My father could read a little, and make figures, but could scarcely write at all.

His custom, on those Sabbaths when we remained at home, was to spend his time in instructing his children, or the neighboring servants, out of a New Testament, sent him from Fredericksburg by one of his older sons.

I fancy I can see him now, sitting under his bush arbor, reading that precious book to many attentive hearers around him.
Such was the esteem I had for my pious father, that I have kept that blessed book ever since his death, for his sake; and it was the first New Testament I read, after I felt the pardoning love of God in my soul.
My father died, August 20, 1826, aged 60 years.

My mother, Jane Davis, at the death of my father, removed from the farm, where my father died, and spent the remainder of her days in Fredericksburg, with her children.

She lived to good old age, and fell asleep in Jesus, Dec.