In a house that stood where the Old Home does now, I was
born, April 3, 1837. It was a frame house with three or four rooms
below and one room "done off" above, and a big chamber. I was the
fifth son and the seventh child of my parents.
[Illustration: Birthplace of John Burroughs, Roxbury, New York.
From a photograph by Charles S. Olcott]
Mother was in her twenty-ninth year when she was carrying me.
She had already borne four boys and two girls; her health was
good and her life, like that of all farmers' wives in that section,
was a laborious one. I can see her going about her work--milking,
butter-making, washing, cooking, berry-picking, sugar-making,
sewing, knitting, mending, and the thousand duties that fell to her
lot and filled her days. Both she and Father were up at daylight in
summer, and before daylight in winter. Sometimes she had help in
the kitchen, but oftener she did not. The work that housewives did
in those times seems incredible. They made their own soap, sugar,
cheese, dipped or moulded their candles, spun the flax and wool and
wove it into cloth, made carpets, knit the socks and mittens and
"comforts" for the family, dried apples, pumpkins, and berries,
and made the preserves and pickles for home use.
Mother went about all these duties with cheerfulness and alacrity.
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