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families settled in our vicinity, from whom we could occasionally obtain domestic service. About a dozen families of liberated slaves were among the number, and they became my favorite resort in cases of emergency. If anybody wishes to have a black face look handsome, let them be left, as I have been, in feeble health in oppressive hot weather, with a sick baby in arms, and two or three other little ones in the nursery, and not a servant in the whole house to do a single turn. Then, if they could see my good old Aunt Frankie coming with her honest, bluff, black face, her long, strong arms, her chest as big and stout as a barrel, and her hilarious, hearty laugh, perfectly delighted to take one's washing and do it at a fair price, they would appreciate the beauty of black people. . . .

I am now writing a work which will contain, perhaps, an equal amount of matter with "Uncle Tom's Cabin." It will contain all the facts and documents on which that story was founded, and an immense body of facts, reports of trials, legal documents, and testimony of people now living South, which will more than confirm every statement in "Uncle Tom's Cabin."

I suffer exquisitely in writing these things. It may be truly said that I write with my heart's blood. Many times in writing “Uncle Tom's Cabin" I thought my health would fail utterly; but I prayed earnestly that God would help me till I got through, and still I am pressed beyond measure and above strength.

This horror, this nightmare abomination! can it be in my country! It lies like lead on my heart, it shadows my life with sorrow; the more so that I feel, as for my own brothers, for the South, and am pained by every horror I am obliged to write, as one who is forced by some awful oath to disclose in court some family disgrace. Many times I have thought that I must die, and yet I pray

A Nice Little Room

God that I may live to see something done. I shall in all probability be in London in May: shall I see you?

It seems to me so odd and dream-like that so many persons desire to see me, and now I cannot help thinking that they will think, when they do, that God hath chosen "the weak things of this world."

If I live till spring I shall hope to see Shakespeare's grave, and Milton's mulberry-tree, and the good land of my fathers, old, old England! May that day come! Yours affectionately,

Prairie life in the 'Forties

H. B. STOWE

DEAR

(Lucy Larcom to Mrs. Haskell)

LOOKING-GLASS PRAIRIE, May 19, 1846

EAR SISTER ABBY,-I think it is your turn to have a letter now, so I've just snuffed the candle, and got all my utensils about me, and am going to see how quickly I can write a good long one.

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Well, for my convenience, I beg that you will borrow the wings of a dove, and come and sit down here by me. There, don't you see what a nice little room we are in? To be sure, one side of it has not got any side to it, because the man couldn't afford to lath and plaster it, but that patch curtain that Emeline has hung up makes it snug enough for summer time, and reminds us of the days of ancient tapestried halls, and all that. That door, where the curtain is, goes into the entry; and there, right opposite, is another one that goes into the parlor, but I shall not go in there with you, because there aren't any chairs in there; you might sit on Emeline's blue trunk, or

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Sarah's green one, though; but I'm afraid you would go behind the sheet in the corner, and steal some of Emeline's milk that she's saving to make butter of; and then, just as likely as not, you'd want to know why that square piece of board was put on the bottom of the window, with the pitchfork stuck into it to keep it from falling; of course, we shouldn't like to tell you that there's a square of glass out, and I suppose you don't know about that great tom-cat's coming in, two nights, after we had all gone to bed, and making that awful caterwauling. So you had better stay here in the kitchen, and I'll show you all the things; it won't take long. That door at the top of three steps leads upstairs; the little low one close to it is the closet door, you needn't go prying in there, to see what we've got to eat, for you'll certainly bump your head if you do; pass by the parlor door and the curtain, and look out of that window on the front side of the house; if it was not so dark, you might see the beautiful flower-beds that Sarah has made, a big diamond in the centre, with four triangles to match it. As true as I live, she has been making her initials right in the centre of the diamond! There's a great S, and an M, but where's the H? Oh! you don't know how that dog came in and scratched it all up, and laid down there to sun himself, the other day. We tell her there's a sign to it, — losing her maiden name so soon. She declares she won't have it altered by a puppy, though. These two windows look (through the fence) over to our next neighbor's; that's our new cookingstove between them; isn't it a cunning one? the funnel goes up clear through Emeline's bedroom, till it gets to "outdoors." We keep our chimney in the parlor. Then that door on the other side looks away across the prairie, three or four miles; and that brings us to where we started from.

Furniture and Food

As to furniture, this is the table, where I am writing; it is a stained one, without leaves, large enough for six to eat from, and it cost just two dollars and a quarter. There are a half dozen chairs, black, with yellow figures, and this is the rocking-chair, where we get baby to sleep. That is E.'s rag mat before the stove, and George fixed that shelf for the waterpail in the corner. The coffee-mill is close to it, and that's all. Now don't you call us rich? I'm sure we feel grand enough.

Now, if you would only just come and make us a visit in earnest, Emeline would make you some nice corn-meal fritters, and you should have some cream and sugar on them; and I would make you some nice doughnuts, for I've learned so much; and you should have milk or coffee, just as you pleased; it is genteel to drink coffee for breakfast, dinner, and supper, here. Then, if you didn't feel satisfied, we should say that it was because you hadn't lived on johnny-cakes and milk a week, as we did.

I have got to begin to be very dignified, for I am going to begin to keep school next Monday, in a little log-cabin, all alone. One of the "committee men took me to Lebanon, last Saturday, in his prairie wagon, to be examined. You've no idea how frightened I was, but I answered all their questions, and didn't make any more mistakes than they did. They told me I made handsome figures, wrote a good hand, and spoke correctly, so I begin to feel as if I know most as much as other folks.

Emeline does not gain any flesh, although she has grown very handsome since she came to the land of “hog and hominy." Your humble servant is as fat as a pig, as usual, though she has not tasted any of the porkers since her emigration, for the same reason that a certain gentleman would not eat any of Aunt Betsy's cucumbers, - "not fit to eat." That's my opinion, and if you had seen such

specimens of the living animal as I have, since I left home,

you'd say so, too.

LUCY

The happy home of an old bachelor

SUNNYSIDE, March 11, 1853

MY DEAR MRS. KENNEDY:

I arrived in New York too late for the Hudson River Railroad cars, so I had to remain in the city until morning. Yesterday I alighted at the station, within ten minutes' walk of home. The walk was along the railroad, in full sight of the house. I saw female forms in the In a

porch, and I knew the spy-glass was in hand.

moment there was a waving of handkerchiefs, and a hurrying hither and thither. Never did old bachelor come to such a loving home, so gladdened by blessed womankind. In fact I doubt whether many married men receive such a heartfelt welcome. My friend Horseshoe [Mr. Kennedy], and one or two others of my acquaintance, may; but there are not many as well off in domestic life. as I. However, let me be humbly thankful, and repress all vainglory.

After all the kissing and crying and laughing and rejoicing were over, I sallied forth to inspect my domains, welcomed home by my prime minister Robert, and my master of the house Thomas, and my keeper of the poultry yard, William. Every thing was in good order; all had been faithful in the discharge of their duties. My fields had been manured, my trees trimmed, the fences repaired and painted. I really believe more had been done in my absence than would have been done had I been home. My horses were in good condition. Dandy and Billy, the coach horses, were as sleek as seals. Gentleman Dick,

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