the same questions over and over, the dear old lady never losing patience with us. And such jam as we had for tea! D. D.’s jams and jellies were famous, and she often made our whole provision of sweet things for the winter. Then we were sure of having the best quince marmalade and the clearest jelly; while as for the peach marmalade—no words can describe it!

D. D. was a wonderful nurse; and when we were ill she often came and helped our mother in taking care of us. Then she would sing us her song,—a song that no one but D. D. and the fortunate children who had her for a friend ever heard. It is such a good song that I must write it down, being very sure that D. D. would not care.

To D. D. we owe the preservation of one of Laura’s first compositions, written when she was ten years old. She gave it to the good lady, who kept it for many years in her treasure-drawer till Laura’s own children were old enough to read it. It is a story, and is called—

LOST AND FOUND.

Another dear friend was Miss Mary. She was a small, brisk woman, with “New England” written all over her. She used to stay with us a good deal, helping my mother in household matters, or writing for our father; and we all loved her dearly. She had the most beautiful hair, masses and masses of it, of a deep auburn, and waving in a lovely fashion. She it was who used to say, “Hurrah for Jackson!” whenever anything met her special approval; and we all learned to say it too, and to this day some of us cheer the name of “Old Hickory,” who has been in his grave these fifty years. Miss Mary came of seafaring people, and had many strange stories of wreck and tempest, of which we were never weary. Miss Mary’s energy was untiring, her activity unceasing. She used to make long woodland expeditions with us in the woods around the Valley, leading the way “over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier,” finding all manner of wild-wood treasures,—creeping-jenny, and ferns and mosses without end,—which were brought home to decorate the parlors. She knew the name of every plant, and what it was good for. She knew when the barberries must be gathered, and when the mullein flowers were ready. She walked so fast and so far that she wore out an unreasonable number of shoes in a season.

Speaking of her shoes reminds me that at the fire of which I spoke in a previous chapter, at the Institution for the Blind, Miss Mary was the first person to give the alarm. She had on a brand-new pair of morocco slippers when the fire broke out, and by the time it was extinguished they were in holes. This will give you some idea of Miss Mary’s energy.

Then there was Mr. Ford, one of the very best of our friends. He was a sort of factotum of our father, and, like The Bishop in the “Bab Ballads,” was “short and stout and round-about, and zealous as could be.” We were very fond of trotting at his heels, and loved to pull him about and tease him, which the good man never seemed to resent. Once, however, we carried our teasing too far, as you shall hear. One day our mother was sitting quietly at her writing, thinking that the children were all happy and good, and possessing her soul in patience. Suddenly to her appeared Julia, her hair flying, eyes wide open, mouth ditto,—the picture of despair.

“Oh, Mamma!” gasped the child, “I have done the most dreadful thing! Oh, the most dreadful, terrible thing!”

“What is it?” exclaimed our mother, dropping her pen in distress; “what have you done, dear? Tell me quickly!”

“Oh, I cannot tell you!” sobbed the child; “I cannot!”

“Have you set the house on fire?” cried our mother.

“Oh, worse than that!” gasped poor Julia, “much worse!”

“Have you dropped the baby?”

“Worse than that!”

Now, there was nothing worse than dropping the baby, so our mother began to feel relieved.

“Tell me at once, Julia,” she said, “what you have done!”

“I—I—” sobbed poor Julia,—“I pulled—I pulled—off—Mr. Ford’s wig!”

There were few people we loved better than Tomty, the gardener. This dear, good man must have been a martyr to our pranks, and the only wonder is that he was able to do any gardening at all. It was “Tomty” here and “Tomty” there, from morning till night. When Laura wanted her bonnet-strings tied (oh, that odious little bonnet! with the rows of pink and green quilled ribbon which was always coming off), she never thought of going into the house to Mary, though Mary was good and kind too,—she always ran to Tomty, who must “lay down the shovel and the hoe,” and fashion bow-knots with his big, clumsy, good-natured fingers. When Harry was playing out in the hot sun without a hat, and Mary called to him to come in like a good boy and get his hat, did he go? Oh, no! He tumbled the potatoes or apples out of Tomty’s basket, and put that on his head instead of a hat, and it answered just as well.

Poor, dear Tomty! He went to California in later years, and was cruelly murdered by some base wretches for the sake of a little money which he had saved.

Somehow we had not very many friends of our own age. I suppose one reason was that we were so many ourselves that there were always enough to have a good time.

There were one or two little girls who used to go with us on the famous maying-parties, which were great occasions. On May-day morning we would take to ourselves baskets,—some full of goodies, some empty,—and start for a pleasant wooded place not far from Green Peace. Here, on a sunny slope where the savins grew not too thickly to prevent the sun from shining merrily down on the mossy sward, we would pitch our tent (only there was no tent), and prepare to be perfectly happy. We gathered such early flowers as were to be found, and made garlands of them; we chose a queen and crowned her; and then we had a feast, which was really the object of the whole expedition.

It was the proper thing to buy certain viands for this feast, the home dainties being considered not sufficiently rare.

Well, we ate our oranges and nibbled our cocoanut, and the older ones drank the milk, if there was any in the nut: this was considered the very height of luxury, and the little ones knew it was too much for them to expect. I cannot remember whether we were generally ill after these feasts, but I think it highly probable.

In mentioning our friends, is it right to pass over the good “four-footers,” who were so patient with us, and bore with so many of our vagaries? Can we ever forget Oggy the Steamboat, so called from the loudness of her purring? Do not some of us still think with compunction of the day when this good cat was put in a tin pan, and covered over with a pot-lid, while on the lid was set her deadly enemy Ella, the fat King Charles spaniel? What a snarling ensued! what growls, hisses, yells, mingled with the clashing of tin and the “unseemly laughter” of naughty children!

And Lion, the good Newfoundland dog, who let us ride on his back—when he was in the mood, and tumbled us off when he was not! He was a dear dog; but Fannie, his mate, was anything but amiable, and sometimes gave sore offence to visitors by snapping at their heels and growling.

But if the cats and dogs suffered from us, we suffered from JosÉ! O JosÉ! what a tyrannous little beast you were! Never was a brown donkey prettier, I am quite sure; never did a brown donkey have his own way so completely.

Whether a child could take a ride or not depended entirely on whether JosÉ was in the mood for it. If not, he trotted a little way till he got the child alone; and then he calmly rubbed off his rider against a tree or fence, and trotted away to the stable. Of course this was when we were very little; but by the time the little ones were big enough to manage him JosÉ was dead; so some of us never “got even with him,” as the boys say. When the dearest uncle in the world sent us the donkey-carriage, things went better; for the obstinate little brown gentleman could not get rid of that, of course, and there were many delightful drives, with much jingling of harness and all manner of style and splendor.

These were some of our friends, two-footers and four-footers. There were many others, of course, but time and space fail to tell of them. After all, perhaps they were just like other children’s friends. I must not weary my readers by rambling on indefinitely in these long-untrodden paths; but I wish other children could have heard Oggy purr!