Among my earliest recollections is my love of watching the water. I
remember standing with my arms outstretched as if to welcome and catch
the white topped waves as they came rolling in upon the white, pebbly
shore at my feet. I was not quite three years old, my mother had left me
asleep in the low, old-fashioned cradle and leaving the door ajar had
stepped over to a neighbor's house just a few rods away; returning
almost immediately, she found I was not in the cradle as she had left me
a short time before. She began to search for me at once and fearing I
had gone to the shore she ran down to the beach where the rolling waves
were coming in with a booming sound, and the wind blowing a gale. She
found me standing in the water laughing and reaching out my little arms
as the great waves broke and dashed at my feet. Had she not come just in
time I would have been carried out with the receding waves.
I had always lived near the water, but until this time had never seemed
to realize or distinguish it from other things. Our house stood just a
few steps back from the shore, sheltered in a little grove of evergreen
trees. The sun shining on the water in the early morning caused it to
sparkle like myriads of diamonds, and the soft glimmer which shone
through the green trees even now reminds me of some half-remembered
dream. All seemed so peaceful and quiet. I remember at other times when
no wind was near and water was calm at night when I lay in my cradle I
could hear the soft splash of the water in low murmurs as it came softly
upon the gravelly beach so near to us. To me it seemed like some sweet
lullaby lulling me to sleep while listening to its low, moaning sound.
My mother said it always made her weep, for to her it was the sad
whispering voices of departed friends.