The Diary of a New England Girl

October 17, 1773

Thanksgiving was just wonderfully glorious. Autumn is like a painting of red and gold strokes, and when rare festivity dances in the brisk air, there is an almost palpable joy. 

Isn’t autumn so wonderful? The cozy smokiness of the hearth mingled with the rich smells of herbs and cured meats and aged cheese, and it was most marvelous to sit at that merry banquet.

We had fresh-baked pies and apple cider, and a most delicious stuffed fowl. Grandmother’s precious bilberry-scented candles were brought out and lit. They smelled like the wild berries in the mountain woods, and there was a sweet fragrance of dewed lavender when you smell them closely. 

It was delightful not to have the horribly inelegant reek of tallow in the air.

Today is the most golden of all golden days.

October 27, 1773

I love beautiful words. They give me such a marvelous tingle when I read the words. Beautiful words are like new brass bells. They sing a clear, beautiful melody, and your ears tingles when the merry ringing vibrates in the air.

Today we are reading a very bell-y part of the Bible. Father has a sore throat, so he is resting in the loft, asleep. Mother usually asks one of our neighbors to read, but Mr. Crombie is on a trip to the butchers and Mr. Gardenson has company in his parlor for the afternoon.

In the end, Mother invited Mr. Wright for tea and Bible reading. It is always great fun to have company, and I do like Mr. Wright. He does not laugh when I use fancy words.

Mother baked us a vanilla cake and a strawberry cake, and a pot of sweet ginger tea whistled cheerily in the brass kettle. Julietta brought out our new crock of crabapple preserves.

When tea was over, Mr. Wright read us a psalm. His voice was so mellow and rich and deep. It felt like a soft shaft of sunshine in the woods. Outside, a soft breeze stirred the dancing gold leaves, and a single lonely pansy seemed to dance in the rich afternoon glow. 

November 6, 1773

Pa’s dreadfully angry today, and Mother’s been horrible pale this eerie morning. Indignant shouts of defiance erupt along the usually peaceful streets, and our little hamlet rings with the smothered wailing of little children. The occasional gunshot pierces the bravest hearts with fear.

Father hasn’t told anyone what angered him so. I don’t think Julietta knows either, though she claims she knows. Julietta is awfully arrogant for a scullery maid, I think, but she is quite flattering most of the time. Father's locked up in his study, and he’s sulking. 

We are all trembling with anticipation. I think everybody tonight can agree that sulking is much worse than scolding.  

November 15, 1773

Today, when Father read us the Bible, I wondered if the duties were a type of punishment from God. Father and the other village men believe it is British’s fault, and I hope so too. Still, I think I should repent for not sharing my sugar biscuit the other day. It was such a tasty little morsel though, and so small, I finished it before my conscience could tell me otherwise.

I’m quite sure it wasn’t my fault, but I do feel a weighty bit of guilt. 

November 29, 1773

It's this winter's first snowfall. There's nothing I love so much as the first snowfall. Charlotte says the wonder of snow wears off by mid-winter, and that she longs for spring in a few weeks. I beg to differ though. I think the first snowfall is quite magical. The little snowflakes twirl and pirouette in the winter winds, and the icicles sparkle like broken glass in the chilling moonlight.

December 4, 1773

I went to the marketplace this afternoon. It was awfully chilly, and the sky was a gloomy gray. Our marketplace is by the harbor, and there are light whiffs of sea wind from the stalls. Sweet smells of pastry and gingerbread and yeast cake floated in the air. I bought a dozen quail eggs and two quarts of cow’s milk, and a barrel of molasses. There was a pint of brandy for Father, and a buttermilk biscuit for Charlotte and I to share. It was delicious. 

Mind you, I shared it this time.

December 16, 1773

I am most chilled by what I just saw. I am writing this by candlelight, and the stars are dim out. The sea is green with tea leaves.

It is Mother's birthday on the morrow, and she did so want a wool shawl to wear in these frigid winter months. Charlotte is stitching new slippers for her, so I thought to make a blue English shawl for her cold shoulders.

There were only a few stitches left when the needle broke, but Mrs. Pike sold needles and cloths well into the early morning, and she was a good friend of Mother's. Mrs. Pike gave me the wool for Mother's shawl too.

Mrs. Pike was absent though, and the clerk said she had a high fever and was sleeping. Down the seaside road I went, reasonably deciding to trade for some needles on the dock, where ships filled the stalls with all sorts of jumbled supplies.

What I never expected, though, were the stalls empty and the people amassed together on the wharf, staring at a mob of feathered, painted Injuns catapult precious boxes of tea.

My goodness me.

The dull reflection of the stars glinted in the lapping waves, and as the silent crowd gaped at the men, the puzzled fog in my mind clears. I almost jump at the thought though.

Those men are colonial men. They are protesters, I suppose, against the tea law. The paint on their faces is smudged a little, and the feathers disarrayed. Those men are definitely our men.

December 24, 1773

British troops are coming, British troops are coming. Unruly colonists are angry, British troops are angry. The poem sings itself over and over in my head. We are worried. The men talk of revolution. Mother has always said that they will never do that, but even she is losing faith.

We are all worried.

January 6, 1774

I have become almost used to the song of the muskets. Every day and night, we can hear battle-cries and muskets exploding in the distance. I always shiver to think if one of the muskets hit our men, but the thought no longer keeps me from sleep. The black circles around our eyes are fading, for once. 

But the New England men fall into our dreams. The bloody gore of rotting flesh ooze out onto the cobbled treats.

January 14, 1774

The streets ring with the shouts of defiant men. It still strikes fear into our hearts, but the terror seems dulled. It’s frightening, this strange feeling of dulled fear. It’s rather like a sharp point rubbed too many times by a plank of rough wood. It still hurts, it hurts most horribly, but it doesn’t draw blood.

Outside, the bullets pitter patter on in the dark rain of revolution.