. . .
During this time I have employed my leisure hours in making up my
engagements with newspaper editors. I have written more than anybody,
or I myself, would have thought. I have taught an hour a day in our
school, and I have read two hours every evening to the children. The
children study English history in school, and I am reading Scott's
historic novels in their order. To-night I finish the "Abbot;" shall
begin "Kenilworth" next week; yet I am constantly pursued and haunted
by the idea that I don't do anything. Since I began this note I have
been called off at least a dozen times; once for the fish-man, to buy
a codfish; once to see a man who had brought me some barrels of
apples; once to see a book-man; then to Mrs. Upham, to see about a
drawing I promised to make for her; then to nurse the baby; then into
the kitchen to make a chowder for dinner; and now I am at it again,
for nothing but deadly determination enables me ever to write; it is
rowing against wind and tide.
I suppose you think now I have begun, I am never going to stop, and in
truth it looks like it; but the spirit moves now and I must obey.
Christmas is coming, and our little household is all alive with
preparations; every one collecting their little gifts with wonderful
mystery and secrecy. . . .
To tell the truth, dear, I am getting tired; my neck and back ache,
and I must come to a close.
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