to, because her mind appeared somewhat bled, and she took just one stitch to my ten. “Slowness comes from God, hurry from the devil,” she said, when we had to wait for her to finish before we could roll. Then she examined her stitches and pronounced hers the smallest of all. Self-praisedoes not go far here, however, and no one was as taken with Jennie Kate as she was with herself. With her fine house and furniture, she thinks she is grand and mighty, when all she is is lucky. Even her baby, called “Piecake,” ignored her, playing instead with Joybell, who ran her little fingers over the baby’s face, both of them laughing. I think it is a shame Joybell cannot see what a beautiful child she is, but blindness will keep her from being vain. That being the case, I suppose it’s a pity so many of us were born with sight.
I gave Jennie Kate the Ducks and Duckling quilt I made for Piecake, but she did not seem to care for it.
“Tokens of affection are always much appreciated, but why did you make it of that bright color?” asks she.
It was no token of
my
affection, but I did not say so. “I thought it would cheer you.”
“It cheers me,” says dear old Mrs. Kittie, who then launched into the latest letter from her soldier correspondent. She never answered him, and he has written twice more, once proposing to visit after he is mustered out. So she was forced to reply, writing that she was to be married as soon as her intended got out of the jailhouse, where he had been locked up for horsewhipping a man who had insulted her. “He didn’t really insult me,” Mrs. Kittie wrote. “He only wished me good morning, but my fiance is a big, mean man who is crazy jealous.” She added she was all but certain the injured man would walk again, so no harm done. And she hoped the soldier would visit, because she’d always wanted to meet a man who would stand up to her intended.
Nealie stayed behind after the others, to wait for her husband, who arrived in due time with his brother. Only Nealie and me were in the yard, and she climbed up on the horse in front of Mr. Frank Smead. Mr. Samuel Smead told them to go on ahead and he would catch up. Something was wrong with his saddle, he said. I do not think he fooled anyone, me most of all, but Nealie and her husband agreed, and they cantered away.
“What is the matter with your saddle?” I teased, as Mr. Smead made no move to remove it or to refasten the straps.
He cocked an eyebrow and looked around. “Where are your two swimming companions?”
I turned as red as a maple leaf. “You are not a gentleman.”
“Never said I was. And I don’t believe you are a lady, either. But you sure are a pretty girl.” At that, he gripped my arms and pulled me to him and kissed me. I would have slapped him, despite his threat of last summer, but he held my arms tight.
“You have no right,” I hissed. I was mad as a yellow jacket.
He just laughed at me. “I take any right I please. Besides, you wanted me to kiss you. Now, don’t deny you liked it.” He tightened his grip on my arms.
Well, I didn’t like it, but I was a little afraid of Mr. Smead, so I cocked my head and said, “Oh la, Mr. Smead.” At that, he let go of me. I knew better than to smack him.
“Come down to the creek with me.”
“I will not.”
“Tomorrow, in the early afternoon. I’ll be waiting for you.” When I did not reply, he said, “You mind me, now.”
He frowned when I wouldn’t answer, and I was afraid he would take my arms again, so I said, “There’s Mother Bullock.” There wasn’t, but he spun around to look, and I took my leave. By the time he realized I had tricked him, I was halfway to the house.
Mr. Smead presumes too much, and if he comes around tomorrow, he will wait all day, for I won’t be there. I will teach him not to trifle with
Your sister,
Alice Keeler Bullock
October 16, 1863. P.S. I wonder if the presumptuous Mr. Smead is at the creek waiting for me. I would check
I gave Jennie Kate the Ducks and Duckling quilt I made for Piecake, but she did not seem to care for it.
“Tokens of affection are always much appreciated, but why did you make it of that bright color?” asks she.
It was no token of
my
affection, but I did not say so. “I thought it would cheer you.”
“It cheers me,” says dear old Mrs. Kittie, who then launched into the latest letter from her soldier correspondent. She never answered him, and he has written twice more, once proposing to visit after he is mustered out. So she was forced to reply, writing that she was to be married as soon as her intended got out of the jailhouse, where he had been locked up for horsewhipping a man who had insulted her. “He didn’t really insult me,” Mrs. Kittie wrote. “He only wished me good morning, but my fiance is a big, mean man who is crazy jealous.” She added she was all but certain the injured man would walk again, so no harm done. And she hoped the soldier would visit, because she’d always wanted to meet a man who would stand up to her intended.
Nealie stayed behind after the others, to wait for her husband, who arrived in due time with his brother. Only Nealie and me were in the yard, and she climbed up on the horse in front of Mr. Frank Smead. Mr. Samuel Smead told them to go on ahead and he would catch up. Something was wrong with his saddle, he said. I do not think he fooled anyone, me most of all, but Nealie and her husband agreed, and they cantered away.
“What is the matter with your saddle?” I teased, as Mr. Smead made no move to remove it or to refasten the straps.
He cocked an eyebrow and looked around. “Where are your two swimming companions?”
I turned as red as a maple leaf. “You are not a gentleman.”
“Never said I was. And I don’t believe you are a lady, either. But you sure are a pretty girl.” At that, he gripped my arms and pulled me to him and kissed me. I would have slapped him, despite his threat of last summer, but he held my arms tight.
“You have no right,” I hissed. I was mad as a yellow jacket.
He just laughed at me. “I take any right I please. Besides, you wanted me to kiss you. Now, don’t deny you liked it.” He tightened his grip on my arms.
Well, I didn’t like it, but I was a little afraid of Mr. Smead, so I cocked my head and said, “Oh la, Mr. Smead.” At that, he let go of me. I knew better than to smack him.
“Come down to the creek with me.”
“I will not.”
“Tomorrow, in the early afternoon. I’ll be waiting for you.” When I did not reply, he said, “You mind me, now.”
He frowned when I wouldn’t answer, and I was afraid he would take my arms again, so I said, “There’s Mother Bullock.” There wasn’t, but he spun around to look, and I took my leave. By the time he realized I had tricked him, I was halfway to the house.
Mr. Smead presumes too much, and if he comes around tomorrow, he will wait all day, for I won’t be there. I will teach him not to trifle with
Your sister,
Alice Keeler Bullock
October 16, 1863. P.S. I wonder if the presumptuous Mr. Smead is at the creek waiting for me. I would check
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