The Jimmyjohns, and other stories

by Abby Morton Diaz

“But, if I am going to tell the story,” continued the old lady, suddenly raising her voice, and sitting straight in her chair, “there is something to be done first, so that we may seem to see just how they lived in those days. For instance, carry out the furniture, and the stove, pictures, carpet (make believe, you know); then tear the house down, leaving only this one room, and let this one room pass for that one-roomed hut. But knock away lath and plaster: the walls must be made of logs; the same overhead. Cut square holes for windows, and hang wooden shutters inside (one of the square holes may have four small panes of glass); cover the others with oiled paper (there was no glass made in this country then). Let a stone chimney run up through the logs overhead at one end; and at the other end a ladder, leading to a loft: the fireplace must be very large. And now, to furnish the hut, bring in a bed, a meal-chest, a large, heavy clothes-chest, a spinning-wheel, a bench or two, and a few chairs. Can you see that hut now?”

“And the stumps!” cried some of the listeners, who knew the whole story.

“Yes, dears,” said the old lady, looking pleased, “and some stumps of trees, sawed off short, for the children to sit on.

“There was one house beside in the valley, and only one, and that belonged to a man named Moore. It stood nearly an eighth of a mile off in that direction” (pointing). “Four miles off in that direction” (pointing the opposite way), “at the Point, called then Mackerel Point, there were some dozen or twenty houses, a store, and a mill. There was no road between here and the Point: there was only a blind pathway through the woods. Those woods reached hundreds and hundreds of miles.

“When Mr. Bowen had lived in this country a little more than a year, his wife died, leaving three children,—Philip, not quite eleven years old; Nathaniel, six; and Polly, three: and to take care of these children, and to keep his house, he hired a young girl named Florinda LeShore, who came over from England as servant in some family. This Florinda was born in France; but she had spent the greater part of her life in England. She was only fifteen years old,—rather young to take the care of a family. There were so few whites in this country then, however, that Mr. Bowen was glad to get even a girl fifteen years old. I suppose he little thought she would be the means of saving the lives of two of his children.

“Florinda hired out to Mr. Bowen some time in November. On the 29th of December, as Mr. Bowen and Mr. Moore were saddling their horses to go to the store for provisions, word came that they must set out immediately for a place about fifteen miles off, called Dermott’s Crossing, to consult with other settlers as to what should be done to defend themselves against the Indians; for there were reports that in some neighborhoods the Indians were doing mischief.

“So the two men turned their horses’ heads in the direction of Dermott’s Crossing. It was woods most of the way; but they knew the general direction of the bridle-path, and thought they should make good time, and be back by noon of the next day. Florinda baked corn-meal into thin cakes, and put the cakes and some slices of bacon into the saddle-bags along with corn for the horses. The men were to return by way of the store, and bring provisions.

“Two days and two nights passed, and they had neither come, nor sent any message. By that time there was not much left to eat in either house. Florinda and the children slept both nights at Mrs. Moore’s. Mr. Bowen said it would be better for them to sleep there. He did not fear any actual danger (the Indians in this neighborhood had never been troublesome at all): still, in case any thing should happen, Mrs. Moore’s house was much the safer of the two. It was built of heavy timbers; and its doors were oak, studded with spikes. The Indians never attacked a strong house like that, especially if it were guarded by a white man with fire-arms. Mrs. Moore was a feeble woman. She had two little children; and her brother was then living with her,—a young man named David Palmer, at that time confined in doors on account of having frozen his feet badly.

“On the second morning, Philip begged Florinda to let him take his hand-sled and go to the store and get some meal and some bacon for themselves and Mrs. Moore. Florinda felt loath to let him go. It was a long distance: there was snow in the woods, and no track. But Philip said that he wasn’t afraid: the oldest boy ought to take care of the family. And at last Florinda said he might go: indeed, there seemed no other way; for, unless he did, they might all starve, especially if there should come on a heavy snow-storm.

“Philip had a hand-sled made of barrel-staves. He took this hand-sled, and took a shovel to dig his way through the open places where the snow would be drifted. Mrs. Moore had him start from her house, because she wanted to be sure he was well wrapped up. She, as well as Florinda, felt badly about his going. There was danger that he would lose his way; and there were other dangers, which neither of them liked to speak of. He left home in good spirits, about nine o’clock in the morning, on the thirty-first day of December, promising to be back before evening.