The next day I came down with an attack of
quinsy, which kept me in the house for nearly two weeks.
The basement kitchen seemed heavenly safe and warm in those days--like a
tight little boat in a winter sea. The men were out in the fields all day,
husking corn, and when they came in at noon, with long caps pulled down
over their ears and their feet in red-lined overshoes, I used to think they
were like Arctic explorers. In the afternoons, when grandmother sat
upstairs darning, or making husking-gloves, I read `The Swiss Family
Robinson' aloud to her, and I felt that the Swiss family had no advantages
over us in the way of an adventurous life. I was convinced that man's
strongest antagonist is the cold. I admired the cheerful zest with which
grandmother went about keeping us warm and comfortable and well-fed. She
often reminded me, when she was preparing for the return of the hungry men,
that this country was not like Virginia; and that here a cook had, as she
said, `very little to do with.' On Sundays she gave us as much chicken as
we could eat, and on other days we had ham or bacon or sausage meat. She
baked either pies or cake for us every day, unless, for a change, she made
my favourite pudding, striped with currants and boiled in a bag.
Next to getting warm and keeping warm, dinner and supper were the most
interesting things we had to think about.
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