not mine, but is, I understand, a paraphrase of a silly song of years ago. Correctly quoted, it is as follows, so I have been told: —
| Go to Jane Glover, |
| Tell her I love her; |
| By the light of the moon |
| I will go to her. |
The various stories told by McClure's Magazine about my father spreading the road in front of his house with tan-bark and straw, and about persons being hired to rock me, I am ignorant of. Nor do I remember any such stuff as Dr. Patterson driving into Franklin, N. H., with a couch or cradle for me in his wagon. I only know that my father and mother did everything they could think of to help me when I was ill.
I was never “given to long and lonely wanderings, especially at night,” as stated by McClure's Magazine. I was always accompanied by some responsible individual when I took an evening walk, but I seldom took one. I have always consistently declared that I was not a medium for spirits. I never was especially interested in the Shakers, never “dabbled in mesmerism,” never was “an amateur clairvoyant,” nor did “the superstitious country folk frequently” seek my advice. I never went into a trance to describe scenes far away, as McClure's Magazine says.
My oldest sister dearly loved me, but I wounded her pride when I adopted Christian Science, and to a Baker that was a sorry offence. I was obliged to be parted from my son, because after my father's second marriage my little boy was not welcome in my father's house.
