My brother Edward and I were the youngest of six children, and as he was my senior by but a few years we were playmates and almost inseparable companions in our childhood. We were born in a roomy old-fashioned house, built by my mother's father for his oldest son, but purchased by my father when he retired from business in New York. A more ideal home for a happy childhood could not easily be found. It stood near the entrance of a beautiful valley through which flowed a clear stream, and was wind-sheltered by high bluffs, yet commanded fine views of the mountains with glimpses of the Hudson showing like lakes between them. What we called the "side-hill," back of the house, was our chief playground. My brother delighted in climbing the hickory and chestnut trees that grew upon it, and it was here in spring that we searched for wild flowers, from the little hepaticas just peeping above the snow, to the laurel in its full glory. In after years Edward never visited the old home without a tramp to the top of that side-hill or along the wood-road at its base.