Went to the Skolfield barn, prayed, and then with a tackle and much contrivance put my ox cart on the scaffold. I then took the wheels from the axle, and stowed them and the axletree away below. It took me a long time, and was hard work. William and his boy and myself would have done it in ten minutes, but as they thought and said I could not do it, I did. If it had been twenty years ago, I should have got help; but a person situated as I am—in debt, and having to begin life anew—must not show any sign of failure of strength or energy. I did it not for vanity but on calculation, as a duty. Especially is the sin of old age fatal to a minister.... I am now going to treat myself to a little agricultural reading.
Letter to Dr. George P. Jefferds of Bangor, Oct. 24, 1890.
... I am well and can preach and work and do all that I ever could, but I have become deaf so that I cannot do anything in a social meeting.... My people have retained their affection for me as strong as ever. It was a love match at the beginning, and so it has continued; the children and grandchildren have followed suit. I never have regretted going to Harpswell, and I do not regret that I wrote the books; for if I have reaped nothing, I have abundant testimony that I have scattered good seed in virgin soil.... I am more than glad that I learned to farm in my youth, and that I have all these years kept up my habits of labor, that I can do any kind of farm labor and take care of cattle, for otherwise I should not at this time have a place to put my head.
I am writing you to-night before an old-time open fire, and I cut in the woods the fuel which feeds it. I am thankful that deafness is no bar to labor nor to writing. If it were not for the illness of my wife, I believe I should write a book this winter.... I send you with this letter a copy of the Commencement number of the Orient, by which you will see that Bowdoin boys feel their oats and have aspired to govern themselves. May God bless old Jeff, and may his shadow never grow less.
Letter to son, June 1, 1893.
You may be assured it is from no lack of affection or sympathy with you in your mishap that I have not written before, but a complication of circumstances, some of them of a very sad nature, has rendered it impossible. In the first place, I strained my heel cord either by jumping out of the wagon or by wearing a very tight congress boot, and had to limp around for about ten days, but am all right now. Don’t you think, the second night it was done, just as I was going to bed, two men came from Bailey Island for me to attend a funeral the next day at two o’clock. I told them it was impossible as I could with greatest difficulty hobble to the barn. They said there was no minister in town but me, and if I did not go, the person would have to be buried without any service. Upon that I told them to go to John Randall’s and tell him to come over in the morning, and take me to the intervale point where they must meet me with a boat. John came; we rode to the point. John took me in his arms and put me into the boat. When we were across, two men, one on each side, led me to the house; when we got to the doorstep one of them said, “Mr. Kellogg, do you think you will be able to preach?” I replied, “Put me before the people, and the Lord will tell me what to say.” The next morning my foot and leg were swollen to the knee, and I could not get on a rubber boot, but had to wear arctics.... I am all right now, however, and carried a bushel of apples on my back to-day.
I put the harness on the colt this week for the first time since the 10th of last August, the week before I was hurt, and he behaved so well that I had to give him some sugar. I have cleaned him all up, combed his hair and washed his face, and he goes to school every day. He is a strapping great fellow and full of grit.
Letter to son, Dec. 1, 1893.
It is a rainy evening and I take it to write to you. Yesterday was a most lovely day. I went to George Dunning’s to dinner. Frank’s wife gave us a splendid dinner,—turkey, pudding, pies, and fruit, grapes and oranges. Betsy was quite disappointed; she meant to have me, but Frank got the start of her and invited me about the middle of the month. I let Delia go home right after breakfast, and told her I would get my supper. I came home from George Dunning’s about three o’clock, took care of the cattle and got an early supper, and had a long evening alone; that was just what I wanted and was planning for. I never can feel that Thanksgiving Day should be all taken up with eating and merriment. I never spent a happier evening than I did last evening in looking over the year, and in praising God for what He has done for me. I have food, fuel, and clothing, and food for my cattle that have come to the barn in excellent order. Let us be grateful. Gladness is not always gratitude.