" Mine was round, ruddy, and laughing
with health; and, though I practiced at the glass a good deal, I
could not lengthen it by puckering down my lips. I quite envied
the little girls who were pale and pensive-looking, as that was
the only ladyfied standard in the romances. Of course, the chief
pleasure of reading them was that of identifying myself with
every new heroine. They began to call me a "bookworm" at home. I
did not at all relish the title.
It was fortunate for me that I liked to be out of doors a great
deal, and that I had a brother, John, who was willing to have me
for an occasional companion. Sometimes he would take me with him
when be went huckleberrying, up the rural Montserrat Road,
through Cat Swamp, to the edge of Burnt Hills and Beaver Pond.
He had a boy's pride in explaining these localities to me, making
me understand that I had a guide who was familiar with every inch
of the way. Then, charging me not to move until he came back, he
would leave me sitting alone on a great craggy rock, while he
went off and filled his basket out of sight among the bushes.
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