[Campton—Tuesday, 12 June 1866]
Tuesday 12. Went up to Kimbell Whitney’s, the farm on the hillside with a grassy lane but no road leading up. Found him hoeing his corn thoughtfully on the hillside, he thought there would be frost tonight, the north-west wind was blowing lustily over the young shoots as we talked & it was quite cold.
He asked us to go up to the cottage—said they would be glad to see us and we kept on. As we came to the door the mother a fond, overworked, rather a chattering old woman whom you could not help respecting for her good qualities came forward to greet us joyfully, her sick daughter was just inside and seemed as pleased as her mother at the visit. The poor child has not walked any distance for 8 years and this winter has had typhus fever. She was seized early in the autumn and has not yet been out. Her slender hands, a pale face, and attenuated throat testified her suffering. In answer to our questions her mother told us that, “father was brought up where they thought wimmin cud work jist like men and so he thot his girl ought to work out-doors and one hot afternoon in haying time they thot a shower was comin’ and Emmy ran down into the field to get the oxen to fetch the hay in but the oxen was restive and she had a chase to catch them and when she came in I never see a girl in sich a heat as she was and she hasn’t never been well since,—then last autumn she got the fever & I thot she’d ha’ died.” We looked at the young girl to see how she bore the story, her face was quiet, full of submission and composure. We asked her if she read any, “when she could get anything to read”.
“Emmy” said the mother, “I wish you’d find that piece of yours about grand’mama, I buried my mother two weeks ago (to us) she was 92 years old, had been married 73 years and said she had never seen a minute where she wished she had not been married, ain’t many who can say that I guess, who haven’t felt just for a second maybe—well—she said so and Emmy has writ a piece about it.”
The piece was not to be found but this speech unveiled the fact that the girl had taught herself to write verse in her confinement, her desire now being to write well enough to get books in exchange for her efforts. I asked if she had read any poetry, “only Moore and Mrs Hemans and what I find in the newspapers” was her reply.
Seeing a musical instrument in the room we asked her to play which she did composing her music as she went on having never received any education. The instrument was a poor old melodeon, nevertheless she continued to extract more melody from it than seemed possible,—as for her verses they were sweet and sad, showing a comprehension of something far above those with whom she lived. Poor child! She longs for change and wishes to see the ocean, “but father thinks home is the best place for sick folks said her mother.” There is no road broken up to the little place—all is quiet as undisturbed Nature can make it round the house, the green hills stretch up behind and slope down in front of the house and the solitude is perfect. The lilacs were waving in the sunshine as we left the sick-girl, the little birds were hovering about the door, summer and health were everywhere outside—but pain & fading within. The old woman invited us to come some afternoon and climb the hill with her and as the warm June sun shone on the trees and caused them to wave fragrantly towards us, we resolved to go again to the hillside as soon as time would allow.
In the afternoon a soft veil of mist overspread the sky, the weather moderated, driving away all fear of frost which had troubled the farmers somewhat. We walked across Mad River, through the little farm at the turn of the road and came to Farmer Goodhues. We sat by the wayside seeing no one, presently he came out and stood to have a bit of talk with us. They were rebuilding the bridge in the wrong way, it should be built up with stone, but then he supposed it would cost too much to do that, as it was they paid $12.000 [sic] a year for the public good in the village of Campton, “good deal for such a place, ain’t it? Then our taxes are real heavy, why any tax is, all told $50.00 a year!! My farm ain’t worth more’n $1,500, and it is a good deal; But then it’s worth something to live in the village of Campton!”
Well done, farmer Goodhue, we thought when he said this, I’m glad we came down to see you, for a more honest or contented spirit is not to be found every day.
As we walked home through “June Avenue” the birds were singing all around and above us, thrushes among the rest with their almost unrivalled song. We heard a new note also, very clear and sweet from one of the leafless pines which still stand in spite of winters storm-winds in picturesque decay.
