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THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD.
BY CLARA BARTON.
IT was May—the cherry trees were in
bloom. For the first time in three
years I had been able to sit for an
evening among a company of persons
(invalids like myself seeking
strength), trying to entertain them
with some remembrances of bygone
days. I see it still, the broad parlor of
that grand old "Hillside Home," the
mother and inspiration of all the hundreds
of sanitariums and health restoring
institutions of the country today.
I had made my home near it, at
the foot of the blossoming orchard.
