compromise was agreed upon. Mother is to use just a very little maple sugar.
Â
S EPTEMBER 28, 1843
Everyone was cross tonight because of the applesauce discussion. Even Mother was cross. She says we are too much in one anotherâs pockets. We see the same faces at all our meals and hear the same complaints. Mother must keep house for everyone, yet she has little say in decisions. I saw today that she meant for once to have her way. Since she is the one to measure the maple sugar, we can be sure the applesauce will be sweet.
When I was outside this morning, I noticed how still it was. There is no birdsong in the trees. Just like our five departed friends, the birds have all flown away from Fruitlands. The wild asters are gone, and the bracken turned brown overnight with the first frost. A shriveled blackberry dangles like a single earring. A few red leaves show on the maple trees, and the sun goes down early. We all gather around Motherâs lamp in the evening now to read our books. It is cozy with a fire in the fireplace to keep us warm, but we canât take the warmth of the fire to the attic with us. The window rattles, and the wind blows through the cracks in the walls and the roof. What will it be like in the winter?
Â
O CTOBER 10, 1843
From our hillside we look out to see the trees all around us catch fire with autumn colors. Lizzie and I walked in the woods seeking the prettiest leaf. We could not choose, for one leaf was brighter than the last. We pressed some of the showiest leaves in books, but in a few days their colors will have faded. Though we work hard to make our little family a perfect one,all our months of sacrifice and work are not so fine as the maple tree beside the back porch. And we had nothing to do with that.
Mother sent us to gather butternuts. She said the Indians boiled them to obtain a kind of oil. She means to try to boil some herself. Now that the leaves are beginning to drop, it is easier to discover the butternut trees. We gathered the nuts until our hands were stained brown so that we stopped picking for a while and played at being Indians. There were once thousands and thousands of Algonkian Indians here. They lived much as we do, dwelling along a river and eating corn, beans, berries, and nuts. Though they are gone, Indian names remain: Mt. Wachusett and Mt. Monadnock and our own stateâs name, Massachusetts. A hundred years from now, when we are gone, maybe someone will play at Fruitlands as we play at Indians.
Â
O CTOBER 10, 1843
We had one of our evenings of self-criticism. We do not shoot arrows as the Indians did, but we almost kill one another withwords. I donât like having to criticize myself in front of everyone. It is like telling tales on yourself.
Here are this eveningâs self-criticisms. The interesting thing about them is that there is as much criticism of others as of oneself.
Father: I have not put pen to paper as often as I would wish. This is a great sorrow to me. If some of the others might take on more of my work, I would have time to bestow upon the world more of my valuable thoughts.
Mr. Lane: I regret that I have allowed myself to agree to the use of maple sugar. Mrs. Alcott has made the applesauce so sweet, it is impossible to savor the natural flavor of the apples.
Lizzie: I was so busy dressing my dolls I forgot to set the table tonight, and no one thought to remind me.
Mr. Bower: I regret that I have betrayed my principles by agreeing to the wearing of clothes, which confine the spirit as they confine the body. I do not see why others are so set in their prejudices as to require the constriction of shirts, trousers, and hats.
Anna: I was vain about the dirt from digging potatoes and wasted nearly a half hour in soaking my hands in soapy water and rubbing them with Motherâs butternut oil. It doesseem to me that the digging of potatoes ought to be done by the men, who need not care so much for their hands.
William: I
Â
S EPTEMBER 28, 1843
Everyone was cross tonight because of the applesauce discussion. Even Mother was cross. She says we are too much in one anotherâs pockets. We see the same faces at all our meals and hear the same complaints. Mother must keep house for everyone, yet she has little say in decisions. I saw today that she meant for once to have her way. Since she is the one to measure the maple sugar, we can be sure the applesauce will be sweet.
When I was outside this morning, I noticed how still it was. There is no birdsong in the trees. Just like our five departed friends, the birds have all flown away from Fruitlands. The wild asters are gone, and the bracken turned brown overnight with the first frost. A shriveled blackberry dangles like a single earring. A few red leaves show on the maple trees, and the sun goes down early. We all gather around Motherâs lamp in the evening now to read our books. It is cozy with a fire in the fireplace to keep us warm, but we canât take the warmth of the fire to the attic with us. The window rattles, and the wind blows through the cracks in the walls and the roof. What will it be like in the winter?
Â
O CTOBER 10, 1843
From our hillside we look out to see the trees all around us catch fire with autumn colors. Lizzie and I walked in the woods seeking the prettiest leaf. We could not choose, for one leaf was brighter than the last. We pressed some of the showiest leaves in books, but in a few days their colors will have faded. Though we work hard to make our little family a perfect one,all our months of sacrifice and work are not so fine as the maple tree beside the back porch. And we had nothing to do with that.
Mother sent us to gather butternuts. She said the Indians boiled them to obtain a kind of oil. She means to try to boil some herself. Now that the leaves are beginning to drop, it is easier to discover the butternut trees. We gathered the nuts until our hands were stained brown so that we stopped picking for a while and played at being Indians. There were once thousands and thousands of Algonkian Indians here. They lived much as we do, dwelling along a river and eating corn, beans, berries, and nuts. Though they are gone, Indian names remain: Mt. Wachusett and Mt. Monadnock and our own stateâs name, Massachusetts. A hundred years from now, when we are gone, maybe someone will play at Fruitlands as we play at Indians.
Â
O CTOBER 10, 1843
We had one of our evenings of self-criticism. We do not shoot arrows as the Indians did, but we almost kill one another withwords. I donât like having to criticize myself in front of everyone. It is like telling tales on yourself.
Here are this eveningâs self-criticisms. The interesting thing about them is that there is as much criticism of others as of oneself.
Father: I have not put pen to paper as often as I would wish. This is a great sorrow to me. If some of the others might take on more of my work, I would have time to bestow upon the world more of my valuable thoughts.
Mr. Lane: I regret that I have allowed myself to agree to the use of maple sugar. Mrs. Alcott has made the applesauce so sweet, it is impossible to savor the natural flavor of the apples.
Lizzie: I was so busy dressing my dolls I forgot to set the table tonight, and no one thought to remind me.
Mr. Bower: I regret that I have betrayed my principles by agreeing to the wearing of clothes, which confine the spirit as they confine the body. I do not see why others are so set in their prejudices as to require the constriction of shirts, trousers, and hats.
Anna: I was vain about the dirt from digging potatoes and wasted nearly a half hour in soaking my hands in soapy water and rubbing them with Motherâs butternut oil. It doesseem to me that the digging of potatoes ought to be done by the men, who need not care so much for their hands.
William: I
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