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It seemed to cousin Clara that if these ladies could have seen Grandfather’s old chair, they would have thought it worth all the rest together. She wondered if it were not even older than Grandfather himself, and longed to know all about its history. "Do, Grandfather, talk to us about this chair," she repeated.
Hutchinson presided at these meetings, sitting, with great state and dignity, in Grandfather’s chair." "Grandfather, was it positively this very chair?" demanded Clara, laying her hand upon its carved elbow. "Why not, my dear Clara?" said Grandfather. "Well; Mrs.
By this table stood Grandfather’s chair, which seemed already to have contracted an air of deep erudition, as if its cushion were stuffed with Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, and other hard matters. In this chair, from one year’s end to another, sat that prodigious book-worm, Cotton Mather, sometimes devouring a great book, and sometimes scribbling one as big.
If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night: here, I felt, what would be would be. I DO not remember our arrival at my grandfather’s farm sometime before daybreak, after a drive of nearly twenty miles with heavy work-horses. When I awoke, it was afternoon.