roof, under which Thanksgiving Day had taken on the character it has held from that day to this.
The small blank-book which held these "Meditations" was copied carefully by Simon Bradstreet, and there is little doubt that each of the children did the same, considering it as much theirs as the brother's for whom it was originally intended. Whatever Anne Bradstreet did, she had her children always in view, and still another blank-book partially filled with religious reflections, and found among her papers after death, was dedicated, "To my dear children." The father probably kept the originals, but her words were too highly valued, not to have been eagerly desired by all. A special word to her son opens the series of "Meditations."
For my deare sonne Simon Bradstreet.
Parents perpetuate their lines in their posterity, and their mañers in their imitation. Children do naturally rather follow the failings than the virtues of their predecessors, but I am persuaded better things of you. You once desired me to leave something for you in writing that you might look upon when you should see me no more. I could think of nothing more fit for you, nor of more ease to my selfe, than these short meditations following. Such as they are I bequeath to you: small legacys are accepted by true friends, much more by dutiful children. I have avoyded incroaching upon others conceptions, because I would leave you nothing but myne owne, though in value they fall short of all in this kinde, yet I presume they will be better priz'd by you for the Author's
