JULY 6, 1843
The truth is I did more than stick my foot in the stream. I hiked up my skirts and waded in it. All the while I was thinking of dear Henry Thoreau. On such a day as this, had we still been living in Concord, I would have been in his company. Though he is a man who prefers the companionship of a woodchuck to that of a human, he allowed me to come along with him on his walks, naming the flowers as we walked. He would give a low, secret whistle, and crows would come to him and feed from his hand. It was as natural for him to walk down the middle of a river as it was for him to walk along a path. He would declare, “I am in the same bathtub as the muskrat.”
Anna and I went to Henry’s school in Concord, but I learned more by following him along on his walks. He is not a handsome man; rather, with his long nose, some would consider him ugly. Yet his eyes are very fine and his manner so amusing, there is no one in whose company I would rather be.
Thinking of his walks in the river, I hiked up my skirts and waded in the stream, eating mouthfuls of watercress as I went. The current of the river made the sand slip out from under my toes. Bright-red cardinal flowers bloomed along the bank. A turtle pulled in its head and wouldn’t look at me. A heron waded just ahead, its cruel beak ready to spear any poor frog that happened in its way.
I had meant to keep to the shallows and hold my pantaloons clear of the water, but there was so much to see, I forgot to take care. I had to lay my pantaloons and tunic in the sun to dry while I hid in the bushes.
It was the best day I have had since we came to Fruitlands. Mother tells me that I am a part of a glorious experiment, but I wish someone else had tried it all out before to see if living as we do would really work.
JULY 8, 1843
We girls went with Mother to visit the Shakers who live nearby. Mother wishes to purchase a few yards of the fine linen they weave. The Shakers broke away from the Quaker church. All I know of them is that they dance and sing and shake away their sins.
There was no shaking when we visited their house, but only a quiet, polite welcome. The women wear poke bonnets and the men wide-brimmed hats. Mother whispered that she had never seen so spotless a house. There were no ornaments set about to prettify the rooms, only those things needful for everyday living. Yet with nothing fancy on which to feast your eyes, the simple well-made lines of the chairs and tables were pleasant. They have wooden pegs on the wall on which to hang their chairs. With all the chairs fastened to the wall, sweeping the room must be an easy task.
There are seed packets for sale and dried herbs to cure every kind of ailment. There were lovely-smelling packets of lemon balm, angelica, and lavender and bottles of rosewater.
Mother marveled over the cleverness of their bathtub. It is on the second floor, directly over the big wood stove in the kitchen. The tub is filled with water and the water left to warm from the heat of the stove. I will think of the arrangement this winter when we take our shower baths.
On one wall was hung the motto of the Quakers: “Hearts to Pray With; Hands to Work With.” I mean to try to make it my own motto.
When we came home, Mother set us all to work so that we might follow the example of the Shakers’ spotless home. Though it took all afternoon, everything shines to Mother’s liking. Father says would not our time have been better spent in some effort to rub away the dust that has settled inside of our heads.
JULY 8, 1843
The Shakers were very kind to us, but I do not think they live as married men and women usually do. All the men live in one part of the house and all the women in another. Also, there was a ladder and a platform in the yard to aid the women in climbing onto a horse so that they would need no help from a man. It is against the Shaker rules for a woman or a man to touch one another. Is that not a strange rule? I asked Mother where Shaker babies would come from. She said the Shakers took in orphans.
Mother gave her shoes to the Shaker cobbler to have a new sole put on. It is to be a secret, for the sole must be leather. Mother dreads having to do her work in canvas shoes. For myself I keep my shoes from wearing out by going barefoot, but my feet won’t stop growing, and now I have trouble squeezing into my shoes.
After the cleaning was done, I made up a game about the Shakers. William and I wore beards made from yarn and played the part of the men. Lizzie and Anna were the women and wore sunbonnets. We danced and whirled about and shook to get rid of our sins. It must not have worked, for I was soon in trouble. Father said he was much displeased at my game, for it was sinful to make fun of the beliefs of others.
I meant it in good fun, for I was truly impressed with the little community and thought their home very pleasant. It is a great weakness in me that I am not serious enough and make fun of everything. Yet I never mind when others make sport of me, and I like to join in the fun.
JULY 12, 1843
This morning Father repaired the house and the barn. He is as fine a carpenter as anyone. In the afternoon he left off his repairs and built a little hut in the woods of twisted branches and gnarled wood. It looks like elves live there. Father is so clever with his hands, he has often bartered his skills for food and shelter.
Mr. Hecker arrived today. We are pleased to have a new member of our family.
JULY 12, 1843
Of all the men who are a part of our family I like Abraham best. He helps Mother with the laundry and in kneading the bread dough. I believe Mr. Lane looks down upon him for doing women’s work, but Mother is grateful.
Abraham’s is a sad story. He was once confined to an asylum by his greedy relatives who wanted to get at his property. It seems odd to me that after such an experience, he would believe that men could be made perfect. At least with his helping ways he is more perfect than many I could name.
Bugs have appeared on the potato plants. Mr. Hecker and Mr. Palmer would have us pick them off of the plants and drop them into a can of kerosene. Father and Mr. Lane say that is cruel. They say we must collect them and take them across the river. It takes twice as long to capture them and place them into a box so they can’t escape. Mr. Hecker says it is foolishness. Father says Mr. Hecker does not understand our purpose at Fruitlands.
I doubt Mr. Hecker will remain. He doesn’t get along with Father. The suggestions he made were turned aside. I heard him say Father thought too well of himself. Father, he said, could never pray, for he believed no one superior to himself. However, Mr. Hecker immediately went to work in the field. He left the bugs to us, but I am sure I saw him squish one between his thumb and finger.
JULY 14, 1843
Though it is summer we still have lessons. We meet each morning in the small dining room, where a bust of the Greek teacher Socrates looks down upon us with a cross expression on his face. There is also a globe of the world. William joins us, and Mr. Lane and Father are the teachers. Father says that children are born with a great deal of knowledge. The job of the teacher is not to impart knowledge but to arouse the conscience. This comes about by the questions which are put to us. “What is our idea of goodness?” “How do we know when we have done a bad thing?” “What is our task here on Earth?”
Sometimes Mr. Bower, Mr. Palmer, Mr. Wood, and Abraham join in our discussions, which become very lively. I am aware of how little I have to contribute to such talks. I am sure Father is right. Somewhere inside me I have the answers to his questions, but I am not very good at finding them. And I can’t find the answers to long division at all.
JULY 14, 1843
I do not see that I will ever be able to keep simple accounts, for no one but Mr. Lane seems to feel arithmetic of any value. Father never wishes to discuss numbers. When Mother brings them up to say we have no money, Father tells her he cannot be bothered with such things. Perhaps if Father knew a little more about sums, he would understand why we are so poor.
Mr. Lane has spent all of his money to pay for Fruitlands and to keep us fed and clothed. I have seen him sit by himself and go over the account books with a worried look. His money has bee
n used up. Yet we still have urgent needs. I can’t help wondering how we will meet them. Perhaps Mr. Lane wishes to be sure that although our father knows nothing of numbers, his children will, for Mr. Lane takes time in our lessons for the doing of sums.
Lizzie is good-natured and listens patiently to all the questions that Father puts to us. Anna tries hard to give the correct answers, but sometimes when the questions are difficult she pleads a headache and slips away. I say what comes into my head and know at once it is a foolish answer. I wish I could learn to keep my silence.
After our lessons it is a pleasure to put on my sunbonnet and go out to weed the garden. With what vengeance I pull up the weeds! With what vigor I ply the hoe! I learn little during lessons, but the sitting still makes me a good laborer when at last I am freed.
JULY 16, 1843
Today we are busy in the house and in the fields, for Mr. Emerson is coming to visit Fruitlands. Just as Mr. Thoreau is my best friend, Mr. Emerson is a best friend to Mother and Father. He is very wise and has given us money for our experiment here. We are all anxious for his good opinion of Fruitlands.
JULY 16, 1843
I have heard Mr. Lane fussing about money. William says his father has spent all he had on Fruitlands, and he doesn’t have any more. It is the same old story. We are to be impoverished once more. Father thinks it is shameful to work for wages, and he will not do it. This fall Mother will have to write to our grandfather or our uncle to beg for money. She has done it so often, she would rather die than do it again. I know she does it only to put food in our mouths. It makes me feel bad, but I don’t see how we are to stop eating. We have enough from the garden to get through the summer but not enough for the winter.
That is the reason we all worked so hard to make Fruitlands look attractive to Mr. Emerson. He believes in Father’s dream, but he likes his roast mutton and beef and his puddings. He would not sit down happily to a dinner of beans and peas. He would rather help us with money than live with us.
When he arrived, Mr. Emerson greeted us with enthusiasm. He is a tall man, and so thin he would hardly make a shadow. Like Henry Thoreau he has a large hawklike nose. His blond hair falls over his forehead, and his keen blue eyes miss nothing.
His visit began with a trip through the house. He was much taken with the library and all of Mr. Lane’s books. In the upstairs he asked, “Where do the girls sleep?” Father waved his hand in the direction of the attic stairway, saying we had “spacious quarters” there. In truth we cannot walk upright in most of the attic, and the heat in the summer nights is beyond anything. Also spiders remain.
It was the same in the fields. Mr. Lane referred to the small sticks of trees they have planted as “the orchard.” Father, sweeping his hand in the direction of the fields, spoke of the “bounteous harvest” that would feed us in the fall. Though there is much barley planted, I don’t believe there is enough wheat for many loaves of bread, and even if there were, where would we get the money to have it ground into flour at the mill? Still, I truly think Father believed all he said.
Father sees a different world from the one we see. His eyes are bigger and his mind is larger. He can put apples on a bare twig and fill an empty field with golden wheat. While I wonder how I can keep my temper, Father sees a whole universe where everyone loves everyone else. I am very proud of him when he talks to Mr. Emerson of how our accomplishments at Fruitlands will help the world be better. I am glad I am a part of Fruitlands. I am happy to take the rugs outside and beat out the sand and dirt. I feel like I am cleaning up the whole world.
Mr. Emerson has given money to us to help us survive. I know everyone hopes that Mr. Emerson will tell others how well we are doing here so that new members may join us and bring funds with them. Yet I fear that will not happen, for Mr. Emerson and Mr. Lane were like two dogs circling each other, ready at a moment’s notice to clamp their jaws on each other’s throats. Mr. Emerson confided to Mother that Mr. Lane was a hopeless idealist. Mr. Lane whispered to Father that Mr. Emerson would be nothing more than an observer at the banquet of life.
JULY 18, 1843
In the afternoon I was allowed to dust Mr. Lane’s books. There are nearly a thousand of them. Some are in German, some in Latin and Greek. I read as I dust, but there is no story to cheer you in any of them, only such thoughts as would make you hang your head and sigh a deep sigh. Here is one of the titles: Synopsis Antiquitatum Hebraicarum.
After dinner we had our usual post office.
JULY 18, 1843
At any time during the day we may put our thoughts and questions on a scrap of paper and drop them into a little post office box. After supper Father reads out the scraps of paper. Here are today’s scraps:
From Father: I have noticed that at breakfast there is not the spirit of cheerful friendship that we might wish. Let us all remember that we are here to make a brighter, happier world. We must start the day on the proper note, saying to ourselves the words of the great poet Milton:
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds.
From Mr. Lane: Our dinner plates are overflowing. We must not allow the bounteous harvest from the garden to turn us all into gluttons. Greediness is always to be avoided. The hungry man will always be more alert.
From Lizzie: I hope everyone will keep away from the side porch until the little mice nesting in Mother’s vegetable basket are all grown.
From Mr. Bower: I see no reason why I was forced to go back to my room and put on clothes this morning. In this sweltering weather clothes are the greatest nonsense and interfere with our physical and spiritual health. It is a pity no one listens to me.
From Anna: I am resolved to be more useful and would be happy to take upon myself any tasks that need doing.
From Mr. Wood: Nothing, only a frown and the flash of his dark eyes.
From Mr. Palmer: Someone’s got to start carrying water to the new fruit trees. They’re drying up. The raspberry bushes need pruning. All that singing and talking around the breakfast table won’t get the wheat in before the rain comes.
From William: I don’t see why I always have to have my lessons with the girls, as I know more than they do.
From Mother: The girls worked very hard today to help me with the dusting. Louy dusted all the books, and there are a great many. Anna cleaned the potatoes for storage, and Lizzie polished the furniture with a fine polish which Abraham made for me of linseed oil, beeswax, and turpentine. If I was a little cross at breakfast this morning, it is only that I was up most of the night trying to iron and mend the men’s clothes so that they may do credit to Fruitlands when they go to New York this week. I would wish that all in that city should know of our brave efforts here to make a better world.
From Abraham: Got the south field plowed. Could have used some help.
From Mr. Larnard: I see no need for all this cooking of vegetables. Why not set out a pan of peas, beans, carrots, and onions, and we can eat them in their raw state as we pass by.
From me: I was much impressed with the seriousness of Mr. Lane’s books. I think there would be nothing nicer than to write a book, especially one that everyone would want to read, not like the ones Mr. Lane has on his shelves.
Mother said I was rude, and Father said I was showing ignorance. I cried and apologized to Mr. Lane. I seem always to be apologizing to Mr. Lane.
JULY 24, 1843
Today we said good-bye to Mr. Hecker.
JULY 24, 1843
All was calamity and upheaval. This morning Mr. Hecker announced that he was leaving Fruitlands. We were all very sad and begged him to stay.
He said, “You do not have the Eternal here.”
Mr. Lane asked, “What do you mean?”
Mr. Hecker said, “You think you can do everything without God’s help.” He scowled and added, “There are other things.”
“What things?” Father asked.
“We are pledged to eat fruit, and there is no fruit h
ere.”
Father said, “Trees have been planted and the fruit will come.”
“Not for many years,” Mr. Hecker replied. “And to tell you the truth, Mr. Alcott, you are too high-handed.”
Lizzie, Anna, and I gasped at such words. We had never heard Father criticized to his face and in such a rude manner. Mother glared at Mr. Hecker. Father grew red in the face. I believe there would have been angry words, but Mr. Hecker did not stay to hear them.
After he was gone Mr. Lane looked sad and shook his head. “He wanted more than we had to give him,” he said.
Father was still very angry. “The man is a coward,” he said in a stern voice.
In the evening I walked by the river to get away from Fruitlands, for all the angry words still seemed to be flying about the house like wasps.
It is true I am sometimes critical of Father, but I am sure that is wrong, and I cannot like anyone who finds fault with him.
Instead of increasing, our little family is growing smaller. Who will be next?
JULY 30, 1843
It seems the harder Father tries to make me good, the worse I become. This morning I made a list of all my faults so that I may improve. My faults are: selfishness, losing my temper, and acting without thinking first of the consequences. When I look at the dismal list, I feel bad and don’t know where to start. Anna says I should start with losing my temper because I usually lose my temper with her. Lizzie says maybe I should list my good points as well.
I am beginning to think I have none, for this afternoon I disgraced myself and led my sisters to do that which they should not have done. I most humbly apologized to Mr. Lane.
Mr. Wood Abram left today.
JULY 30, 1843
I said it was all my fault, but it wasn’t fair for William to carry tales to his father. I made up a play for Anna and Lizzie and me to perform. William asked to be in the play, but we sent him away sulking. We couldn’t very well explain to him that I was taking the part of his father, Mr. Lane. In the play I called him Mr. Pain. Anna was Mother and Lizzie was me. When Lizzie tried to pick a flower, I called out in an angry voice, “No, no. That is forbidden!” When Anna pretended to spread butter on a piece of bread, again I cried out, “That is forbidden.” And so it went until Mr. Pain was jumping up and down whenever Anna took a breath and screaming, “That is forbidden!” We were all laughing and having a merry time, Lizzie begging, “Oh please, Mr. Pain, can’t I even take one little breath,” and me as Mr. Pain saying, “That is forbidden. There are tiny flies and fleas flying about in the air, and you might breathe one in and kill it.”