And then our life, how dreary!  The rising in the cold, gray dawn to prepare the breakfast of corn-dodgers and bacon for my father and his men,—­the spreading the table-cloth, stained with the soil-spots of yesterday’s meal,—­the putting upon it the ugly, unmatched crockery,—­the straggling-in of the unwashed, uncombed men in their coarse working-clothes, redolent of the week’s unwholesome toil,—­their washings, combings, and low talk close by my side,—­the varied uses to which our household utensils were put,—­the dipping of dirty knives into the salt and of dirty fingers into the meat-dish,—­all filled me then, and fill me now, with loathing.

There was a relief when the men left the house; but then came the dreary “slicking-up,” almost more disgusting, in its false, superficial show of cleanliness, than had been the open carelessness of the workmen.

But there was no time for rest; my step-mother’s sharp, high-pitched voice was heard calling, “Janet!” and I followed her to the garden to dig the potatoes from the hills or to the cornfield to pull and husk the three dozen ears of corn which made our chief dish at dinner.  Then came the week’s washing, the apple-peeling, the pork-salting, work varied only with the varying season, until the blowing of the horn at twelve brought back the men to dinner, after which came again the clearing up, again the day’s task, and again the supper.

I often thought that the men around us were always more cheerful and merry than the women.  They worked as hard, they endured as many hardships, but they had, certainly, more pleasures.  There was the evening lounge by the fire in winter, the sitting on the fence or at the door-step in summer, when, pipe or cigar in mouth, knife and whittling-stick in hand, jest and gibe would pass round among them, and the boisterous laugh would go up, reaching me, as I lay, tired out, on my little cot, or leaned disconsolate at my garret-window, looking with longing eyes far out into the darkness of the woods.  No such gatherings-together of the women did I ever see.  If one of our neighbors dragged her weary steps to our kitchen, and sat herself down, baby, in lap, on the upturned tub or flag-bottomed chair that I dusted off with my apron, it was to commence the querulous complaint of the last week’s chill or the heavy washing of the day before, the ailing baby or the troublesome child, all told in the same whining voice.  Even the choice bit of gossip which roused us at rare intervals always had its dark side, on which these poor women dwelt with a perverse pleasure.

In short, life was too hard for them; it brought its constant cares without any alleviating pleasures.  Their homes were only places of monotonous labor,—­their husbands so many hard taskmasters, who exacted from them more than their strength could give,—­their children, who should have been the delight of their mothers’ hearts, so many additional burdens, the bearing and nursing of which broke down their poor remaining health; the glorious and lavish Nature in which they lived only brought to them added labor, and shut them out from the few social enjoyments that they knew of.