Harriet Beecher Stowe: a biography for girls

by Martha Foote Crow

The auspicious day for the coming of the farmers arrived. It was a jewel of a morning, one of those sharp, clear, sunny, winter days when the sleds squeak over the flinty snow and the little icicles, falling from the trees, tingle along on the glittering crust. The breath of the slow-pacing oxen steamed up like a rosy cloud in the morning sun and then fell back condensed in globes of ice on every hair.

All the children were astir early, full of life and vigor. The boys were at home for the day. There was a holiday at the Academy, for the teacher had been asked to come over to the minister’s to chat and tell stories with the farmers and give them high entertainment. There was enough work for all to do, for the three big boys and for the two sisters. Besides all the rest, there was little Henry Ward, aged three, and Charles, aged but one, to be cared for and kept out of mischief. Eager, lively, little Harriet could take care of herself, and do a great deal of helping besides.

Pretty soon the first load came squeaking up the village street, and the boys clapped their hands and shouted, “Hurrah for Heber!” as his load of magnificent oak, well-bearded with gray moss, came scrunching into the yard.

“Well, Mr. Atwood,” said the Doctor, “you must have had pretty hard work on that load; that’s no ordinary oak, I can tell you.”

And now the loads began to arrive thick and fast. Sometimes two and three, sometimes four and five, came stringing along in unbroken procession. For every load the minister had an appreciative word, noticing and commending the especial points, and the farmers themselves, shrewdest of observers, looked at every pile and gave it their verdict. The loads were of the best, none of your crooked-stick makeshifts. Good, straight, shagbark hickory was voted none too good for the minister.

Before long the yard, street, and the lower rooms of the house were swarming with cheerful faces. Then Aunt Esther began to cut the first loaf of wood-spell cake. The flip-irons were taken out of the fire and thrust into the foaming bowl. The little folks were as busy as bees in waiting on the kind farmers. They handed around the good things to eat, the cider and doughnuts, the cheese and the cake. The teacher and the minister were in the midst of merry chatting circles; their best stories were told, and roars of laughter resounded.

Meantime such a woodpile was arising in the yard as never before was seen in ministerial domains! And how fresh and woodsy it smelt! Harriet eyed it with a view to future plays. There was the black birch whose flavored bark she prized as a species of confectionery. There were also gleaming logs of white birch, from the bark of which she could cut strips for her woodland parchment. Then there were massive trunks of oak affording veritable worlds of supplies for her woodsy palette.

And now the sun was going down. The sleds had ceased to come, the riches of woodland treasure were all in, the whole air was full of a trembling, rose-colored light. All over the distant landscape there was not a fence to be seen, nothing but waving hollows of spotless snow, glowing with the rosy radiance and fading away into purple and lilac shadows. And the evening stars began to twinkle, one after another, keen and clear, through the frosty air, as the children all sat together in triumph on the highest perch of the woodpile.

In the town where the Beechers had their home there were other unique expressions of social feeling calculated to influence the mind of a growing child, as for instance, the Fourth of July, the apple bee, and the sleighing party. But perhaps Thanksgiving Day was the one most noted in the calendar. When this characteristic Yankee festival came around there was again an opportunity for the parishioners to show the grace of generosity toward the minister. In 1818 Dr. Beecher writes to his son at college: “We had a pleasant Thanksgiving dinner and, they say, a good sermon. We had presents piled up yesterday at a great rate. Mr. Henry Wadsworth sent 6 lbs. of butter, 6 lbs. lard, 2 lbs. Hyson tea, 5 dozen eggs, 8 lbs. sugar, a large pig, a large turkey and four cheeses. The governor sent a turkey; Mrs. Thompson, do.; and, to cap it all, Mr. Rogers sent us a turkey!” Under such circumstances as these it is rather fortunate that the Beecher family had a considerable number of mouths to be filled.

Again the kitchen was fragrant with the smell of cinnamon, cloves and allspice which the children were set to pound to a most wearisome fineness in the great lignum-vitæ mortar. Again there was the stoning of raisins, the cutting of citron, the slicing of orange-peel. Again the fire was built up more architecturally than usual and roared and crackled up the wide chimney, brightening with its radiance the farthest corner of the ample room. Then a tub of rosy-cheeked apples, another of golden quinces, and a bushel basket full of cranberries were set in the midst of the circle of happy children who were being led in the ways of industry, sorting and cutting, to the tune of the snapping fire.