Fruitlands by Gloria Whelan Page B

failure. People did not appreciate his advanced method of instructing children. He believed in kindness and discussion instead of the ruler and learning by rote. For that he was criticized and the children taken out of his school. He lost all of his money. Though I was only four, I will never forget the sheriff knocking on the door of the school, carrying away the very desks and pictures on the wall. When the sheriff reached for my favorite picture, Flight into Egypt, I ran at the sheriff, calling out, “Go away, bad man!”
    Father is surely an example for all of us. He does not dwell on his failures but tries again. Mother says this time he will be successful, for his dream is such a pure and good one.
    Anna and Lizzie and I talked of Father’s plans. Anna said, “If they could only hear Father as we did just now, I am sure the whole world would come to Fruitlands.”
    I said, “Mother wouldn’t be able to cook for the whole world.”
    Lizzie said, “Father is like Moses, who led his people to the Promised Land.” Perhaps we will find manna dished out on the meadows of Fruitlands.
    This afternoon I looked about for a place to write my secret journal. I cannot write my secrets while others are watching, for these are private thoughts. It is too stuffy in the attic, so I searched outside. Some distance from the house I found a weeping willow tree. It stands close to the river, and its overhanging branches form a curtain. When I pushed the branches aside, there was a leafy tent I could crawl inside and be invisible to all. Even the small animals. While I am hiding away, making no sound, a cottontail rabbit sits just outside the tree branches grooming its fur and twitching its whiskers.
    I have hidden in my leafy bower for a half hour. The breeze gently moves the trailing branches this way and that, so that first one part of land is visible and then another. It is as if pages in a book of pictures are being turned for me.
    I know I ought to be helping Mother to air the bedding, but there is something in me that makes me want to hide away and just be by myself. When I am with my sisters, whom I love dearly, I have trouble remembering I am Louisa. Being with other people nudges me first one way and then anotheruntil I hardly recognize myself. When I write my journal, putting down my thoughts, I find myself again.
    Anna keeps a journal too, though I don’t believe she keeps a secret one. I don’t think she has any thoughts she needs to hide. Once I asked her, “Suppose you could climb into any page of your journal you liked and relive that page, would you want to?” “Oh, yes, any page at all,” she said.
    Too many of my pages list my faults, like the day I ran away from home when I was six, but here and there are records of perfect days I would like to live again. There is the day Mr. Thoreau let me walk with him right down the middle of a small stream, as much at home in the water as the ducks and muskrats.
    Â 
    J UNE 4, 1843
    Though it is a little crowded, we are fortunate that other fine people wish to join us in our efforts. Besides our own family and Mr. Lane and his son, William, we hope there will be several others who wish to live simply and close to nature. Mr. Lane says that eachmember of our community will be like a drop of fresh water falling into a cup until our thirst for a better life is satisfied. I am resolved to learn from all, and never again to be so rude as to laugh at Mr. Bower.
    Â 
    J UNE 4, 1843
    What a strange lot we are! Joining us daily from his nearby farm is elderly Mr. Palmer. Mr. Palmer has a beard that reaches to his belt buckle. For a time men with beards were much looked down upon. Once four men set upon poor Mr. Palmer with the intention of cutting off his beard. He beat them badly. He was arrested and jailed for a year for refusing to pay a fine. At last he was told he might go. He refused to leave the jail, so they carried him out