Fruitlands by Gloria Whelan Page A

Anna walked alongside the wagon. Mr. Lane is to teach us all how we are to improve ourselves. I watched him stride along behind the wagon, his head up, his chin out, proud of walking while others rode. He did not look like a man who thought he needed improvement.
    Anna, who is twelve, two years older than I am, and much better than I, plodded along beside him. Toward the end, Anna’s boots and skirts were all muddy, and her wet hair hung down like strands of seaweed. Giving me one of his disapproving looks, Father told Anna he was proud of her unselfishness in walking. I seem never to be able to please Father.
    Because Father named our new place Fruitlands, I had hoped there would be an orchard, but there are only a few ancient apple trees. This is troubling, for fruit is to be the greater part of our diet. Still, a woods lies nearby and a gentle stream. Perhaps I will find an escape there from Mr. Lane’s hard lessons.
    I am not alone in my worries over our new life. Though she tried to hide them, there were tears in Mother’s eyes as she saw all that needed doing to make our new home liveable.
    Anna, Lizzie, and I sleep in the attic, which is dusty and dark and full of cobwebs and spiders. I helped Anna open the two small windows, for the attic was musty smelling as if it had been closed off for years. The ceiling is so low, we kept bumping our heads. When it grew dark, I made up a story for Anna and Lizzie about a fair maiden who was locked up in the attic because she refused to marry an evil old man. I saidthe creaking we heard was the maiden’s ghost looking for a way to escape. Lizzie said we must leave the door open for the maiden, but I said the evil old man had put a spell on the attic. He set the spiders to weave magic webs so the maiden couldn’t escape. If she tried, the cobwebs would wrap round her and smother her.
    There was so much to do yesterday that none of the bedsteads were put up, so that we had to sleep on the floor. Though all my bones ached, I rejoiced in the thought of Mr. Lane stretched out on the hard boards. Lizzie would not sleep by herself but crept next to me, saying she had heard the maiden sigh. I tossed and turned. Anna slept very well, which is a sign of a clear conscience.
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    J UNE 3, 1843
    We were up early to explore our new home. All I see is a large old house on a hill with acres of woods and meadow and, close by, the Still River. Father sees what the future will bring. He took Mother and me and my sisters outside and told us the name of the hill on which our house rests. The name is Wachusett, an Indian name.
    Father is very tall with noble features and flowing locks. As he stood there telling us of his dream for Fruitlands, I was sure that others hearing of our way of life will be eager to join us. We shall build cottages for them on the hill. There are springs nearby. Father says the springs will be turned into fountains to cascade down the hill so that each cottage will have its own water.
    He swept an arm over the meadow where cattle once grazed. “That is where we will grow our crops,” he said. “Over there we will plant an orchard with pear, apple, cherry, and peach trees.”
    While Father spoke, all that he described was before my eyes, as real as if it were there. Mother and my sisters and I joined hands with Father. I am sure that this time Father’s dream will come true.
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    J UNE 3, 1843
    How I miss my dear little room in Concord. My back was sore from sleeping on the floor. There was nothing but apples and water for breakfast, and my stomach groans with hunger.Abby May had a temper fit because she wasn’t allowed milk, and Mother told her a story of a dear little calf who needed the mother cow’s milk.
    I try very hard to believe in Father’s dreams as strongly as he does. I think him brave to keep dreaming, for he has had many bitter disappointments. I cannot forget how the school he started in Boston ended in