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THE STORY OF MY CHILDHOOD.

BY CLARA BARTON.


IT was May—the cherry trees were in bloom. For the first time in three years I had been able to sit for an evening among a company of persons (invalids like myself seeking strength), trying to entertain them with some remembrances of bygone days. I see it still, the broad parlor of that grand old "Hillside Home," the mother and inspiration of all the hundreds of sanitariums and health restoring institutions of the country today. I had made my home near it, at the foot of the blossoming orchard.

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