Annals of our ancestors; one hundred and fifty years of history in the ...

OUR SPRINGTIME 97
lingering and ministering to our mother. Julia Bruin, as
nurse, gave signals indicating tliat we were to keep quiet as
we neared the door of mother's room. We went in on tiptoe,
to find mother in the "big high bed" and little sister in the
rocking chair on a pillow. Here we three, Will and little Joe
and I, knelt down as close to the baby as we could get to wonder
and admire. First we looked into the bright blue eyes,
next we examined the dear little hands and feet and the
round, fuzzy head, turning to our mother with many expressions
of love and admiration. At this time, too, the dear
mother told us the little one was to be the support and solace
of her age — as she expressed it, her "bunch of comfort."
The springtime was ever beautiful in or.r southern Ohio
home, and this one was especially so to me. I was but six
years old, but I have the most distinct memory of my morning
task, which was to put my sweet baby sister to sleep. The
only cradle was our grandfather's old wooden settee decorated
with cornucopias of roses, brought from his own home and
valued accordingly; but nothing was too good for "Maggie,"
as he called our baby. A board was placed half-way down
one side to keep her from rolling out, while I sat at the foot
and kept the settee rocking, for it was upon rockers. It was
a pleasant task to sit there and sway back and forth on the
seat with my little charge and watch the round baby face on
the pillow, or I could look away through the south windows
down the long green aisles of the orchard, where the trees were
now scattering their petals like newly fallen snow. With what
freshness were those spring mornings filled! The birds had
returned, the sunshine swept through clarified atmosphere
and the odors of the springtime crept in everywhere. The
lilac by the cistern was in bloom; the snowball bush was bend-
ing with a wealth of fluffy white blossoms — oh, what riches
we found in this old home! It was all the world we knew, and
enough to fill our hearts to overflowing.
The year 1844 held not only the birth of our little sister
and the death of grandmother, but it brought us the visit of
Cousin Mary Jane Skinner. Her mother was a Scudder, and
father's cousin; she had died a short time previously, and Mary