LITMIR.BIZ

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and wished her a happy birthday, and gave her my kiss. After breakfast we gave her our presents. I had a moss cross and a piece of poetry for her.

      We did not have any school, and played in the woods and got red leaves. In the evening we danced and sung, and I read a story about "Contentment." I wish I was rich, I was good, and we were all a happy family this day.

      Thursday, 12th.–After lessons I ironed. We all went to the barn and husked corn. It was good fun. We worked till eight o'clock and had lamps. Mr. Russell came. Mother and Lizzie are going to Boston. I shall be very lonely without dear little Betty, and no one will be as good to me as mother. I read in Plutarch. I made a verse about sunset:–

       Softly doth the sun descend

       To his couch behind the hill,

       Then, oh, then, I love to sit

       On mossy banks beside the rill.

      Anna thought it was very fine; but I didn't like it very well.

      Friday, Nov. 2nd.–Anna and I did the work. In the evening Mr. Lane asked us, "What is man?" These were our answers: A human being; an animal with a mind; a creature; a body; a soul and a mind. After a long talk we went to bed very tired.

      [No wonder, after doing the work and worrying their little wits with such lessons.–L. M. A.]

      A sample of the vegetarian wafers we used at Fruitlands:–

Vegetable diet and sweet repose. Animal food and nightmare.		Pluck your body from the orchard; do not snatch it from the shamble.		Without flesh diet there could be no blood-shedding war.
	Apollo eats no flesh and has no beard; his voice is melody itself.		Snuff is no less snuff though accepted from a gold box.

      Tuesday, 20th.–I rose at five, and after breakfast washed the dishes, and then helped mother work. Miss F. is gone, and Anna in Boston with Cousin Louisa. I took care of Abby (May) in the afternoon. In the evening I made some pretty things for my dolly. Father and Mr. L. had a talk, and father asked us if we saw any reason for us to separate. Mother wanted to, she is so tired. I like it, but not the school part or Mr. L.

      Eleven years old. Thursday, 29th.–It was Father's and my birthday. We had some nice presents. We played in the snow before school. Mother read "Rosamond" when we sewed. Father asked us in the eve what fault troubled us most. I said my bad temper.

      I told mother I liked to have her write in my book. She said she would put in more, and she wrote this to help me:–

      Dear Louy,–Your handwriting improves very fast. Take pains and do not be in a hurry. I like to have you make observations about our conversations and your own thoughts. It helps you to express them and to understand your little self. Remember, dear girl, that a diary should be an epitome of your life. May it be a record of pure thought and good actions, then you will indeed be the precious child of your loving mother.

      December 10th.–I did my lessons, and walked in the afternoon. Father read to us in dear Pilgrim's Progress. Mr. L. was in Boston, and we were glad. In the eve father and mother and Anna and I had a long talk. I was very unhappy, and we all cried. Anna and I cried in bed, and I prayed God to keep us all together.

      [Little Lu began early to feel the family cares and peculiar trials.–L. M. A.]

      I liked the verses Christian sung and will put them in:–

      "This place has been our second stage,

       Here we have heard and seen

       Those good things that from age to age

       To others hid have been.

      "They move me for to watch and pray,

       To strive to be sincere,

       To take my cross up day by day,

       And serve the Lord with fear."

      [The appropriateness of the song at this time was much greater than the child saw. She never forgot this experience, and her little cross began to grow heavier from this hour.–L. M. A.]

      Concord, Sunday.–We all went into the woods to get moss for the arbor Father is making for Mr. Emerson. I miss Anna so much. I made two verses for her:–

      TO ANNA.

      Sister, dear, when you are lonely,

       Longing for your distant home,

       And the images of loved ones

       Warmly to your heart shall come,

       Then, mid tender thoughts and fancies,

       Let one fond voice say to thee,

       "Ever when your heart is heavy,

       Anna, dear, then think of me."

      Think how we two have together

       Journeyed onward day by day,

       Joys and sorrows ever sharing,

       While the swift years roll away.

       Then may all the sunny hours

       Of our youth rise up to thee,

       And when your heart is light and happy,

       Anna, dear, then think of me.

      [Poetry began to flow about this time in a thin but copious stream.–L. M. A.]

      Wednesday.–Read Martin Luther. A long letter from Anna. She sends me a picture of Jenny Lind, the great singer. She must be a happy girl. I should like to be famous as she is. Anna is very happy; and I don't miss her as much as I shall by and by in the winter.

      I wrote in my Imagination Book, and enjoyed it very much. Life is pleasanter than it used to be, and I don't care about dying any more. Had a splendid run, and got a box of cones to burn. Sat and heard the pines sing a long time. Read Miss Bremer's "Home" in the eve. Had good dreams, and woke now and then to think, and watch the moon. I had a pleasant time with my mind, for it was happy.

      [Moods began early.–L. M. A.]

      January, 1845, Friday.–Did my lessons, and in the p.m. mother read "Kenilworth" to us while we sewed. It is splendid! I got angry and called Anna mean. Father told me to look out the word in the Dic., and it meant "base," "contemptible." I was so ashamed to have called my dear sister that, and I cried over my bad tongue and temper.

      We have had a lovely day. All the trees were covered with ice, and it shone like diamonds or fairy palaces. I made a piece of poetry about winter:–

      The stormy winter's come at last,

       With snow and rain and bitter blast;

       Ponds and brooks are frozen o'er,

       We cannot sail there any more.

      The little birds are flown away

       To warmer climes than ours;

       They'll come no more till gentle May

       Calls them back with flowers.

      Oh, then the darling birds will sing

       From their neat nests in the trees.

       All creatures wake to welcome Spring,

       And flowers dance in the breeze.

      With patience wait till winter is o'er,

       And all lovely things return;

       Of every season try the more

       Some knowledge or virtue to learn.

      [A moral is tacked on even to the early poems.–L. M. A.]

      I read "Philothea," by Mrs. Child. I found this that I liked in it. Plato said:–

      "When I hear a note of music I can at once strike its chord. Even as surely is there everlasting harmony between the soul of man and the invisible forms of creation. If there were no innocent hearts there would be no white lilies.... I often think flowers are the angel's

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