. . . I allude to this here because I have often felt
that much that is in that book ("Uncle Tom") had its root in the awful
scenes and bitter sorrows of that summer. It has left now, I trust, no
trace on my mind, except a deep compassion for the sorrowful,
especially for mothers who are separated from their children.
During long years of struggling with poverty and sickness, and a hot,
debilitating climate, my children grew up around me. The nursery and
the kitchen were my principal fields of labor. Some of my friends,
pitying my trials, copied and sent a number of little sketches from my
pen to certain liberally paying "Annuals" with my name. With the first
money that I earned in this way I bought a feather-bed! for as I had
married into poverty and without a dowry, and as my husband had only a
large library of books and a great deal of learning, the bed and
pillows were thought the most profitable investment. After this I
thought that I had discovered the philosopher's stone. So when a new
carpet or mattress was going to be needed, or when, at the close of
the year, it began to be evident that my family accounts, like poor
Dora's, "wouldn't add up," then I used to say to my faithful friend
and factotum Anna, who shared all my joys and sorrows, "Now, if you
will keep the babies and attend to the things in the house for one
day, I'll write a piece, and then we shall be out of the scrape.
Pages:
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232