When I was your age

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

But I hope you will all read, some day, a Life of our father, and learn about all the things he did, for it needs a whole volume to tell them.

But it is especially as our father that I want to describe this great and good man. I suppose there never was a tenderer or kinder father. He liked to make companions of his children, and was never weary of having us “tagging” at his heels. We followed him about the garden like so many little dogs, watching the pruning or grafting which were his special tasks. We followed him up into the wonderful pear-room, where were many chests of drawers, every drawer full of pears lying on cotton-wool. Our father watched their ripening with careful heed, and told us many things about their growth and habits. We learned about the Curé pear, which, one fancied, had been named for an old gentleman with a long and waving nose; and about the Duchesse d’Angoulême, which suggested, in appearance as in name, a splendid dame in gold and crimson velvet. Then there were all the Beurrés, from the pale beauty of the Beurré Diel to the Beurré Bosc in its coat of rich russet, and the Easter Beurré, latest of all. There, too, was the Winter Nelis,—which we persisted in calling “Winter Nelly,” and regarded as a friend of our own age, though this never prevented us from eating her with delight whenever occasion offered,—and the Glout Morceau, and the Doyenne d’Eté, and hundreds more. Julia’s favorite was always the Bartlett, which appealed to her both by its beauty and its sweetness; but Flossy always held, and Laura held with her, and does hold, and will hold till she dies, that no pear is to be named in the same breath with the Louise Bonne de Jersey.

Oh good Louise, you admirable woman, for whom this green-coated ambrosia was named! what a delightful person you must have been! How sweetness and piquancy must have mingled in your adorable disposition! Happy was the man who called you his! happy was the island of Jersey, which saw you and your pears ripening and mellowing side by side!

I must not leave the pear-room without mentioning the beloved Strawberry Book, which was usually to be found there, and over which we children used to pore by the hour together. “Fruits of America” was its real name, but we did not care for that; we loved it for its brilliant pictures of strawberries and all other fruits, and perhaps even more for the wonderful descriptions which were really as satisfying as many an actual feast. Was it not almost as good as eating a pear, to read these words about it:—

“Skin a rich golden yellow, dappled with orange and crimson, smooth and delicate; flesh smooth, melting, and buttery; flavor rich, sprightly, vinous, and delicious!”

Almost as good, I say, but not quite; and it is pleasant to recall that we seldom left the pear-room empty-handed.

Then there was his own room, where we could examine the wonderful drawers of his great bureau, and play with the “picknickles” and “bucknickles.” I believe our father invented these words. They were—well, all kinds of pleasant little things,—amber mouthpieces, and buckles and bits of enamel, and a wonderful Turkish pipe, and seals and wax, and some large pins two inches long which were great treasures. On his writing-table were many clean pens in boxes, which you could lay out in patterns; and a sand-box—very delightful! We were never tired of pouring the fine black sand into our hands, where it felt so cool and smooth, and then back again into the box with its holes arranged star-fashion. And to see him shake sand over his paper when he wrote a letter, and then pour it back in a smooth stream, while the written lines sparkled and seemed to stand up from the page! Ah, blotting-paper is no doubt very convenient, but I should like to have a sand-box, nevertheless!

I cannot remember that our father was ever out of patience when we pulled his things about. He had many delightful stories,—one of “Jacky Nory,” which had no end, and went on and on, through many a walk and garden prowl. Often, too, he would tell us of his own pranks when he was a little boy,—how they used to tease an old Portuguese sailor with a wooden leg, and how the old man would get very angry, and cry out, “Calabash me rompe you!” meaning, “I’ll break your head!” How when he was a student in college, and ought to have known better, he led the president’s old horse upstairs and left him in an upper room of one of the college buildings, where the poor beast astonished the passers-by by putting his head out of the windows and neighing. And then our father would shake his head and say he was a very naughty boy, and Harry must never do such things. (But Harry did!)

He loved to play and romp with us. Sometimes he would put on his great fur-coat, and come into the dining-room at dancing-time, on all-fours, growling horribly, and pursue us into corners, we shrieking with delighted terror. Or he would sing for us, sending us into fits of laughter, for he had absolutely no ear for music. There was one tune which he was quite sure he sang correctly, but no one could recognize it. At last he said, “Oh—Su-sanna!” and then we all knew what the tune was. “Hail to the Chief!” was his favorite song, and he sang it with great spirit and fervor, though the air was strictly original, and very peculiar. When he was tired of romping or carrying us on his shoulder, he would say, “No; no more! I have a bone in my leg!” which excuse was accepted by us little ones in perfect good faith, as we thought it some mysterious but painful malady.

If our father had no ear for music, he had a fine one for metre, and read poetry aloud very beautifully. His voice was melodious and ringing, and we were thrilled with his own enthusiasm as he read to us from Scott or Byron, his favorite poets. I never can read “The Assyrian came down,” without hearing the ring of his voice and seeing the flash of his blue eyes as he recited the splendid lines. He had a great liking for Pope, too (as I wish more people had nowadays), and for Butler’s “Hudibras,” which he was constantly quoting. He commonly, when riding, wore but one spur, giving Hudibras’s reason, that if one side of the horse went, the other must perforce go with it; and how often, on some early morning walk or ride, have I heard him say,—