Cow Hampshire

Anybody born out of New England cannot have the true flavor of New England in his mouth, and it is to the happy saints, born in New England, that I address myself this morning, not forbidding others to catch the drops that fall from the goblet. When the children came home to Thanksgiving, the scene was memorable in my father’s house in old Litchfield [CT]. In those times the community was well off, because it was poor, thriving, industrious, and always about to be rich. Wages ranged at fifty cents a day. Hear that, ye brick-layers! The domestic loom still clicked; I hear it now. The shoemakers came round once a month and did up the making and mending. The tailoring was done at home. The best suit was as clearly marked off from the rest of the clothes as Sunday was from the rest of the week. Every child had some of the household work to do. Before I was ten years old I learned to sew, to knit, to wash dishes and prepare them to wash. I earned whippings, made fires, went to school and didn’t study, and was a body that nobody could get along with or without. The house I lived in was large and roomy, especially for the elements. Woe to those who had to burn red oak wood, spitting out sap at both ends, while the children cried, and the older persons were cross. Continue reading →