Miss Page left Fruitlands this evening.
AUGUST 16, 1843
I know I should be sorry that Miss Page is gone, but I’m not. She scolded me for not singing in tune. She never did her share of work but sat and watched Mother and the rest of us labor away, never lifting a finger to help us.
She was expelled from Fruitlands for her sin as Adam and Eve were sent from the Garden of Eden. It happened in this fashion. Miss Page had visited a nearby farm. There she was offered some fish and she ate it! When Mr. Lane and Father accused her, she said she ate only a small bit of the tail. Mr. Lane said even so, all the fish had to be killed that she might have the tail. Though she sobbed most terribly, she was ordered to leave. I believe that Mother could have saved her, but Mother had grown tired of waiting upon her.
Along with my relief that she is going I have a terrible worry. What if it were discovered that I had eaten a piece of cake? Would I be sent from Fruitlands, never to see my mother and father and sisters again? The worry kept me awake all night. I listened to the screech owl and stood at the window looking out. There was a full moon, and I watched the bats dive for mosquitoes. I imagined myself cast out and living in a woods with nothing but owls and bats for company and was very sorry for myself, which made me feel better.
AUGUST 18, 1843
Mr. Parker Pillsbury came from Boston to tell us of the fight against slavery. The people of Boston have taken up the cause. Articles appear in all the papers. Even poets like Mr. Whittier are speaking out. I remember Henry Thoreau saying that it is wrong to pay taxes to a government that does nothing to end slavery.
People are learning of the miserable conditions under which the slaves live and how they are bought and sold like cattle and their families broken up. The merchants and cotton exporters who owe their living to slavery are the ones supporting its cruelty.
Mr. Pillsbury says the battle has just begun. He told us of an abolitionist who went about preaching against slavery. One day he received a package from the South. When he opened the package, he found a dried ear and a length of rope. The ear had been severed from a slave who attempted to escape. The length of rope was meant for the abolitionist if he ever attempted to go to the South.
Slaves who have been helped to escape are to be found on any Boston street. Many of the homes in Concord have a special room where escaped slaves are hidden. Now there is talk that a fugitive slave law might be passed. Such a law would punish those who help slaves to freedom. Mr. Pillsbury says one day there will be fighting in our country between those who support slavery and those who wish to end it. I would gladly fight in such a war. But what of the Quakers, who are against slavery but are opposed to all fighting, even for so noble a cause?
Tonight Abraham Everett left.
AUGUST 18, 1843
I wrote a play about slaves and masters. My sisters and I were the slaves. William would agree to be the cruel master only if he could also be the one to free the slaves. After we were freed, we ran into the woods and hid and would not come out until Mother called us for supper.
After supper Abraham went up to his room and came down with all his things. He has been quiet these last days, spending more time by himself. I believe Mr. Pillsbury’s talk today about slavery set him to thinking. While having Mr. Lane and Father over him is not slavery, still I believe he grew tired of being told what to do. After having been shut up in an asylum by his relatives, I think his need for freedom is very deep. My sisters and I cried when he left, and so did Mother. He has been the only one to help her. I have heard her call him “son.”
No one is left now but Mr. Palmer, who is living at his farm and comes here each day, and Mr. Bower, whom you can’t really count. How will we manage with so small a community?
AUGUST 20, 1843
A needy family appeared at our door, a father and mother and two girls near the age of Anna and me. Their house has burned down and they have no food or clothes. Mother was much moved and gave them a basketful of vegetables from the garden, dishes, Father’s trousers, Anna’s blue dress, and my lavender cotton muslin with lilac sprigs and a ruffle at the hem. The girls looked very pleased and snatched at the dresses in a way I thought ill-bred. I was sad to see my dress disappear down the lane on the arm of one of the girls. I know we no longer wear the dresses, but sometimes I took my dress out and looked at it. Lizzie ran after the girls to give them one of her dolls.
I had the care of Abby May this afternoon. She is good-natured as long as she gets her way. So she is usually good-natured, for it is hard to deny her anything. She is so comely, with large blue eyes and golden curls.
We found a praying mantis sitting on a twig. It looked so much like a stick, you could hardly tell it from the twig. With its sharp elbows and knees it looked like Ichabod Crane in “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”
In an alder bush along the river I showed Abby May a sparrow’s nest. It was made of grass and moss all cleverly woven together and lined with feathers. In the nest were three small greenish-blue eggs and one large white egg speckled all over with freckles of brown.
We let a beetle, green as an emerald, crawl up and down our arms until it got tired of the pastime and scampered away.
AUGUST 20, 1843
Today Father measured us. I have grown an inch, Anna an inch and a half, and Lizzie nearly two inches. It was hard to make Abby May stand still, but Father says she has grown nearly two and a half inches. He keeps a notebook with all of our measurements. He says that our soul grows just as our bodies do and that he marks the soul’s progress down as well. I am sure my soul did not grow much today, for I was unhappy that Mother gave away my dress. I know that was selfish, but as long as I had the dress, I could believe I would not have to spend the rest of my life in coarse brown linen.
It is frightening to me to think my soul is looked at, even by Father. It is as if my soul were not my own but something to be handled and turned this way and that.
It is this habit of always examining all we say and do that makes me most unhappy. Here is an example from a conversation that took place this evening.
Louisa (with pride): I took Abby May out for a walk this afternoon and showed her pretty things in nature.
Mr. Lane: What did you show her?
Louisa (still showing off): A praying mantis.
Mr. Lane: The praying mantis is a most unusual insect. The female of the species bites the head off the male.
Louisa: Ugh!
Mr. Lane: What else did you see?
Louisa: We saw a nest with three greenish-blue eggs and one large speckled white egg. I thought that very curious.
Mr. Lane: Do you know who put the large white egg there?
Louisa cautiously shakes her head.
Mr. Lane: A cowbird lays its egg in the nest of a smaller bird and then flies off, leaving the small bird to hatch the egg and feed the young cowbird. The cowbird’s egg will hatch first. The young cowbird will eat so much that the young of the smaller birds may perish. What else did you see?
I was almost afraid to mention the beetle for fear Mr. Lane would make the beetle unpleasant too, but the beetle was so small I did not see how that was to be done.
Louisa: We saw a shiny green beetle with some red on it and a horn in the middle of its head.
Mr. Lane: That was a dung beetle. It lives in the filth of a manure pile, forming a bit of the manure into a ball, which it then buries, later laying its eggs there. What lesson do you draw from my comments, Louisa?
Louisa: Not to tell what I have seen.
Father was cross with my answer. He said that I was impudent and that Mr. Lane was trying to point out that nature is neither pretty nor ugly, but always interesting.
I was glad Abby May was already asleep and did not have to have her afternoon walk spoiled as I did. There do not seem to be as many pleasant days as there were when we first came to Fruitlands.
AUGUST 23, 1843
Every one of us was on his knees yesterday, as if we were all i
n church, but we were digging potatoes and not praying. My knees are sore, and I can’t get all the dirt from my fingernails.
Today we were upright, picking the last of the blackberries. I am sad that there won’t be any more berries to pick until next June. Picking wild berries is my favorite thing. I like it because Mother puts on her sunbonnet and goes out into the woods with me and my sisters. Sometimes, as we did today, we pack a lunch and spend the whole day filling our pails. We sang songs as we picked and recited our favorite poems. Even Abby May picked some blackberries and ended up with her mouth and fingers all purple. I would like to live in the woods like a dryad, sleeping under the sun and moon, wearing flowers in my hair, climbing trees, and living upon wild berries.
AUGUST 23, 1843
We are more happy when we are away from Mr. Lane. Out in the woods I don’t feel his critical eye on me. I am sure he is a very good man, but he is not a pleasant man. The only time I see him smile is when he plays his violin and sings along with it. Music makes him nicer than people do. The difference between him and Father is that Mr. Lane thinks you cannot have happiness unless you spend a lot of time being miserable. Father wishes us to be happy all the time.
We ate the last of the peas yesterday and the beans are dwindling. We still have cabbages and squash and pumpkins, so I guess we will have enough to eat for a while. Father says we can depend on the barley crop to see us through the winter.
Father and Mr. Lane leave tomorrow for New York City to try to interest more people in joining us.
Mother was happier in the woods today than she has been for a long time. She has to work so hard to cook and clean and sew for all of us. She seldom complains, but today on the way home from picking berries she sighed and said she wished she could make a blackberry pie. You cannot make a pie without lard, and lard comes from pigs. So no pie.
I am too old to play with dolls myself, but I helped Lizzie make new clothes for her dolls. She begged me to play at a tea party for the dolls, which I did. We made dandelion tea. I don’t see why we have to be just one age all the time. It would be nice if we could be older sometimes and do just as we liked and then younger and still play with dolls.
SEPTEMBER 3, 1843
William and my sisters and I shucked corn all morning until we were covered head to toe with the sticky corn silk. Afterward we had a game of hide-and-seek among the cornstalks. We were hot from the running and sat on a log with our feet dangling in the river. William told us about England. We asked him if he missed living there. He said in England he had no family but his father. Now, at Fruitlands, we are all his family. I said he could be our brother forever.
In the afternoon we dried herbs: peppermint, rosemary, tansy, parsley, savory, and lavender. My hands smelled so lovely I didn’t wash them for supper.
SEPTEMBER 3, 1843
I was good almost all of today. It is easier to be good if you are busy.
Tonight Father told us how when he was a young man, unable to find work as a teacher, he became a peddler. He sold buttons and thimbles, shaving brushes, combs, scissors, and sewing threads. For five years he traveled all over the South, sleeping in slave quarters and nearly drowning in the Dismal Swamp of Virginia. He entered thousands of homes. Sometimes he was given a cold glass of water. Sometimes the dogs were set upon him. As Father told his story, I thought what a hard life he has had. Still, he is always in good spirits and full of hope. I try to be hopeful as well, but we seem to want for everything. When once a friend asked Mother if our poverty was not difficult for her, she said Father’s tatters were the rags of righteousness. I thought that very beautiful. I mean to work harder and be more cheerful.
SEPTEMBER 6, 1843
Yesterday all the men left the farm, Mr. Palmer and Mr. Bower to Boston and Father and Mr. Lane to New York. Father and Mr. Lane had no money for their travel, but they said they would board the boat in Boston and offer to give a lecture to the passengers in exchange for their passage. Mother had hoped they would change into their suits, but they said it was well that the rest of the world should see them in their linen tunics and trousers, the better to understand their purpose. William went with them.
Just at dark we had a very bad thunderstorm. Before the storm Mother and my sisters and I got in the barley harvest.
SEPTEMBER 6, 1843
Yesterday, before everyone left, Mother asked Father, “Bronson, shouldn’t the barley be brought into the barn before you go?”
“The barley can wait until we return, my dear. What is of foremost importance now is to bring new people into our little experiment. We must spread the happy word. The barley is all cut, and we will only be gone a few days.”
“But if it should rain?” Mother asked.
Mr. Lane looked up into the sky and said, “There will be no rain.” I do think Mr. Lane believes he can make the rain come or go as he pleases.
Father said, “We must do our duty and trust to Providence.”
The sun shone all day yesterday, and Mother said after we weeded the carrots and cabbage we might have a holiday. I made up a play about an enchanted island like Shakespeare’s The Tempest. We made a boat out of an old wooden box and shipwrecked it on the bank of the river. Anna was Prospero and the Prince, Lizzie was Miranda, and I was Caliban and looked as ugly and frightening as I could. Abby May, with her fairy looks, made a fine Ariel and took great delight in pinching me and making me fetch and carry.
In the evening we all took our dinner outside and had a picnic.
This morning the sun disappeared, and all across the sky gray clouds were bumping into one another. The sun shone behind the clouds and lit their edges, so at first they were very pretty. In the afternoon the clouds turned black. Swords of lightning were thrust out of the sky followed by rumbling thunder. Mother ran in and out of the house, looking first at the sky and then at the barley lying upon the ground.
“If the rain falls on the barley it will rot, and we’ve no other crop to depend upon for food this winter,” she said. She turned to us. “Girls, bring every basket in the house here. And quickly.”
Lizzie, Anna, and I ran from room to room tumbling papers and firewood and sewing out of baskets, snatching them up and running with them to Mother. Even Abby May dragged a basket to the porch.
Handing the baskets out, Mother led us into the field. “We must be as quick as we can, girls. The barley is all that lies between us and starvation this winter.” We flew up and down the rows gathering the sheaves of barley, piling them into our baskets, and running with them to the granary. Back and forth we ran, unmindful of the flashing and roaring over our heads. We bumped into one another, we tripped, we fell, the sheaves scratched our hands, and the barley got in our hair and down the necks of our dresses and itched. By the time the first drops of rain fell, we had saved a good part of the crop.
Mother hugged us all and told us our efforts had saved us from starving. I am not very fond of barley, but I am even less fond of starving, so I took satisfaction in our afternoon’s work. I said, “Father told us Providence would provide.”
Mother smiled at us. “Luckily, He had five helpers.”
SEPTEMBER 14, 1843
We have had three days of rain, so I have been reading. There is nothing I like so well as to curl up in the attic with a book while the rain dances upon the roof and slides down the window. I will put down some of my favorite books. The first is The Pilgrim’s Progress. I think the burden I carry of selfishness and thinking only of myself is very like the burden Christian carries on his journey past the Hill of Difficulty and the Valley of Humiliation to the Celestial City. The next is The Vicar of Wakefield. Everyone in the book has faults as I have, but in spite of the fact that Dr. Primrose loses all of his money and is thrown into prison, it has a happy ending. Maybe I will, too.
SEPTEMBER 14, 1843
Father says that we must read to find characters whom we wish to imitate. Though Christian and Dr. Primrose are such characters, I must confess that I like villains
just as well. It really makes you want to turn the pages when you are hoping that something bad will finally happen to evil people.
Today on my paper scrap I wrote, “If sharing all we have with one another is so important, shouldn’t Anna be made to let me have her room to myself sometimes?”
Father said I should be thinking of what I could share with others and not what I wished others to share with me. I let Anna wear my best blue ribbon around her hair.
SEPTEMBER 28, 1843
Now that our berries and most of our vegetables are gone, we were happy to receive several barrels of apples. Mother wishes to get more maple sugar so that she can begin to make applesauce again, but Mr. Lane says that self-denial is the road to a spiritual life. He insists we eat our applesauce unsweetened. Mother said there must be more to life than doing without everything that might give one a little pleasure. A compromise was agreed upon. Mother is to use just a very little maple sugar.
SEPTEMBER 28, 1843
Everyone was cross tonight because of the applesauce discussion. Even Mother was cross. She says we are too much in one another’s pockets. We see the same faces at all our meals and hear the same complaints. Mother must keep house for everyone, yet she has little say in decisions. I saw today that she meant for once to have her way. Since she is the one to measure the maple sugar, we can be sure the applesauce will be sweet.
When I was outside this morning, I noticed how still it was. There is no birdsong in the trees. Just like our five departed friends, the birds have all flown away from Fruitlands. The wild asters are gone, and the bracken turned brown overnight with the first frost. A shriveled blackberry dangles like a single earring. A few red leaves show on the maple trees, and the sun goes down early. We all gather around Mother’s lamp in the evening now to read our books. It is cozy with a fire in the fireplace to keep us warm, but we can’t take the warmth of the fire to the attic with us. The window rattles, and the wind blows through the cracks in the walls and the roof. What will it be like in the winter?
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