Fruitlands by Gloria Whelan

 
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    J UNE 1, 1843
    We are all going to be made perfect. This day we left Concord in the rain to travel by wagon the ten miles to our new home, which Father has named Fruitlands. The wagon was piled high with our possessions. Father drove the wagon. Mother was beside him holding two-year-old Abby May. Mr. Lane and Anna set us a good example by walking while I sat selfishly in the wagon with Lizzie. Mr. Lane’s son, William, who is twelve, also rode in the wagon, though we had little to do with him.
    The countryside around here is very pretty. Our new house is set on a hill. There is a stream and a wood nearby. In the distance I can just make out Mt. Monadnock stretched out like a sleeping giant. I feel much comforted by so fine a sight.
    There is a snowfall of white syringa blossoms around the house. Their sweet scent, along with the perfume of the lilacs, pours in through the open windows to cheer us.
    Our new home has a small dining room, a library for Mr. Lane’s many books, and a large kitchen for Mother. Above are bedrooms. William is to have his own room. Anna, Lizzie, and I will share the attic. Abby May will be in Mother and Father’s room. The other rooms are for Mr. Lane and the new members we hope to add to our family. The house was built before our Revolution. The floors tip this way and that, and the floorboards squeak and groan when you jump upon them, which Lizzie and I did.
    Father and Mr. Lane are removing us from the imperfect world. By the fine example we all set at Fruitlands, we are to be a means of improving mankind. We will do nothing that might harm our brother animals. We will eat only fruit, vegetables, and grains. Because milk belongs to the cow and her calf, we will drink only water.
    Father says we may eat those things that grow upright, aspiring to the air, such as apples, wheat, andcabbage. We are not to eat base things like potatoes and beets, which grow downward into the dirt.
    When Father visited Mr. Lane in England, Mr. Lane was so impressed with Father’s ideas that he and his son, William, left England to join us. It is Mr. Lane’s generosity that is paying for all of this, but it is Father’s vision that has led us to begin this new life. Father says that each man should live his own life, not as others live theirs. I pray that I can curb my temper and my laziness so that my behavior will be worthy of Father’s high purpose.
    I will put down a record of all that happens, for Father says that a journal is the way to come to know yourself, and it is only by knowing yourself that you are free to become yourself.
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    J UNE 2, 1843
    This is to be my secret diary. Mother says our diaries ought to be a record of pure thoughts and good actions. She and Father often peek into our diaries to see that it is so. Yet Father tells us that we must be honest in our thoughts. I don’t see how thetwo fit together. I am resolved to keep two diaries, one to share with Mother and Father, and this one which shall be my honest thoughts. In the first diary there will be Louy, who will try to be just what Mother and Father would wish. In the second diary there will be Louisa, just as she is.
    I cried at leaving our dear little home in Concord yesterday and all of our friends, especially Mr. Emerson and my great friend, Mr. Thoreau. It was Mr. Emerson who gave Father the money for his trip to England, so Mr. Emerson takes a great interest in Father’s plans. Before we left I overheard Mr. Emerson say about our scheme, “It may go well in the summer, but what of the winter?” His words sent a chill down my spine, for no one is smarter than Mr. Emerson. Even Mr. Emerson agrees to that.
    Our journey was a miserable one. Mother held an umbrella over baby Abbie May, who didn’t mind the trip but played at catching raindrops. It was raining so hard that we smelled like a wagonful of wet dogs. To make room for all of our possessions, Mr. Lane and