a portion of their wages, thus relieving the stress upon the little community.
My uncle was then young in years, but a man in size and intelligence.
He begged to be one of those chosen, and his prayer was granted.
With his companions, carrying his little bundle, he walked a hundred miles to Boston.
That was in the year 1802.
In that year Thatcher Magoun was building his first vessel on the Mystic, and thither the young lad hurried in pursuit of work, which he at once obtained.
On the second day after his arrival he fell from the deck to the ship's bottom and was instantly killed.
All the rest of the remaining years of her life his mother was filled with a longing to visit and look upon his last resting place.
But that comfort was denied her. The hard days of the pioneers were not yet past, and a few years later she, too, was taken.
At the time my mother was three years old—too young, one would suppose, for even so sad an event to make a permanent impression, yet so heavy a