Fruitlands (2 page)

Mr. Wood Abram has joined us. He is a silent, glowering young man who has changed his name from Abram Wood, which is confusing, so I just call him Mr. Wood, for he is as silent as a tree. I asked him why, but for an answer he gave me only a dark look.

The men are busy in the forest cutting wood for the cook-stove. They have planted some fruit trees, and today they began to plow. There was a great argument.

Mr. Palmer, his beard wagging with each word, said, “You can't plow without a team of oxen.”

Mr. Lane shook his head. “We will not begin work by oppressing animals.”

Father agreed. “Surely it is wrong to subjugate animals by hitching them to a yoke.”

Mr. Bower did not give an opinion, for he was in his room growing his spirit.

When it came time to draw the plow, it was yoked to Mr. Lane. After a few hours his back hurt so he could not straighten up.

“It's against my principles,” he told Mr. Palmer, “but
perhaps we will make this one exception. You may go to your farm and bring back your team of oxen.”

Better the oxen's backs than Mr. Lane's! Mother, who was laboring over a hot stove, gave a great sigh and said, “The ox is not the only beast of burden at Fruitlands.”

The men will plant clover and buckwheat to enrich the soil. They will not use manure to fertilize the fields.

Father says, “Such filth would enter our bodies through the crops we grew and would certainly poison us.”

Can Father be right? Anna and I argued about it. Anna says Father would not say it if it weren't true. I said every farm I ever heard of used manure. Surely if what Father says is true, nearly everyone would be lying about dead. Neither Anna nor I would give in, so we ran about in the fields and pulled up grass and sucked the sweet part at the ends of the grass blades and made a daisy chain for Abby's golden curls.

 

J
UNE
10, 1843

Father told us the story of a man who delighted not in accumulating money but in giving it to others. In secret he would put coins on the roadway for strangers
to find. His satisfaction came because he gave pleasure to others without calling attention to his unselfishness. I mean to take this lesson to heart.

Father gave us a length of rope for skipping. He says it is good exercise.

 

J
UNE
10, 1843

I have done an unselfish deed and have not put it in my journal to boast of to Mother and Father, but here in my secret journal. I was making lunch for Anna and Lizzie and myself. There were only a few wild strawberries left. Though I am hungry all the time, having a more substantial frame than Anna and Lizzie, who are more delicately made, I gave the strawberries to them, saying I preferred applesauce. In truth, I hate the applesauce because it's sour. Our store of maple sugar is dwindling, and Mother is not allowed to use white sugar. When you take the applesauce into your mouth, its sourness bites you.

Anna knew how I felt, and it would have been a kindness on her part if she had shared her berries with me. Then I would have done a good deed and received my share anyhow.

Another pilgrim has come to Fruitlands, Mr. Samuel Larnard. Mr. Larnard, who is no more than twenty, once lived for a whole year on crackers and another whole year on apples. He frowned at me when I asked for a second piece of bread. Abby May, who has a fierce appetite, doesn't mind his frowns, and today she reached onto his plate and snatched away a piece of his bread. Father scolded Abby May. Mother put her hand over her mouth so that no one should see her smile.

This afternoon I took Anna and Lizzie off into the woods with me and said we must pretend we were in the banqueting room of a great castle. We pulled up grasses and scattered them around for rushes. A flat stone was our table. I said the chipmunks and squirrels were our great dogs lolling about waiting for us to throw bones from the table. Everyone told what they wanted for the feast. Lizzie said she would have slices of bread with lots of butter, even if butter did come from a cow. I shocked Anna by saying I would have a huge platter of bacon and eggs. Anna said she would have a dish of green beans. I said the dogs wouldn't want any of her leavings. She said they would and that the dogs had green fur and ate only vegetables.

 

J
UNE
21, 1843

Our day begins at five in the morning with a healthful cold bath at the stream. It is very refreshing. Our baths are followed by songs, exercise, and a nourishing breakfast of bread and applesauce. When I complained that the applesauce was sour, Father explained that we must do without white sugar. The white sugar that comes to this country from the West Indies is the product of slaves.

Then it is time for our lessons. Mr. Lane teaches us. Today we had a lesson on not eating meat. He explained that the slaughtering of animals brings out man's cruel nature. We had a little arithmetic and a fine discussion of self-sacrifice, which is Mr. Lane's favorite subject. Mr. Lane helped me to see that I am selfish, thinking little of others. I must be willing to do without so that my soul may be strengthened.

 

J
UNE
21, 1843

Our baths today were the funniest sight you can imagine. First the men bathed in the stream, and when they returned
I went with Mama and my sisters for our baths.

Lizzie asked, “Must I take a bath with frogs?”

Anna complained, “There are fish nibbling at my toes.”

The morning was cold, and Mother just splashed the water on her face and hands and did not go into the river at all.

Yesterday Father gave in and concocted showers for us. A rough wooden frame was placed near the stream and covered with sheets. Anna, Lizzie, and I along with Mother, who held Abby May, stood inside. Father climbed up some wooden steps and poured pitchers of water over us. After a minnow landed on Lizzie's head, Father poured the rest of the water through a sieve. After she was soaped, Abby May was so slippery and squirmed so, Mother could hardly hold her.

Mr. Abraham Everett has come to live with us. He has soft brown eyes and long hair which curls at the ends. He is a fine addition, for he says little and works hard, unlike the others who much prefer talk to work. He has asked me to call him Abraham.

 

J
UNE
24, 1843

Today is Lizzie's birthday. She is eight years old. Anna and I tiptoed out of the attic before Lizzie was awake
to join Mother and William. It was just dawn and the sky was pink at the edges. The air was full of the smell of sweet clover. There was such a chorus of birdsong, I could not help joining in and whistled as loudly as any of the birds. We hung Lizzie's presents on a small pine tree. Even Abby May had a present. She had wrapped up a dozen raisins she had saved from her dinner the night before. My present was a pincushion I had fashioned from a bit of bright blue ribbon Mother gave me. I think it the prettiest thing on the tree.

After breakfast we led Lizzie out into the woods for her surprise. Abraham said he must stay and work and did not go with us. Anna made oak-leaf wreaths for everyone to wear so that we all looked like wood sprites, even Mr. Lane, who wore his wreath cocked on one side of his head. We sang, and Father read a noble poem he had composed. I am sure nowhere in the world were people so happy on this morning as we were.

 

J
UNE
24, 1843

I could not have been more surprised. Mr. Lane played his
fiddle in such a merry way, he did not seem at all like the sour man he is most of the time. Perhaps his fiddle is like my pen when I use it. Perhaps his finer nature shines forth in his music as I sincerely hope mine shines forth in my writing, though I am afraid that is not always true.

Lizzie was delighted with her presents and danced about with pleasure. Lizzie has the best nature of all of us. She is cheerful and never cross. Unlike Anna, she does not show off her goodness.

Mother, who is at her happiest when we are happy, sang in a loud voice. Father stood over us smiling, but I could see he was thinking on some lesson he could make of the celebration so that all our pleasure should not be wasted.

 

J
UNE
30, 1843

We are like bees in a hive, all of us busy at our tasks. Lizzie, Anna, and I are up at daybreak to help Mother prepare breakfast. As we eat, Father improves our minds by reading a passage from some great work. This morning we heard the words of the Quaker William Penn, who said we wash, dress, and perfume our bodies
but are careless of our souls. The body, he said, shall have three or four new suits a year but the soul must wear its old clothes.

With those words ringing in our ears, Anna, Lizzie, and I try to be cheerful in our duties. We clear the table and wash the dishes while Mother begins the laundry. Soon we are all at the scrub board, our arms in suds up to our elbows, while Mother boils the bed linens in the copper kettle to get them spotless. There is no finer sight than white sheets spread over green grass to bleach in the sun. It is like a field of snow in the midst of summer.

Afterward I scour the copper kettle with a teacupful of vinegar and a tablespoonful of salt to make it shine. I smell of vinegar all afternoon.

The men, even William, are in the fields. They have planted three acres of corn, two acres of potatoes, winter wheat, and much barley, which will be our principal food this winter. Apple and pear trees have been planted and mulberry trees as well. I imagine the fruit trees in the spring with their blossoms floating on a blue sky.

Mother and I and my sisters have set out our
kitchen garden. The only thing better than a tub full of suds is a handful of dirt.

 

J
UNE
30, 1843

Abraham helped Mother wring out the sheets. With his long dark hair and great brown eyes and his silent ways, Abraham is mysterious. He is the only one of the men to lend Mother a hand. I think perhaps he is an exiled prince from some far kingdom.

When he thought no one was about, Mr. Palmer went into the kitchen and made bay rum to comb through his whiskers. I glimpsed the recipe, which called for oil of bay, oil of neroli, alcohol, and water.

I made a dreadful mistake today and caused trouble for Mother. “Father,” I asked, “how is it we can use soap when it is made from tallow, which comes from the cow?” No sooner were the words out of my mouth then I saw the horrified look on Mother's face. At once I realized what I had done. As long as nothing was said, Mother might use the soap, but once it had been said out loud that soap required tallow from a cow, all was nearly lost. Luckily Father is first a philosopher and
secondly a friend of cows, for he said, “It would be wasteful and discourteous to the cow to throw away the soap we had already purchased before we aspired to higher ideals.”

Mother breathed a sigh of relief, for she had wisely taken with us a large supply of soap.

Father also gave in when it came time to plant vegetables, letting Mother put base, downward-growing potatoes, radishes, and turnips in along with the squash and beans and peas.

I go out each day to see what seeds have sprouted. I am heartily sick of bread and applesauce. When I look at the bare earth, I imagine fat pea pods and dangles of beans so that my mouth waters. The radishes have already begun to form. Yesterday when no one was looking, I pulled one and ate it, though it was no larger than a kernel of corn. Afterward I was ashamed of my gross appetite, but it is hard to work when you are famished. Even my stomach growls at its hunger.

When I complained to Mother, she gently chided me. “If our hearts are willing, Louy, dear, our stomachs will follow.”

After that I cried and resolved not to complain.

When our work was finished and our lessons done, I went running up and down the hills. No matter how miserable I am, when I run down a hill, I run so fast my misery can't catch up with me.

 

J
ULY
1, 1843

Each morning after our shower we have our singing lesson. Everyone joins in. I wish we might have our breakfast first. I am sure that if my stomach were full, I could sing with a louder voice.

This afternoon I picked a bouquet of field daisies and put them on the table for our supper. After our meals Mr. Lane leads us in an edifying discussion. Today he kindly noticed my daisies and took them as a subject for our talk.

“Louisa has put a vase of flowers on the table,” he said. “Let us think whether the flowers are better plucked and placed in a vase or growing in the field.”

Father: Can we not agree that the field is their natural place?

Anna: When they are growing in the field, they last longer than they do in a vase of water.

Lizzie: But we can't see them in the field. Here they are right before our eyes.

Father: Is it not better that we exercise our limbs
and go into the fields so that we may see the flowers as nature meant us to?

Me: I am very sorry I plucked the flowers. After this I'll leave the flowers where they belong.

I cried and was sorry. It is generous of Mr. Lane to take so much notice of my faults and so help me to improve.

 

J
ULY
1, 1843

There is so little in the way of food on our table that I thought to put daisies there to keep our minds off of our empty plates. As a result so many words fell upon them, the poor flowers withered before our eyes, thus proving Anna's point. Anna always takes Father's side. Mother didn't say anything, but after dinner, when Lizzie picked some orange hawkweed and put them with my daisies, Mother smiled.