she lugged it to the board. “As if we did not have enough of them already.” Mother frowned. And then she shook her head. “The poor woman. She never has been quite right. But at least her nonsense is from God’s Holy Word.” She threw the sack up on the board and then took it by the bottom corners and dumped it. A dozen birds fell out, but they were strange in the way of pigeons. They had been clubbed so hard that they were, all of them, rendered nearly flat.
Mother looked at them askance. “I do not know what I should use these for. There seems to be hardly anything left of them!”
In the end, we could think of naught to do but bury them. And I wondered what Mistress Wright, in her fine house on Wright’s hill, had done with all of hers.
14
IN THE COMING DAYS , Mary and I worked with Mother to dry and pickle food for the winter. As I walked about on errands here or there, I could see the men tying shocks of Indian corn together. They would winter there, those shocks, like companions in arms, autumn mists swirling around them, winter snows drifting down upon them. And they would emerge, in spring, wizened old men.
It gladdened me to ponder the coming spring. To think of all the celebrations it might yield. A new marriage . . . and even, perhaps, the possibility of a babe growing in some secret place within me. Chased about town by an autumn breeze, I both savored the coming months and worried over them. If John Prescotte did not soon do his asking, then I might be doomed to spend another year as a maid.
And so, the weeks of September came and went. And with them, my dimming hopes of marriage.
One morning Mother put a tray of biscuits on the table before us, cast a glance to see that we all had what was needed, and then sat in her place on the bench. “Can you spare me Nathaniel?”
Father grunted.
“ ’Tis a good day to go a-leafing.”
“A better one would be some day in the next week. He’s to be helping me turn spoons in the shop.”
The captain was looking with some interest between the two of them. “Of what do you speak? And where is it to be done?”
Mother turned her attentions from Father toward the captain. “The leafing? Why, it must be done in the wood. Where there are oak trees. ’Tis children’s work. They collect them in the common.”
He was already shaking his head. “Not this year. Not with savages about.”
“Then you’ll be arguing with all the goodwives in this town.”
A shadow of a doubt passed over his face. A chink in the mien of his normal confidence. “Perhaps, if they were accompanied. And stayed closer to town.”
“Aye. Perhaps. Though you’d have to do a bit of persuading to make it so.”
The captain tore a piece off from his biscuit. “Perhaps the Indians will quiet for the winter. Is it not a thing that can be delayed until then?”
“Not if you want to keep eating those biscuits. ’Tis those leaves they will be baked upon. And my supply has dwindled. At an alarming rate.”
He looked down, with apparent regret, at the portion of biscuit that remained. Then he looked up, acquiescence written in the sag of his shoulders. “I will see what can be done.”
That Sabbath, he stood before us all in church. “There will be one day on which the community will go a-leafing. Myself and John Prescotte will take the children into the wood—”
Simeon Wright shot to his feet like a spark. “ ’Tis folly! They must not go to the common! ’Tis too far, the threat of savages too great. I must protest this dangerous scheme . . . for the sake of our youth.”
The captain was watching the man with seeming curiosity.
“Aye. I agree with Mister Wright. And the children will not go to the common. I have located a grove of oaks much closer to town, and ’tis from there the harvest of leaves will be gathered. But just on this one day. I cannot guarantee any person’s safety who wanders the wood alone. We leave at first light and will return as soon
Mother looked at them askance. “I do not know what I should use these for. There seems to be hardly anything left of them!”
In the end, we could think of naught to do but bury them. And I wondered what Mistress Wright, in her fine house on Wright’s hill, had done with all of hers.
14
IN THE COMING DAYS , Mary and I worked with Mother to dry and pickle food for the winter. As I walked about on errands here or there, I could see the men tying shocks of Indian corn together. They would winter there, those shocks, like companions in arms, autumn mists swirling around them, winter snows drifting down upon them. And they would emerge, in spring, wizened old men.
It gladdened me to ponder the coming spring. To think of all the celebrations it might yield. A new marriage . . . and even, perhaps, the possibility of a babe growing in some secret place within me. Chased about town by an autumn breeze, I both savored the coming months and worried over them. If John Prescotte did not soon do his asking, then I might be doomed to spend another year as a maid.
And so, the weeks of September came and went. And with them, my dimming hopes of marriage.
One morning Mother put a tray of biscuits on the table before us, cast a glance to see that we all had what was needed, and then sat in her place on the bench. “Can you spare me Nathaniel?”
Father grunted.
“ ’Tis a good day to go a-leafing.”
“A better one would be some day in the next week. He’s to be helping me turn spoons in the shop.”
The captain was looking with some interest between the two of them. “Of what do you speak? And where is it to be done?”
Mother turned her attentions from Father toward the captain. “The leafing? Why, it must be done in the wood. Where there are oak trees. ’Tis children’s work. They collect them in the common.”
He was already shaking his head. “Not this year. Not with savages about.”
“Then you’ll be arguing with all the goodwives in this town.”
A shadow of a doubt passed over his face. A chink in the mien of his normal confidence. “Perhaps, if they were accompanied. And stayed closer to town.”
“Aye. Perhaps. Though you’d have to do a bit of persuading to make it so.”
The captain tore a piece off from his biscuit. “Perhaps the Indians will quiet for the winter. Is it not a thing that can be delayed until then?”
“Not if you want to keep eating those biscuits. ’Tis those leaves they will be baked upon. And my supply has dwindled. At an alarming rate.”
He looked down, with apparent regret, at the portion of biscuit that remained. Then he looked up, acquiescence written in the sag of his shoulders. “I will see what can be done.”
That Sabbath, he stood before us all in church. “There will be one day on which the community will go a-leafing. Myself and John Prescotte will take the children into the wood—”
Simeon Wright shot to his feet like a spark. “ ’Tis folly! They must not go to the common! ’Tis too far, the threat of savages too great. I must protest this dangerous scheme . . . for the sake of our youth.”
The captain was watching the man with seeming curiosity.
“Aye. I agree with Mister Wright. And the children will not go to the common. I have located a grove of oaks much closer to town, and ’tis from there the harvest of leaves will be gathered. But just on this one day. I cannot guarantee any person’s safety who wanders the wood alone. We leave at first light and will return as soon
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