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I felt very big, and ran on ahead of my mother until she called to me to stop for fear of my falling into the water. Whether he was then kind or cross to me or to my mother I can not remember.Probably my mind was too young to notice any difference less than that between love and cruelty.I often wonder what sort of dwelling it was, and whether the July heat was not pretty hard on my poor A FLAT DUTCH TURNIP 3 mother. I guess a habit of mind has grown up which I shall never break off ; the moment I begin sowing turnips I think of my mother bringing forth her only child in the heat of dog-days, and of the sweat of suffering on her forehead as she listened to my first cry.She is more familiar to me, and really dearer in this imaginary scene than in almost any real memory I have of her. My first memory of my mother is of a time when we lived in a little town the name and location of which I forget; but it was by a great river which must have been the Hudson I guess."Do you want what I know about the history of Vandemark Township in your book, or are you just out after my money? She came to me and put her arms about my neck and kissed me ; and finally coaxed me into telling her all about the disgraceful affair. Maybe you ll let me do a little foot note once in a while, so my name will go into it with yours.

INTRODUCTION "There are publishers," she said, "who do actually print such things. "You all think because I don t go into the field with a team any more," I objected, "that I don t amount to anything on the farm ; but I tell you that what I do in the way of chores and planning, practically amounts to a man s work." "Of course it does," she admitted, though between you and me it wasn t so. Vandemark ; and up to a few years ago I thought as much as could be that my first name was Jacob; but my granddaughter Gertrude, who is strong on family histories, looked up my baptismal record in an old Dutch Reformed church in Ulster County, New York, came home and began teasing me to change to Jacobus.She had made me a little cap with a visor and I was very proud of it and of myself.I picked up a lump of earth in the road and threw it over a stone fence, covered with vines that were red with autumn leaves woodbine or poison-ivy I suppose. The whole scene now grows misty and dim ; but I remember a boat coming to the shore, and out of it stepped John Rucker.It is the only anniversary I can keep track of, and the only reason why I remember it is because on that day, except when it came on a Sunday, I have sown my turnips ever since 1855.Everybody knows the old rhyme : "On the twenty-seventh of July Sow you turnips, wet or dry/ Ana wet or dry, my parents in Ulster County, long, long ago, sowed their little red turnip on that date.

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