We had a good dinner. The table was spread with the bounties of life. We
passed a very pleasant day, and listened to father's stories of wars, and
stories connected with his early life. He would relate them as nobody
else could. He told us stories that I had often heard him relate before.
Still there was a charm in his manner of telling them and they seemed to
be always good and new; his old stories were certainly as attractive,
interesting and pleasing as ever before.
It would make almost any one laugh who listened to them, though he always
looked rather grave while repeating them. It pleased him to think that
they all enjoyed them so much; but what pleased him still more was that
his children were all alive at home. As they were most all singers,
sometimes, he would set them singing for him, songs new and old, as he
was no singer himself.
Mother was a beautiful singer. He often got her to sing for him, and
sometimes asked her to sing his favorite song, which was styled "The Star
in The East." I have heard her sing it for him, at different times, ever
since as long ago as I can remember hearing her sing.
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