At the close of the entertainment she heard him ask, “Who wrote that composition?”
Her teacher replied, “Your daughter, sir.”
It was the proudest moment of Harriet’s life. When this little academy student became a woman she wrote a book which set the whole world to thinking of the evil of slavery. It was Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Harriet Beecher was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, June 14, 1811. Her father had only a country parson’s meagre salary to provide for the wants of eleven children. What a father he was—grave and serious enough in the pulpit, but full of fun and enthusiasm at home. It was mere play for Harriet and the boys to pile wood, when their father superintended.
Harriet was very rich in sisters and brothers. She loved them all dearly, especially the merry, energetic big sister, Catherine, and the chubby little boy two years younger than she, Henry Ward Beecher, who grew up to be a famous minister.
Little Harriet had only a sweet memory of her mother who had died when she was a small child. Wherever she went, she was told of her mother’s beautiful life. It made her very happy to know that she had a mother whom everyone loved.
There were no expensive toys in the Beecher family, but Harriet was well content without them. She played with her glass-eyed wooden doll and a set of cups and saucers made by her own hands out of codfish bones. In the woodpile she found treasures in the moss and lichens on the logs. From them she fashioned little pictures using the moss for green fields, sprigs of spruce for the trees, and bits of glass for lakes and rivers.
Some of Harriet’s happiest hours were spent curled up in a corner of her father’s study, surrounded by her favorite books. It was a peaceful, restful place, she thought. She liked to glance up at her dear father as he was writing or thinking over his sermons. She enjoyed looking at the friendly faces of the books on the shelves. Very few of them, however, were books that she could understand.
One day while rummaging in a barrel of old sermons in the attic, Harriet came upon a copy of the Arabian Nights. How she and her brothers pored over its pages! Another precious treasure discovered in a barrel was Shakespeare’s play, The Tempest.
Harriet’s delight in stories was satisfied in another way. Every fall it was the custom to make enough apple sauce to last for the winter. It took a whole barrelful for the big Beecher family. All the little fingers were pressed into service to peel or quarter apples. Mr. Beecher would then ask who could tell the best story. As the apples bubbled and hissed in the big brass kettle, story after story went around. Mr. Beecher, himself, recited scenes from Sir Walter Scott’s novels, which were then new.