December.—There was a moonlight sleigh-ride of boys and girls last night, but Grandfather did not want us to go, but to-night he said he was going to take us to one himself. So after supper he told Mr. Piser to harness the horse to the cutter and bring it around to the front gate. Mr. Piser takes care of our horse and the Methodist Church. He lives in the basement. Grandfather sometimes calls him Shakespeare to us, but I don’t know why. He doesn’t look as though he wrote poetry. Grandfather said he was going to take us out to Mr. Waterman Powers’ in Farmington and he did. They were quite surprised to see us, but very glad and gave us apples and doughnuts and other good things. We saw Anne and Imogene and Morey and one little girl named Zimmie. They wanted us to stay all night, but Grandmother was expecting us. We got home safe about ten o’clock and had a very nice time. We never sat up so late before.
1855
Wednesday, January 9.—I came downstairs this morning at ten minutes after seven, almost frozen. I never spent such a cold night before in all my life. It is almost impossible to get warm even in the dining-room. The thermometer is 10° below zero. The schoolroom was so cold that I had to keep my cloak on. I spoke a piece this afternoon. It was “The Old Arm Chair,” by Eliza Cook. It begins, “I love it, I love it, and who shall dare to chide me for loving that old arm chair?” I love it because it makes me think of Grandmother. After school to-night Anna and I went downtown to buy a writing book, but we were so cold we thought we would never get back. Anna said she knew her toes were frozen. We got as far as Mr. Taylor’s gate and she said she could not get any farther; but I pulled her along, for I could not bear to have her perish in sight of home. We went to bed about eight o’clock and slept very nicely indeed, for Grandmother put a good many blankets on and we were warm.
January 23.—This evening after reading one of Dickens’ stories I knit awhile on my mittens. I have not had nice ones in a good while. Grandmother cut out the ones that I am wearing of white flannel, bound round the wrist with blue merino. They are not beautiful to be sure, but warm and will answer all purposes until I get some that are better. When I came home from school to-day Mrs. Taylor was here. She noticed how tall I was growing and said she hoped that I was as good as I was tall. A very good wish, I am sure.
Sunday, January 29.—Mr. Daggett preached this morning from the text, Deut. 8: 2: “And thou shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee.” It is ten years to-day since Mr. Daggett came to our church, and he told how many deaths there had been, and how many baptisms, and how many members had been added to the church. It was a very interesting sermon, and everybody hoped Mr. Daggett would stay here ten years more, or twenty, or thirty, or always. He is the only minister that I ever had, and I don’t ever want any other. We never could have any one with such a voice as Mr. Daggett’s, or such beautiful eyes. Then he has such good sermons, and always selects the hymns we like best, and reads them in such a way. This morning they sang: “Thus far the Lord has led me on, thus far His power prolongs my days.” After he has been away on a vacation he always has for the first hymn, and we always turn to it before he gives it out:
| “Upward I lift mine eyes, From God is all my aid; The God that built the skies, And earth and nature made. “God is the tower To which I fly His grace is nigh In every hour.” |
He always prays for the oil of joy for mourning and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.
January, 1855.—Johnny Lyon is dead. Georgia Wilkinson cried awfully in school because she said she was engaged to him.
April.—Grandmother received a letter from Connecticut to-day telling of the death of her only sister. She was knitting before she got it and she laid it down a few moments and looked quite sad and said, “So sister Anna is dead.” Then after a little she went on with her work. Anna watched her and when we were alone she said to me, “Caroline, some day when you are about ninety you may be eating an apple or reading or doing something and you will get a letter telling of my decease and after you have read it you will go on as usual and just say, ‘So sister Anna is dead.’” I told her that I knew if I lived to be a hundred and heard that she was dead I should cry my eyes out, if I had any.