Stowe, this cushion is an inch too wide for the frame. What shall
we do now?
Mrs. Stowe, where are the screws of the black walnut bedstead?
Here's a man has brought in these bills for freight. Will you settle
them now?
Mrs. Stowe, I don't understand using this great needle. I can't make
it go through the cushion; it sticks in the cotton.
Then comes a letter from my husband saying he is sick abed, and all
but dead; don't ever expect to see his family again; wants to know how
I shall manage, in case I am left a widow; knows we shall get in debt
and never get out; wonders at my courage; thinks I am very sanguine;
warns me to be prudent, as there won't be much to live on in case of
his death, etc., etc., etc. I read the letter and poke it into the
stove, and proceed. . . .
Some of my adventures were quite funny; as for example: I had in my
kitchen elect no sink, cistern, or any other water privileges, so I
bought at the cotton factory two of the great hogsheads they bring oil
in, which here in Brunswick are often used for cisterns, and had them
brought up in triumph to my yard, and was congratulating myself on my
energy, when lo and behold! it was discovered that there was no cellar
door except one in the kitchen, which was truly a strait and narrow
way, down a long pair of stairs. Hereupon, as saith John Bunyan, I
fell into a muse,--how to get my cisterns into my cellar.
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