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DEARAMERICA
TheDiaryofCatharineCareyLogan
StandingintheLight
MARYPOPEOSBORNE
Formymother
TableOfContents
CoverTitlePageDedicationDelawareValley,Pennsylvania176313thofEleventhMonth,176314thofEleventhMonth,176315thofEleventhMonth,176316thofEleventhMonth,176317thofEleventhMonth,176318thofEleventhMonth,176319thofEleventhMonth,176321stofEleventhMonth,176322ndofEleventhMonth,176323rdofEleventhMonth,176324thofEleventhMonth,176326thofEleventhMonth,176327thofEleventhMonth,176328thofEleventhMonth,176330thofEleventhMonth,17634thofTwelfthMonth,17635thofTwelfthMonth,17636thofTwelfthMonth,17637thofTwelfthMonth,17638thofTwelfthMonth,176310thofTwelfthMonth,176311thofTwelfthMonth,176319thofTwelfthMonth,176324thofTwelfthMonth,1763
25thofTwelfthMonth,176327thofTwelfthMonth,176330thofTwelfthMonth,17634thofFirstMonth,17646thofFirstMonth,17647thofFirstMonth,17648thofFirstMonth,17649thofFirstMonth,1764TimeLost20thofTenthMonth,176421stofTenthMonth,176422ndofTenthMonth,176423rdofTenthMonth,176424thofTenthMonth,176425thofTenthMonth,176426thofTenthMonth,176427thofTenthMonth,176428thofTenthMonth,176429thofTenthMonth,176430thofTenthMonth,176431stofTenthMonth,17642ndofEleventhMonth,17643rdofEleventhMonth,17646thofEleventhMonth,17647thofEleventhMonth,17648thofEleventhMonth,17649thofEleventhMonth,176410thofEleventhMonth,176411thofEleventhMonth,176412thofEleventhMonth,176413thofEleventhMonth,176414thofEleventhMonth,176415thofEleventhMonth,176416thofEleventhMonth,1764
17thofEleventhMonth,176418thofEleventhMonth,176420thofEleventhMonth,176421stofEleventhMonth,1764EpilogueLifeinAmericain1763HistoricalNoteAbouttheAuthorAcknowledgmentsOtherBooksintheDearAmericaseriesCopyright
DelawareValley,Pennsylvania
1763
13thofEleventhMonth,1763
TodayPapagaveThomasandmenewcopybooks,black-walnutink,andquills.Ishallusemineforadiary,aswellasforschoolwork.Thehouse is still. Iwrite in the loftbycandlelightwhileThomasandEliza
sleepnearme.Papaissnoringdownstairs.MothersingssoftlyinthedarktoBabyWill.He
suffersfromhisfirsttooth.Mother shed a tear of joy when she discovered this tooth, for her last two
babies did not live long enough to have one. She alwaysworries about BabyWill.Weeksagohewas just skinandboneafteraboutof feveranddiarrhea.Butlatelyshesaysagainandagain:“My,BabyWillhasgrownfatter,dosttheenotallagree?”We start school again tomorrow after helping bring in the harvest. I am so
excitedIcanbarelysleep.IconfessIamlookingforwardtoseeingJessOwen.Ihavemanythingstotellhim.
14thofEleventhMonth,1763
Allinthegirls’schoolweretalkingaboutJessOwentoday.Hehasreturnedtotheboys’schoolnextdoorafterspendingsixmonthsawayinPhiladelphia.Hehasgrownmuchtallerandappearstobethemosthandsomeboyinthevalley.Lastwinter, Jess and Iweregood friends. I talked easily to himand teased
him.ButtodayIwasshockedtolearnthatIfeltexceedinglyshywhenIfirstsawhimonthepaththroughthesugarmaplegrove.Hewavedtomeandcalledmyname.Thesunwasbrightonthemaples,anda
gentlebreezeblew,makingthelastleavesfallaroundhimlikeyellowstars.Ionlynoddedinreturn,thenwalkedmorequickly,forIwasinaflutter.When Thomas asked why I was walking so fast, I hushed him. In truth, I
suddenlydidnotknowwhatIwouldsayifJessweretowalkwithus.Iamconfusednowaboutmyattackoffear.IprayIwillsoonfindmytongue.
15thofEleventhMonth,1763
Weatherunusuallywarm.Papaburnedtreesyesterday,andtheairisstillsweetwiththesmellofburntwood.Beforeschool,ThomasandIcaughtthepigseatingpumpkinsandwechased
themwithsticks.WhenThomasstruckone,Mothersawhimandseverelytoldhimtoexerthimselfwithmoreloving-kindness.Thomasprotested,forheissevenyearsoldanddoesnotliketohavehiswill
crossed.Mothertoldhimtowatchhisimpudenttongue.ShesaidthatGodlovesallHis
creatures,howeverhumble.“Evennaughtypigs?”Thomasaskedwithhisusualmischievousgrin.“Yes,andevennaughtyboys,”Mothersaid.IfGodlovesallHiscreatures,IprayHewillhavemercyonmeanduntiemy
tongue.
16thofEleventhMonth,1763
UnpleasantnewsfromMasterCollinstoday:SoonLucy,Molly,andImustlearnhow to divide the long numbers. I fear I shall never understand and shall beafraid even to ask questions. I pray to be more courageous both in mattersconcerningarithmeticandtalkingtoboyssuchasJessOwen.
17thofEleventhMonth,1763
MonthlyMeetingtoday.TheFriendsdisownedSarahThompsonfordancingandsinging,JohnPalmerforbuyingaslave,EzekielCarterforenlistinginthearmy,LizaBennetfordeviatingfromplainnessofdress,RebeccaMerrickformarryingonenotofourreligioussociety,andElizabethKnowltonforhavingavainandairymanner.ChristopherBettsacknowledgeditwasshamefulforhimtorideinahorseraceandtoplaycards.Then,inthesilence,IfoundmyselfthinkingaboutJessOwenwavingatmein
thegrove.WhathashappenedtothegirlIwaslastyear?ThespiritedgirlwhospoketoJesssoeasily?Wasshetoobold?Washermannertoovainandairy?WouldtheFriendseventuallyturnoutthatgirl?Ifearshewasnotverymodestandcourteous,astheQuakersrequireayoungwomantobe.Sometimesaloneinthewoods,sheevendancedandsang!ButIconfessImissher.Shewasahappycreature.
18thofEleventhMonth,1763
Before JessOwen left the schoolyard today, his eyes seemed to seekme out.Thenhewavedandcalledmyname.Molly and Lucy both saw his action. Molly marveled that Jess Owen had
calledtome—andthatIwasredintheface.Herwordsfrightenme.Ifeelthatmyfacebetrayedme—revealingmystrong
feelingsforJess!ImustfindawaytohidemyselfsonoonecanguesswhatIthinkorfeel.
19thofEleventhMonth,1763
Mother boiled potatoes tonight. We mashed them with milk and butter, thencookedthemintheskilletandservedthemwithhoney.Abetterpancakedinnerwasneverhad.Thewholefamilycheerfulandthankful,exceptme.Iwasinaninexplicablygloomymood.Motherscoldedmeforlookingcross.ButthenPapainvitedmetogooutintothenightwithhimandlookthrough
hisspyglassatthestars.Theyaresoplentifultonight,theymovedPapatoquoteScripture: “When I consider Thy heavens, thework of Thy fingers, themoonandstars,eachThouhastordained.Whatisman,thatThouartmindfulofhim?”Iwish I had the courage to talk to JessOwen about Papa’s spyglass.But I
worrynowthatwhateverIsaywillsoundtoovainortooairy.IthinkIshouldsayonlysimplethings:“HowwasthytimeinPhiladelphia,Jess?Howdosttheelikereturningtoourschool?”
21stofEleventhMonth,1763
Anxiousday.Stayedhome,asBabyWillisunwell.Hehadafeveranddiarrheaagain,soseverethatPapaleftofffarmingandwentforDoctorGriffith.BynoonthedoctorarrivedanddiagnosedthatBabyWillhasworms.Hefed
himrhubarbandpinkroot.FinallythebabysleptpeacefullyinMother’sarms.Fortherestoftheday,I tendedtoElizaandthecooking,sweeping,feeding
livestock,andcollectingeggs.DearGod,pleasekeepBabyWillunderThywing.
22ndofEleventhMonth,1763
Plainandsimpleday.Thomas and I stayed home to help Mother again. Baby Will seems to be
conquering his worms.Mother, in a cheerful mood, made stewed apples andsweetbiscuitsforbreakfast.It was gray and windy as Thomas and I carried six buckets each from the
springandElizacollectedkindling.Wefilledthegreatironpotoverthefireandheated the water, then scrubbed a week’s worth of dirty clothes. While weworked,ImadeThomasrecitehismultiplicationtablesandspellingwords.LaterIgaveElizaaquiltinglessonwhileThomaspracticedhispenmanship.
Hecanwritewithajoininghandandmakecapitalsnow.IntheafternoonMothermadecandleswhileItookElizaandThomasintothe
foresttogathernuts.Thomastorehisbritchesclimbingatreeinquestofabird’snest and Eliza cried because her stomach was hurting. I fear she might haveworms,too.Thoughsheisfouryearsold,sheisquitesmall,soIwasabletocarryherall
thewayhome.Mothergaveherrhubarbandpinkroot.ThenIbakedjohnnycakesandboiledturnipsforThomasandPapa.
23rdofEleventhMonth,1763
Papawas gone all day, comforting theLancasterswho have recently lost twochildrentowhoopingcough.Whenhereturned,wehaddevotionsandprayedforthesoulsofthechildren.
ThenPapashowedustinywildflowershehadfoundonhisjourney.Somehowtheyhavesurvivedalltheearlyfrosts.ThomasaskedPapawhyhebotheredwithsuchtinythings.Papa said thatwemust studyall the thingsof ourworldbecausenomatter
howsmall,eachwearsthemarkofourMaker.Thisthoughtgivesnewmeaningtotheowlthathootsinthedark,myleaping
candleflame,thewhisperybreathingsoundsofBabyWilldownstairs.PerhapsGodhoots.Godleaps.AndGodbreathesdownstairs.ThesearethethoughtsIshouldliketosharewithJessOwen.
24thofEleventhMonth,1763
Elizaseemsbetter.MamaevenallowedhertogowithallofustotheMeetingHouse.As we sat in silence, ill-behaved boys in the gallery laughed once during
worship.IfearIheardthelaughterofJessOwenamongthem.After Meeting, Mother called them “impudent children,” loud enough for
themtohear.(Oh,howmistakentocallJessachild!)MotherkeepsalistforherchildrenonhowtobehaveatMeeting.Iknowitbyheart:
No talking, laughing, biting nails, pinching neighbors, stretching,yawning,spitting,staringatothers,tappingoffeet,orsighsofimpatience.
Oftenitseemsimpossibletositfortwohourswithoutsuccumbingtoatleast
oneofthesetemptations.WhenIwalkedbyJessonthewaytoourcarriage,hesmiledatme—infront
ofall!Ilookedaway,blushingredintheface.Mothermightsaythathehasawildcharacterbecauseheplayspinch-penny
andlaughsinMeeting.’TisstrangethatIdonotcare.Ifearthatinmydeepestheart,Iamabitofawildcreaturemyself.
26thofEleventhMonth,1763
Greatdistress. JessOwencaughtupwithmeon thepath toschooland, in themostbeguilingvoice,askedmeifIlikedblueribbons.Iaskedhimwhyhewantedtoknow,andheansweredthathethoughtIwould
lookveryprettywithblueribbonsinmyhair.Iprayedforcomposure…andallIreceivedwasthisinspiration:“Watchthy
impudenttongue,JessOwen.”Whatahorrible thingtosay!ItsoundslikewhatMotherwouldsay!Icould
dieathousanddeathsforhavingspokenthus!Jess smiled a bit of a smirk andwalked away. Iwished I couldwalk away
frommyselfaswell.So I would say this was a most miserable day.My face grows hot just to
remembermywords.
27thofEleventhMonth,1763
Iwas relieved to stayhome todayandhelpMother, for Ididnothave to faceJessOwen.However,IamsadthatElizaisunwellagain.Herstomachachecamebackbeforedawn,soallmorningMotherrockedherwhileItendedBabyWill.WhenPapa came in fromworking in the fields, he fetchedDoctorGriffith,
whotreatedElizawithredbark.Soonshesleptsoundlyandwithoutpain.I fear Mother and I were greatly alarmed by news the doctor brought. He
reportedthatIndianshaveraidedthreefarmhousesontheriver.Motherclutchedmeand,nearlyintears,exclaimed,“Whatterriblenews!”Sheisveryfrightenedof the Indians. I fear I could offer her little comfort, for my own heart wasbeatingwithfear.Papaspoketoherinacalm,softvoicesayingthatweshouldputourtrustin
God.Iwantedtobelievehim,butwhenhesawthedoctorouttohiscarriage,Irushed after him. Iwaited until the doctor had driven away, then said, “WhatdosttheetrulythinkabouttheIndianattack?”“Iexpectedasmuch,”heanswered.Hestoppedtositonalogandmotionedformetositwithhim.Heexplained
thatourgovernmenthadliedtotheIndiansandbrokenallitstreatieswiththem.NowtheEnglishwere refusing to leave the Indian territories,even thoughourwarwiththeFrenchhasended.HealsotoldmehowtheIndianshadbeencruellybetrayedbytheExtravagant
Day’sWalk.Yearsago,theDelawareIndianshadagreedthattheEnglishcouldhave all the land that they could walk in one and a half days. Both sidesunderstoodthattobethirtymiles.Beforetheofficialwalk,however,theEnglishcheated by cutting a path through the virgin forest. Then they hired expertrunnerstoraceoverthepath.SotheEnglishendedupwithtwicethelandtheydeserved.“IfwetreattheIndiansfairly,theywilltreatusfairly!”Papasaid.“Forforty
yearsafterWilliamPenncamehere,therewasnotonedeathoneitherside.ButthenthewhitemenliedtotheIndiansandusedthemaspawnsinthelandwarsbetween theFrench andEnglish.TheFrench convinced them to fight on theirsidebytellingthemthattheEnglishwereplanningtomakethemslaves.”I am sad for the Indians, but I confess Iworrymore about our safety right
now.IwishwewouldpackourwagonsandgotoPhiladelphiaatonce.LaterwecanseekjusticefortheIndians.
ButPapabelievesthatweshouldnotgoanywhereuntilGodtellsustogo.IfearIspokecrosslytohim,askinghowhewillknowwhenGodwantsusto
go.Helookedatmesadly,asifmourningmylackoffaith.“Dosttheeknowthe
wordsofourQuakerfounder,Caty?‘Inthelight,wait,whereunityis.’”“Iknowthewords,”Iwhispered.“Iftheestandsinthelight,Caty,theewillalwaysknowtherightthingtodo,”
hesaid.“Thereisastill,smallvoiceineachofusthatspeaksforGod.”HaveIheardthisvoice?ItrulydonotknowwhichvoiceisGod’s,whichis
mine,orwhich isPapa’sorMother’s insideme.Or, for thatmatter,Lucy’sorMolly’sorMasterCollins’s!PapasawmydespairandbidmetogocalmMother.Hebelievesthatdoing
goodwillalwayshelpone’sspirit.Papasoundedsopeacefulinthetwilight.Iwishhewouldbemyinnervoice
andspeakwiselytomeforever.Butheisalwaysbeingcalledupontocareforothers,togivehistenderhelpandadvicetofriendsandrelatives.IdespairthatIshallneverfindmyownwaytostandinthelight,orfindmy
ownstill,smallvoice.
28thofEleventhMonth,1763
When Thomas and I went to school this morning, there was a great stir.Everyonewas talking about the Indian raids.The attack appears to have beenmuchworse thanDoctorGriffith ledus tobelieve.Fiveadultsand threesmallchildrenweremurderedandtwoolderchildrentakencaptive.The Cantwell boyswent into hideous detail about what Indians do to their
captives. They called the Indians “savages” and told tales of their mutilatingwhitepeople—cuttingoffnosesandearsandhands,roastingthemaliveoverfires,andbeatingthemtodeathastheyrunagauntlet.JessOwendidnotnoticemeatall,ashewasbusyproclaimingthathewould
scalptensavagesiftheytriedtocapturehim.IwantedtosaywhatPapahadtoldme,explainwhytheIndianswereangry,
evenremindtheboysofWilliamPennandhisgreatregardfortheredman.Butsuchaspeechwouldhavebeentooboldforme.Besides,itwouldnothavebeenwellreceived,forallwereenjoyingdespisingtheenemy.Byday’send,ThomasandIweremuchfrightenedbyall thetalk.Whenwe
startedourwalkhome,ascreechingsoundcamefromtheforest.Wewhoopedwithfearandranallthewaybacktothefarm,shoutingforPapa.WhenThomasimitatedthesound,Papaassuredusitwasjustawildturkey.
30thofEleventhMonth,1763
TodaytheKnowltonfamilycamebyintheirwagon,ontheirwaytothesafetyofPhiladelphia.Papawasawayinthefield.Mr.Knowltonsaidthatwhenhecomeshome,he
shouldpackusupandfollow.TheDelawareattackedanotherfamilylastnight,scalpingall,evenatwo-year-oldboy.Motherraisedhervoiceinanger.“Idespisethem!Idespisethemforbringing
suchterrordownuponus!”shesaid.Thomas,Eliza, andBabyWill all started tocry,and I took them insideand
triedtodivertthem,untilPapacamehome.AfterhecomfortedMother,Ifollowedhimouttothewoodpilewherehehad
beguntocutlogs.“WhatisGodsayingtotheenow?”Iasked.“TheAlmightyurgesusnottofearrumors,Caty.TheAlmightyevenurgesus
nottoplacethebaronourdoortonight.”IwassoalarmedIwasneartears.ButPapainsistswemustshowconfidence
ratherthanfear.WemustprovetotheIndiansthatwetrustthem.Wemustnotevendrawtheshutters!Sonowour door is unlocked andour shutters arewideopen, and everyone
sleepsbutme.Ianxiouslykeepwatch,“likeasparrowaloneonthehousetop.”Papabelievesaplainactoftrustwillsaveus.ButIbelieveheistriflingwith
oursafety,andIamangrylikeMother.TrulyIam.
4thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Papa still does not lock the door. But Mother has exerted her will and notallowedThomasandmetowalktoschoolthelastseveraldays,forshefearswewillbecapturedalongtheway.Thepathwetakeisoveramilelongandmuchofitthroughlonelyfieldsandforests,withnofarminsight.SoThomashelpedPapastockthewoodpiletodaywhileIfedthechickens.I
try to have Papa’s faith, but I confess I jumped whenever the tree branchesrattledinthewindorshadowsshifted.
5thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Today I helpedPapa,CousinEzra, andThomasbind the sheaves andpile thehay.Istoppedoftenandstaredatthefields.Itbeingfoggy,IthoughtoncethatIactuallysawfigurescreepingthroughthecornrows.IrushedtoPapaandreportedwhatIsaw.HebecamecrosswhenIpointedto
theemptyfogandaskedmewhyIhavesolittlefaith.Nowinthedark,Iheareveryacornandhickorynutthatfallsupontheroof,
andIthink,AreIndianssurroundingus?Ihearacreakoftheladdersteps,andmyscalptingles.Isonenowclimbingto
theloftwithahatchet?I am fearful this will be my last night on Earth. But I am doubly fearful
becausemyfearisnotpleasingtoGodorPapa.
6thofTwelfthMonth,1763
I am still much frightened. But Papa seemed forgiving of my fear today andkindlytoldmetostayinthehouseandhelpMothertendBabyWill.Thomashasatoothache.Motherboiledcorn-mealandmilk,placedthegruel
inacloth,andpressedthehotpoulticeagainsthischeek.Elizaiswellnow.WesatbythefireandIshowedherhowtostringthedried
pumpkin.Thenwesatinthedoorway,bathedbythegoldenlightofthesunset,and I taught her to shuck corn. For a four-year-old, her fingers are unusuallyquickandnimble.Duringdailydevotions,PapareadPsalm23tobolsterourcourage,sothatwe
willallfearnoevil.StillIprayedtonighthewouldputthebaronthedoor.ButIthinkhehasnot.
7thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Everythingwasapples today.Mother,Eliza, and Imadeapplesauceandapplebutterandhungstringsofapplestodryfromthekitchenrafters.Writingby thedim lightofmycandle, I still smell apples.The sweet scent
risesfromthedarkdownstairsandmakesmefeelunafraid—especiallyasIjustheardPapaputthebaronthedoor.Hurrah!
8thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Coolandwindy.ThomasandIpiledcornhighinthecorncribfortheanimals’winterfood.SilasJonescame toour farm.HeshallaccompanyPapaandCousinEzra to
theMeetingHousetomorrowtodiscusstheproblemconcerningtheIndians.AfterdinnerMotherandIcardedwoolbeforethefire.Thomasmadeacorn
husk doll for Eliza. Papa and Silas Jones talked about taking a trip toPhiladelphia someday to see the Governor and discuss fair treatment for theIndians.TheywishtheEnglishwouldmakeaformallandtreatywiththeIndiansand,foronce,honorallofitsterms.Beforebed,Papa ledus inprayer.HeaskedGod tohelpus exertourselves
more to protect our red brothers, to wipe the tears from their eyes, and tocomforttheirafflictedhearts.Abitterwindisleakingthroughtherafters.Soonthedarkestdayoftheyear
willbeuponus.Ipraythat theroamingIndianattackershavereturnedto theirvillages near the Susquehanna and now sit by their own fires with their ownfamilies.Lettherebenomorefearandtrembling,oneitherside.
10thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Fogonthefieldsearlymorning.Butitwasasunnyday.MotherandIbakedalldayandThomasmadecandles.Goodnews!Ourprayershavebeenanswered.PapaandCousinEzraandSilas
JonescamebackfromtheMeetingHousethisafternoonandannouncedthatthevalleyissafeagain.AdelegationofourMoravianneighborshasvisitedacounciloftheDelaware
and reports that the Indians say they shall no longer attackwhite settlements,thoughtheyarestillgrievedovertherecentencroachmentsontheirland.Mother was so relieved that shemade a big dinner of ham, beans, squash,
corncakes,andapplepie.AndshesaidthatThomasandIcouldreturntoschooltomorrow.I pray the Indian scare has banished Jess Owen’s memory of my stupid
remarkabouthis“impudenttongue.”MyfacestillreddenswhenIthinkofit.Imustforcemyselftospeaknewwordstohim—towipeawaythestainoftheold.
11thofTwelfthMonth,1763
TodayJessOwensmiledatmeas ifmywordshadbeencompletelyforgotten.Thenheboldlystatedthathehadmissedme.AndIanswered,“I,thee.”IcannotbelieveIsaidthat.“I,thee!”HemustthinkIamthemostdaringgirl
inthecountry.HemustthinkIamreadytomarryhim.We studied how to divide the long numbers today and good news — I
understandit!Ihavebeenafraidofthistaskforaverylongtime.IoncepeekedaheadatsomeproblemsinMasterCollins’ssum-book,andInearlyfainted—Isawtrillionsdividedbybillions!Butnowthedreadedlessonhascomeandgone,andIamnolongerafraidof
dividingthelongnumbers.ThisisoneofGod’stendermercies,Isuppose.But—I,thee!HowIdislikemyimpudenttongue.
19thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Weatherrawandcold.WebeginChristmasbakingtomorrow.Overfortypeopleshall come to our farm afterMonthlyMeeting, including JessOwenwith hismotherandfather.Hewill seeme inmyownhouse,withmyfamily—andIwill be frozen with nerves and embarrassment. Thus I am dreading the HolyDay.Myvanitycausesmetoneglectitsdivinemeaning.Worsestill, Iyearnforablueribbontowearwhenhecomes.OnlyIwould
notwanthimtothinkIwaswearingitforhim.Notever.
24thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Industriousdays.Wepeeledturnipsandpotatoes.Webakedjohnnycakes,sweetbiscuits, six loaves of bread, pumpkin pudding and squash pudding, and eightpumpkin pies. We grated corn and stewed dried apples. Then we cleanedcandlesticks,churnedbutter,scrubbed,andscoured.Blessedly,IhavebeentoobusytoworryaboutJessOwen—andnowIamtooweary.
25thofTwelfthMonth,1763
At first the sun shone unseasonably warm. Then it grew cooler, and the skyturnedgray.Bymid-afternoon,afterMeeting,itwasquitecold,andpuffysnowcloudsgathered.As the carriages arrived, I tended a pack of little ones in the big field.We
playedtag,thenflewThomas’skite.Iwas racingacross thegrass, trying tomake thekite soar,when I sawJess
Owenarrivewithhiskin.Hehad that“touchofasmirk”smileonhis face. Itwas enough tomakeme lose all restraint and run like awild horse— in theoppositedirection.For joyand fear I ran through thecoldair,urging the littleoneson.ThoughElizacalledformetoslowdown,Icouldnotreininmyhighfeelings.
SoIkeptgoingtillIranintotheforest,andthekitewascaughtbythetrees.ThomascalledforJesstountanglethestring.WhileJessclimbedatalloak,IescapedandranbacktoscoopupBabyWill
andthelittleCollinsgirl.ItookthemtotheswingnearthebarnwhereIstartedpushingthemmadly.Finallythedinnerbellrang.Icarriedthebabiestothespringandwashedall
thelittlehandspresentedtome.Inside,atthetable,fortyFriendsweregatheredaroundthreewoodentables,andImyselfwasseatedacrossfromJessOwen!Icouldnotlookathimface-to-face,soIstaredwithuncommoninterestatmy
sweetpotatoes,corn,androastedturkey.ItmayhaveseemedtohimthatIwaslostinmyself.Butintruth,Iwaslostto
myself.Completely.Icouldnotfindeventhesimplestthoughttoshare.I thought thenightwouldneverend.Butgradually theguestsgathered their
things to leave. As Jess and his parents started to go, he came near me andwishedmeablessedChristmas.“IhopetheNewYearfareswellwiththee,”hesaid.“Iwishthesameforthee,”Isaid.“TheNewYearwillbefine—iftheeisapartofit,”hesaid.“Theeiskind,”Isaid.Thenheclimbedintohiscarriage,andastheydroveoff,itstartedtosnow.I
thinkforonceIsaidtherightthing.Mycandleburnsinthedarkwhilethewindgentlyswirlsthesnowagainstthe
window.
Thankyou,dearAlmighty,forthisperfectnightandforthebirthofThyson,JesusChrist,ourLord.
27thofTwelfthMonth,1763
Rainmixedwithsnow.Asad,swampyday.At candlelight, ReverendBeckwell from theMoravian fort knocked on our
door. He told Papa that yesterday a mob party had presented itself to theConestoga Indians at Lancaster and threatened tomurder them on the spot iftheydidnotleave.ThemobwasrevengingthedeathsofthesettlersinEleventhMonth.TheseIndians,however,wereinnocentofthosecrimes.Infact,theywereall
Christians.Nevertheless,allofthem,womenandchildrenincluded,wereforcedto quickly remove themselves from their camp. They even left behind theirharvest.
30thofTwelfthMonth,1763
The Reverend wants Papa and other Quaker Friends to ride to Lancastertomorrow and help protect the frightened Indians on their sad march toPhiladelphia.WepassedtheSabbathinmuchsilenceandprayer.WhenPapabegantoread,
“TheLord preserveth all them that loveHim,” he stopped and could not readfurther.IthinkhisheartespeciallyachesforthelittleIndianchildren.Forthefirst timeinweeks,Iamanxiousagainthat theIndiansmightattack
us.IdonotwanttolosethevictoryIhavesorecentlygained:thetriumphovermyterrors.Ipraypassionatelyforpeaceforall.
4thofFirstMonth,1764
This rainy night is as dismal and black as my heart. Before Papa and otherscould go help the Indians at Lancaster, terrible news was reported to theMoravians.Asthetribepreparedtofleetosafety,adrunkenpartyofwhitemenreturned and reviled them. Though the Indians begged for mercy, the mobmurderedthem,thesmallchildrenincluded.All day Papa was so sorrowful he could barely speak. His strong feelings
afflictedusall.Afteracolddinner,MothermademetakeElizaandThomasuptotheloftearly,sosheandPapacouldbealone.Elizawastiredandwenttosleepquickly.ButIheardThomassniffling,andI
litthecandle.I askedwhy hewas crying, and he said hewept for the persecution of the
Christian Indian babies, and he wished Papa was not unhappy and everyonewouldbesafe.I told him to close his eyes and find a calm place within himself. Then I
strokedhisdamp,brownhairuntilhebreathedpeacefullyinsleep.ComfortingThomashasservedtocomfortme.
6thofFirstMonth,1764
AtMeetingtoday,Papabrokethesilence.HetoldtheFriendsthattheIndianshavetrustedthewhitemenandwehave
forsakenthem.HeremindedthemofWilliamPennandhisgreatfriendshipwiththeDelaware.PaparecalledthataDelawarechiefoncesaid:WheneverQuakersare nearby, the Indians sleep in peace. The Indians have thought themselveshappyintheirfriendshipwithus.But now, the backwoodsmen are destroying the red men with liquor and
smallpoxandmurder.TherearemanywhobelievetheIndianhasnomoresoulthanabuffalo.EvenmanyQuakerFriendsthinkofthemas“savages.”(Indeed,Ihave even heard Mother call them such.) Drunken murderers have fired andburnttothegroundIndianvillageafterIndianvillage.WhycantheGovernornottryharder toprotect the innocent?It is truthwemuststrivefor,Papasaid,notvictory.Papa’s voice shook, causing some Friends to stir. I believe he may have
spokenwithtoomuchangerfortheirtaste.Ipraythatwewillnotbesenttoschooltomorrow.Couldtheslaughterofthe
Indianscausesometoriseagainstus?Couldbandsofwarriorsbeplanningnowtoswoopdownandavengethosewhoweremurdered?Perhaps at thismoment, an Indian in the forest spies uponme and seesme
writebycandle.Perhapsheseesmemouthaprayer:“Examineme,OLord,andproveme.Trymyreinsandmyheart.”Sadly,Iammorefrightenedthanever.Imustblowoutmylight.
7thofFirstMonth,1764
DearGod,saveus.Wearecaptured.
8thofFirstMonth,1764
DearPapa,Ihopethesewordswillfindthee.MycaptorsstarecoldlyasIwrite.
9thofFirstMonth,1764
Papa, one grabbedmy diary fromme and showed it to the other three. Theystudiedit,thenreturnedittome.NowItremble,butwritequicklytoexplain.Onthewaytoschoolfourpainted
Indianscameoutofbushes.Onecaughtme.AnothercaughtThomasandthrewhimacrosshisshoulder.Thomas fought.Whenhe fell to theground, I screamedathim to run.Two
Indianschasedafterhim,andalldisappearedintowoods.Othertwodraggedmeaway.
TimeLost
BothIndiansarepaintedredandblackandhaveshavedheads.Oneseemsquiteold,buthisgripisstrong,andIcannotfighthim.
Papa,Iscribbleafewwords.Havelosttrackofdays.IamsofrightenedIcannotthink.Ionlyobeythemlikeaslave.
Iwritewhen I can, Papa.One day blends into the next.Nowwe are campedunderacliff.Theoldone tries togivemeroastedmeat. Ichokeandvomit. Iftheyscalporburnmealive,IprayGodtakemysoulquickly.GodsaveThomaswhereverheis.
Papa,Thomas iswithmenow.Theybroughthimtoourcampatdawn. Iheldhimtightandtoldhimtobestrong.Holdinghimgivesmestrength.Butstrengthforwhat?Ourexecutionandtorture?Wherearewegoing?Helpus,God.
I write whenever they sleep or are otherwise occupied. Only twice have theycaughtme—and then theyseemedmorecurious thanangry.Theypointed tomybookandspoketooneanother,thenletmealone.Thomasissilentwithshock,Papa.Ignawmytongueinanguish.Ifearthey
willkillhimifheremainsafflicted.
Papa,alldayIgrippedThomas’shandandwilledhimtowalk.Heneverspoke,exceptforwhimpers.Whatdayisitnow?Ihavelostalltrackoftime.
Wecamped ina clearing.Theoldmanmadea shelterofboughswhileothershunted.Idonotknowwhereweare.Orwheretheyaretakingus.IsiteventhesamedayaswhenlastIwrote?Will theymurder us in a savage ceremony? I am so horrified, I am numb,
Papa.
TheIndianscaughtadeer,skinnedit,androasteditoverthefire.Stillunabletoeatorspeak,Thomasfellintoafitfulsleep.Itwasgoodhesleptanddidnotseewhat happened next. Two Indians took bloody scalps from a bag. They driedthem and scraped them by the fire. They must have scalped victims on theirhunt.Ivomited.
At dawn, I could not getThomas to stand.The Indians stared hard at him—except for theoldmanwhoseemsnot tohearorseeus. Iwhisperedurgently,“Theemuststand.StandforPapa,Mother,BabyWill,Eliza.Theywanttheetostand.”Whenhestoodandwalked, I feltahorribleguilt, for Icannotpromisehimthathewilleverseetheeagain.Wetraveledfootpathsallday,thencampedunderarockshelter.Theytriedto
feeduscornmeal,butneitherofuscouldeat.Wearecoldandweaknow.Ithinkwewilldiesoon,Papa.
Thomas lived through thenight, but is very feeble.Atdawn,he looked atmewithholloweyes.WithallthemightofGod,Iwilledhimtowalkinfrontofmeoverthenarrowpath.Overandover,Iwhispered,“TheemustwalkforPapa.”
TheIndianswatchThomaslikehawks.Ifhedrops,Ifeartheywillscalphim.
Thomas fell and lay lifeless.One Indianwalked toward himwith a hatchet. Iscreamedandthrewmyselfoverhisbody.Itoldthemtheymustkillmefirst.The old Indian looked at me with keen interest. He spoke to others, then
crouchedbeforeThomasandwhisperedtohim.Thomasopenedhiseyesandsmiled.Ithinkhewashalf-insane.But the old Indian smiled back. He fed Thomas cornmeal from his pouch.
Thenhepickedhimupandputhimoverhisshoulderandcarriedhim.Theotherthreefollowed,andIcamelast,tremblingandwipingtears.
Nowallsleep.Awolfhowlsbeyondourfirelight.Lord,bearmeupforthesakeofThomas.
Thomasstilldoesnotspeak,Papa.Again,alldaytheoldIndiancarriedhiminhisarmsandsharedhisfoodwithhim.Wewadedanicyriver,thenclimbedintoacanoe,andhackedthroughthinicetomovedownriver.Wheredowego?Howmanydayshavewebeengone?Howfararewefrom
theenow?Papa,donotforgetus.
Perhaps it has been a week since our capture, Papa. I cannot tell. Today wepassed a burned settlement and saw charred bodies on the riverbank. I heldThomasagainstmesohecouldnotsee.TheoldIndianwatchesmewithdark,unfathomableeyes.Willtheyburnus,too?
Seconddayon the river.At twilight the Indianscampedonshore,peeledbarkfrom treesandbuilta shelterheldupby four logs. I tried toeatcornmealandsmokedfish,butcannotswallow.
In the afternoon, the sound of drums came from the forest beyond the shore.Smokewasrisingintothegraysky.As they took us ashore into Indian camp, dogs barked, and children ran to
stare.Womenandmenstoodfrozen,watchingus.Maybefiftyinall.Our captors led us to a hut, and a frail-looking old woman took us inside.
Therewasanopen fire in themiddleof the room. In thedim light,we satonanimalskinsanddrankwaterfromagourd.Ayoungwomansatwithus.Shehadahandsome faceandvery longblack
hair.Shetriedtofeedusgruelofcornmush,butwespat ituplikebabies.Sheandtheoldwomandrapedpungentskinsoverusandleft.Nowwe are alone. The hut is one roomwith a hole in the roof to let out
smoke from the fire. Strips of corn, dried pumpkin, and clumps of roots andtobaccohangfromtheceiling.Thomasliescurledlikeawoundedanimal.Ifearwefacetortureinthemorning,Papa,liketheburntbodiesontheriver.I
wouldtrytoescape,butThomasistooweaktorunwithme.IwilldiebeforeIforsakehim.
AtdawntheoldIndiancametous.Ayoungmanwaswithhim.HepickedupThomasandtookhimfromme.Webothscreamed.I tried to run after him, but the two women held me down. I fought
desperately,forIcouldhearThomascrymyname,thefirstwordshehasspokenindays.Thesoundwasterribletomyears,suchthatIfainted.Ifelthandsstrokingmyface,andIopenedmyeyes.Thethin,oldwomanwas
kneelingbesideme,paintingmyfacered.IbeggedhertobringThomasbacktome.Theyoungwoman—herdaughter, I think—rubbedmyarmswithbeargrease.Ibeggedthemboth.Buttheydonotunderstandme.Itriedtostand,butcollapsed.Tearsstreameddownmyface,mixingwithred
paint,liketearsofblood.Theyleftmealone,butstandguardbytheentrancewhileIsufferandanguish
forThomas.
Theoldwomanandherdaughterpaintedmeagain.Theysmearedbeargreaseintomyhairandcombeditsmoothwithabristlebrush.Thedaughter tookoffmytornshoes,tenderlywashedmyfeetwithwater,thenputsoftmoccasinsonthem.Herbabyisnearby,tiedtoastraight,thinboard.Afat,round-facedbabywithblackeyes.
Papa, I believe I have been adopted as the old woman’s second daughter.Yesterday,afterIwaspainted,thetwowomenremovedmytorncloakanddressandputmeinafringedshirtandadeerskinskirt.IpleadedfornewsofThomas,buttheybehavedasiftheydidnothear.Ikept
askingforhim,redtearsfalling.Twicemoretheyhadtopaintme.The oldwoman broughtme a corncake. I stared at it, desiring never to eat
again,onlytosinkintodeath.ButthenIthought,Godwillsmetolive,inorderthatImightsaveThomas.SoIdidtrytoswallowtheirfood.Nexttheypulledmetomyfeet,drapedarobeoffeathersovermyshoulders,
then ledme into the cold,windy sunlight.Wewalked to a longhouse coveredwithbark.IhopedthatThomaswouldbe inside thehouse,buthewasnot.Onlymany
Indianscrowdedintoadark,smokyarea.They satmebefore agroup.All stared, adrumbeating softly, tomatch the
fearfulbeatingofmyheart.Insanely I thought of Mother’s rules for Meeting and recited them like
catechism.AmanspokeinIndian.Theoldwomancameforwardandgavealongspeech.
Herthinbodyshookwithemotionasherreedyvoicecriedoutinanguish.Shehanded themananecklaceofwhite shells.He turned tomeand spoke
loudly,saying,“Chilili,”thenhandedmeovertoher.Sheandherdaughtertriedtoembraceme,asifIwerenowtheirkin.Though
theirtouchwastender,Iwasaslifelessasastonestatue.TheysleepnowwhileIwrite.Theblack-eyedbabystarescuriouslyatmein
thedimlight.
Alonenow,Papa.IhavenotyetseenThomas.ForthreedaysIhavesatintheoldwoman’scold,smokyhut,dressedlikeanIndian,stinkingofbeargrease.Whenevertheoldwomanandherdaughtercallme“Chilili”andspeaktome,
Ipretendnottohear.Ionlystareatthefire,tryingtoclingtomypastlife.Butmymind is invadedbyodors from thegrease inmyhair and thebeaverpeltsdrapedovermyshoulders.Astrangeandsavagedreamhasovertakenmylife.
The twowomenstareatmeas Iwrite.But theydonot seem tomind. Insteadtheyappearcuriousandrespectful.Perhapstheythinkmywritingissomesortofmagic.TodayIhauledwood.Trudgedbackandforthwitha tallyoungIndianwho
hasaneaglepaintedonhischeek.Hecutdeadtreelimbswithhishatchet,andIpickedthemupandhelpedhimcarrythembacktothehut.Ineverspoke.Onlytrudgedinperpetual,sorrowfulsilence.Howmanydays
havepassed?
ThefatIndianbabycoosandlaughsashismotherplayspeekaboowithhim.Henever appears fretful like BabyWill. Forgiveme, Papa, but I wonder bitterlywhyGod dostmake this savage childmore healthy and happy thanHis ownChristianbaby.
Sometimes in thehushofnight, I think IhearThomascrymyname.But it isonlythedeviltorturingme,Papa.
Wentintothefrozenmarshtochecktrapswiththreehunters,includingtheonewiththeeaglepaintedonhischeek.TheythrustafreshlycaughtbeavercarcassintomyarmsandIfollowedthem,blooddrippingontothesnow.
Scrapedpeltswith theoldwomanandherdaughterwhile thedaughter’sbabysleepsonhisboard.Theytry tobefriendme,say“Chilili,”andsmile,butIdonotanswer.Theirtendertreatmentwillnotsoftenme.Iwillneverbeadoptedbythem.
Theyoungwomanholdsherquiet,bright-eyedbabyandstaresatmeinthedimfirelight.NomatterhowcoldIamtowardher,shetreatsmewithcourtesyandcalm.Shewearsbuckskindecoratedwithshellsandbrightlycoloredporcupinequills.Herlong,shinyhairispulledbackandtiedwithapieceofcloth.Hereyesaredarkandwarm.ButIdespiseher,Papa.SheletthemtakeThomasfromme.Iwillnoteverbekindtoher.Forgiveme,butIdespiseherredbaby,too.
Thus far, none seem to care that Iwrite.My spiritwould fadecompletely if Icouldnotwrite,Papa.IpraythesewordsreachtheeandMothersomeday.
Helped hunters check traps again.We were silent, walking single file on thesnowy,wetpath.Thenweallreturnedinthewindandheavyrain.Islippedandfell.Onetriedtohelpme,butIpushedhimaway.Ishoulddieif
anyofthemtouchme.TheyaremoreanimaltomethanthebloodygameIhelpcarry.IpretendIamdeadintheirworld.
Weary and faint-hearted. God give me strength until I find out for certain ifThomasisdead.
Hotwithfever.Wetcoldnesshaschilledmetobone—cannotgetwarm.Teethchatter.Coughdreadfully—cannolongerwrite.
ThomasiseitherdeadorfarawayandIwillnotseehimagain.Iknowthis.ButIdonotcare.Idonotcareforanything.ThoughIlive,Ifeeldead.
WhyamIhere?WhydidtheytakeThomas?WhydidGodletusbecaptured?Iprayedsohardforusalltobesafe,Papa,andGoddidn’thear.
Burnedwithfeverallday. Inandoutofdreams,heardrattleshakingoverme,andlow,steadysinging.NowIamalone.Coughworse.
Todaytheoldwomanandherdaughtertorturedme.Theyputmeinalowbarkhouse and pouredwater over hot stones. Steam blindedme as extreme sweatrolledoffmyskin.Thentheyforcedmetodrinkaterribleconcoction,pulledmeoutofthesweat
oven, dunked me down into a hole they had made in the river ice, into thefreezingwater, thenwrappedme tightly inwoolen cloths and laymenear thefire,turningmelikemeatonasticktillIwasdry.IcannotexplainwhyIfeelbetternow.Theirtorturehasstrangelyhealedme.
Fever and sweating have thawed my heart. Now I feel it might burst fromsorrow.Ithinkoftheeall,Papa—ofMothersingingtoBabyWillassherockshim,ofEliza’slittlefingersshuckingcorn.AndofThomas—Papa,IcanhardlywriteofThomas.Hewasagood,bravelittleboy.WhydidGodpunishhimsocruelly?Ifeelunceasinganguishandcannotstopmytears.
Ihearflutemusiccomingthroughthecolddark,andmymemoryflutterswildly.Papa, I see thee at dusk, near the woodpile. I see Mother sewing and Elizalaughing.IrunwithThomastowardtheschoolhouseasthebellclangs.Iamsighingforeverydetailofmyold life,evenarithmeticandtheacheof
sittingstillinMeeting.Allseemssosweetmingledwiththeflutemusic,whileIaminexilefromeverythingIknowandlove.ItwasbetterwhenIwasfrozen,Papa,when I felt nothing. I yearn to findmyway back to thee.But I cannotmakeaplanofescapetillIhaveknowledgeofThomas.
Stormragesoutside.Windhowls.Manysitinourhut,tellingstoriesandeatingsmokedfish.Thebabywaveshisarmsandcriesouthappily,makingthewomenlaugh.ThehunterwiththeeaglepaintedonhischeekwatchesmeasIwrite.There.Ijustlookedathimsternly,andhelookedaway.At least they allowme to write. Indeed I believe they think my writing is
something extraordinary. Each time I take out my copybook and quill, I seelooksofapprovalpassfromonetoanother.Perhaps if theyknewhowbitterlyIwroteabout them, theywouldnotbeso
pleased.
NowImustconservemywords,formyinkislow.
LastnightIdreamtthatIwentforwater.Whenbreakingtheice,Isawasmallboyfloatingintheairupthehillbeyondtheriver,andIthought,Thomas?MyGod,isitThomas?I started shouting to him.But he disappeared over the hill, and Iwoke up,
trembling.Inthedark,theIndianbabywhimpered.Hesorarelycries,thatforamoment,Ifeltatendernessforhimandlongedtocomforthim.DearGod,bringThomasback tome,and takeushome toBabyWill.Dear
God,givemecourage.Makemestrong.Helpmetolive.
Somethingstrangehappenedtometoday,Papa.Withoutwarning,Ibegantosayallmythoughtsoutloud.Andmanyofthemweremostbitter.IthappenedwhenIwaswalkingbehind thehunterwith theeaglepaintedonhischeek. Islippedandfellinthesnow.AfterIscrambledbacktomyfeet,mywrathpouredoutlikefire.ItoldhimthatIwasnotasavagelikehimandtheothers!ItoldhimthatIdespised them. I despise everything about him and his people. They are allheathens,withnoGod.Theyareallanimalsandareallgoingtothedevil!As strange asmy behaviorwas, his behaviorwas stranger.He did not turn
backevenoncetolookatme,nortocommandmetobesilent.Indeed,Ibegantowonderifhehadheardmeatall.Then,IwonderedifIhadevenspoken.WasIonlythinkingthesevenomous
thoughts?Ishoutedinanangryvoice,demandingtoknowifhehadheardmespeak.Butstillhedidnotlookbackatme.I fear I amgoingmad,Papa.Perhaps invisible, too.Worstof all,my ink is
nearlygone.
WhatwillIdo,Papa?Thisisthelastofmyink.Nowforcertain,Iwilltotallydisappear.
Icanwriteagain.IwassodesperateforinkthatIbeggedthewholecamptohelpme.Butalllookedatmyemptyjarwithdumbbewilderment.Indespair,Ihurleditacrossthesnow.ButwhenIroseatdawn,Ifoundthejarattheentrancetoourhut.Ithadbeen
replenishedwithinkmadefromcoaldust.Andanewwildturkeyquillwaswith
it!IlostallrestraintagainandIshoutedatthecamp,askingwhohadgivenme
thesewritingtools.Iheldthejarandquilluptotheoldwomanandherdaughteranddemandedtoknow.Buttheoldwomanonlypressedherfingertohercheek.Perhapsanangeldeliveredthesegiftstomeinthenight,andIcancallthema
miracle.Papa,whyamIsuddenlyturnedoutofmyself—shoutingandexclaiming?Is
it because I do not care any more what others think? This is a new andfrighteningthing.
Iprayfortheabilitytohideagain.Butsomegreaturgeseemstobepushingmeoutofmyself.I talked behind the hunter’s back again today. On the path, as we were
returningfromafoxhunt,Itoldhimaboutthemiracleofmyink.Ispokeloudlyandclearlyandexplained thatmyGodhadsent ink tome. I toldhimhowtheLordhadonceturnedwaterintowineandfedfivethousandwithonlytwofishesandfiveloavesofbread.Iaskedhimwhathethoughtofallthat.Andwhenhedidnotrespond,Icould
notkeepquietmyopinionthathewasasdumbasanox!I know I am going a little mad, Papa. But ’tis curious that yelling in this
mannerhasbeguntomakemecheerful.
Ikeeptalking,Papa!Nowwhentheoldwomanandherdaughtercallme“Chilili”andspeaktome
inIndian,IanswertheminEnglishandsaywhateverI like.Today,whentheyspoketome,ItoldthemplainlyandhonestlythatIdonotcarewhattheyhavetosay,IhavegreatgriefinmyheartandIhavegreatanger.ItoldthemImissmyfamilyanddemandedtoknowwhereThomasis.Ishoutedthattheymustbringhimbacktome!“Onlythen—whenthathappens—willIbenicetothee!”Itoldthem.Theywatchedpatiently, thenwentabout theirwork,praying,I imagine, that
thiswildspiritwillleavemesoon.Ideclareitwillnot.Ihavefoundstrangepleasureinmynewfreedomtospeak
mymind.
TonightIattendedacampfireceremony.Istoodalonewatchingyoungmenand
womenmovetheirfeettothepulseoftherattleandtheeeriesingingoftheolderwomen.Iwouldnotjointhem.WhentheleaderofthedancespoketomeinIndian,I
wasimpudent,tellinghimthatIhadnodesiretodancelikeaheathen.“Killmeiftheelikes!”Isaid.“Burnme!Tortureme!MyspiritwillgotoGodandIwillfindcomfortandrest!”HespokecalmlyinIndianagain,asifwewerehavingacivilconversation.Nearbythehunterwiththeeaglepaintedonhischeekdanced.WhenIheard
himlaughatme,Iturnedonhimandspokefuriously,daringhimtolaughagain.I told himmy words would make him wither if he understood them. Then Istalkedaway.
IcantalkallIwant.IcansayanythingIlike,andnoonetriestostopme.Todaywhensmallchildrengatheredaround,Iberatedthem,saying,“TheearenothingcomparedtoThomas,Eliza,andBabyWill!MybrothersandsisterarethemostpreciousbeingsonEarth!”Theystareddumbly.“Theeareallsodreadfullystupid!”Ishouted.Thoughtheydonotunderstand
mytongue,theyunderstoodmyrage,andwhenonetinygirlbegantocry,Ifeltstricken.Ireturnedtomyhutandwept.Papa,theealwayssaidthebesthelpisinthyself.Butifthyselfisfilledwith
darknessandinwardsuffering,whereisthelightthentosustainthee?IammadeofsolittlestrengthandgoodnessthatIcannotfindhelpwithin.
Today Iwent againwith the hunters to carry their game.Oncemore, I foundmyselfonthenarrowpath,walkingbehindthehunterwiththeeaglepaintedonhischeek,andoncemoresomemysteriousforcepriedthesecretsfrommyheart.I confessed to him that I felt peculiar hearingmyself talk somuch, for inmyworld,Ihadrecentlybeenafraidtotalkatall.I told him that at home, I have feared sounding too bold or too vain. But
perhaps I am both these things, I explained. Bold and vain may be my truequalities, and I don’t knowwhat to do about them. I fear Imay someday beturned out from the Society of Friends. Imay be an outcast and never find ahusbandorhaveafamily.I confessed all this to him and further grieved thatmy fears are ridiculous
becausemostlikelyIwillneverseemyhomeagain,ever.IweptpitifullyashottearsfelluponthedeadfoxIcarried.
Thehunterneverturnedaround.HadIspokenatall?
Ihavenoideawhatmonthordayitis.Butitmustbelatewinter,forthesaphasbeguntorun.TodayItrailedaftertheoldwoman’sdaughterthroughthewoods.Mendrewthesapfromtreesintobarkreceptacles.Womenboileditbydroppinginhotstones,thenwepouredsomeonthesnowtoeat.Backatthehut,theoldwomanmeltedbear’sfatwiththemaplesugarandwe
dippedroastedvenisonintoit,andourcornbread,too.Agoodmeal,notunlikeaspecialsuppercookedbyMother.Itriedtoscornit,
butIateallIwasgivenandwantedmore.Papa,howcanIdieofgriefwhenIhavesolargeanappetite?Whydoeslife
clingtoacruelworldwithsuchferocity?
IdreamtagainofThomaslastnight.Hewasontheothersideofthehill,beyondthefrozenriver.Hewasbeingtortured—beatentodeathwithsticksasheranagauntlet.Iwokeupinanguish.AlldayIhavewantedtoslipawayandlookontheothersideofthehill.ButI
willhavetocrossthefrozenriverfirst,andIdonotknowhowsolidtheiceis.PerhapsIwilltestitwhenIfetchwaterinthemorning.AmIgoingmad,Papa,chasingafteradream?
Atdawn,Iwenttotheriverforwater.Ratherthanbreaktheice,Iattemptedtowalkonit.Isteppedcarefully,untilIheardacrack.ThenIjumpedback,justintime.WhenIturnedaround,Isawthehunterstandingnearby.Ishoutedathimangrily,askinghimwhyhespiedonme.ItoldhimthatIhad
seenmybrotherinadream,thattheIndianswerebeatinghimtodeath.Heshookhishead.“Why dost thee say no?” I asked with wonder. “No what? Dost thee
understandme?”Helookedlongandhardintomyeyes,thenturnedandleft.“Thomasisbeingtortured!”Iscreamed.ThenIthoughtIheardhimspeak—inEnglishwords.IthoughtIheardhim
say,“No.Heisnot.”Buthisbackwastome,andthewindwasblowing.SoperhapsIdidnothear
athing.NowIsitalone,inthedark,listeningtothewind.Itseemstomockme.“No.
Heisnot”—canthewindsoundlikeitisspeakingEnglishwords?Nottruly.Butitmusthavebeenthewind.
AnotherdreamofThomasontheothersideofthehill.HewaschasingourpigCurly with a stick. I yelled at him to stop … then Curly changed into amonstrousbearandturnedonusboth.WhydoIkeepdreamingaboutthehill?Iamdesperatenowtoclimbit.ButfirstImustcrosstheriver.Later,whenallareasleep,Iwillgointhedarkandfindapathwheretheiceis
solid.Themoonisalmostroundtonight.
Lastnightmyplanwascrossedbya sudden storm.Snowwhirled, andcloudscoveredthemoon.Icouldnotseeatall,thusdidnotventureontotheice.Todaydawnsbrightwiththesunshiningonthesnowlikeamillionpiecesof
broken glass. Perhaps the river ice has becomemore solid, and tonight itwillsupportmyfootfall.
Papa,ithasgrowndark.Butthemoonisbrightoutside.ItistheperfectnightformyjourneyoverthehilltosearchforThomas.IfIamdrownedintheicyriver,orslainbymycaptors,forgivemyvanities.I
havebeenhalfoutofmymindandconsumedbyanguish.Theoldwoman,herdaughter,andbabygrandsonsleepnow.Imusthurryinto
thestarrymoonlight.Remember,IlovetheeandMotherwithallmyheart.Caty.
TheBiblesaysafter thewindsandearthquakeandfire, therewasastill,smallvoice.Ihearditlastnight,Papa.OnlyitwasnotGod’s.Ormine.In themoonlight, I found the rivercoveredwithnewsnow.Seizedwith the
desiretofindoutifThomaswasontheothersideofthehill,Istartedacrosstheice.Soon it began to crack.But locked in the grip ofmywill, I could not turn
back.Ikeptgoing.Thencameagiantcrack.Bothmylegscrashedthroughtheice,andIplunged
downintotheicywater.Igrabbedabrokenshard.Clingingdesperately,Iheard“Chilili!”In themoonlight, I saw an Indian standing on the riverbank, holding out a
branch.InEnglish,hecommanded,“Takeit!”Igrabbed thebranch.The roughbarkcutmyhandsas Igripped tightlyand
pulledmyselfontostrongerice.ThenIleapttothebankandfellontothesnow.WhentheIndianhelpedmeup,Isawhewasthehunterwiththeeaglepainted
onhischeek.I shook all over—whether from relief of being saved, or simply from the
cold, I know not. Through chattering teeth I asked, “How dost thee knowEnglish?”“IwasEnglishonce,”hesaidinawhispery,haltingvoice.“NowLenape.”Thenheturnedandwalkedaway,andIwasleftstilltrembling.Myhand issteadynowas Iwriteclose to the firewhile theotherssleep.A
thoughtstrikesme.Manydaysago,whenIaskedwhohadreplenishedmyink,theoldwomantouchedhercheek.Wasshereferringtothehunterwiththeeaglepaintedonhischeek?Didshemeanthathehadrefilledmyjar?Iwatchthefiresmokewaftupthroughtheholeintheceilingintothesilent
nightsky.Iamfilledwithconfusion,Papa,andwonder.
Ididnotseethehunterallday.IwouldthinkIhaddreamtourmeetingifitwerenotfortheraw,redspotsonmyhandsfromclingingtothebranchheheldouttome.Iamanxioustoseehimagain.SurelyhecanhelpmegainnewsofThomas.
Whereisthehunter?All this rainy day I workedwith thewomen aswemademoccasins in the
longhouse,andIdidnotlayeyesuponhim.IlookedaroundthecampwheneverIhadtheexcusetofetchwaterorwood.Butheisnowheretobeseen.I cringe to think that the hunter understood all the wrathful words I spoke
thesepastweeks,andImarvelhedidnotscornme.Rather,hesavedmefromicydeath.Ifeelchastenedandhumbled.
Highwindstoday.Riverwaterrushingfromthespringrains.AgainIdidnotseethehunter.Themoretimepasses,themoredistressedIbecome.
Thehunterisback!Late this afternoon, he and two others returned with the carcass of a huge
black bear. I hurried to the bear dance in front of the longhouse, desperate tospeakwithhim.The hunter danced hard to the drumbeat — shouting and leaping and
stamping.HeseemedsoIndianin thefirelight, IcouldnotbelievethathewasonceEnglish.Heneverlookedmyway.Notonce.Perhapsheplansnottospeakmylanguageagain.Perhapshewilldenythathe
everspoketomeatall.Nowthatadoorhasbeenslightlyopenedandlighthasstreamedin,Iwilldie
ifitisslammedshut,andIamleftincompletedarknessagain.
TodayIworkedwiththeoldwomanandherdaughter,cuttingoutfatpartsofthebear. We boiled them down until the grease rose to the surface. Then weskimmedthefatwithawoodenspoonandputit intoaskinbag.Severaltimestheytriedtoengageme,butIrefusedtolookthemintheeye.Icannotbeclosetothem,notuntilIknowThomas’sfate.I finallyescapedour taskandhurried into thewoods to look for thehunter,
buttonoavail.Withaheavyheart,Ireturnedtoourhut.Theoldwomanstaredatmewitha
faint smile and said something to her daughter, pointing to her cheek. Thentogether, they laughed.Howdid sheknow that thehunter is the sourceofmydistraction?Ifshethinksmyfeelingsforhimareaffection,sheishorriblywrong.Intruth,
Iamgrowingtodespisehimforplayingtricksonme.
Earlymorning.IdreamtofThomasagainlastnight.Thoughhewasverytiny,assmallasBabyWill,hespokeinclearsentences:Caty,Imissthee.ThenagianteaglecameovertheskyandtheshadowofitswingshidThomas
andIcouldseehimnomore.Iwokeup,weeping.Iwillfindthehuntertodayorburstfrommyanguish.
This afternoon I found the hunter in thewoodswith boys, stripping sheets ofbarkoffthetrees.IwatchedhimasIcollectedkindling.When he started back to the camp alone, I rushed forward. I did not exert
patiencebutdemandedthathetalktome.“Theemuststoptorturingme!”Isaid.Hestaredbackwithanimpenetrablegaze,thenstartedwalkingagain.Igrabbedhisarmandsaid,“Please,IhumblycravethyhelptofindThomas.
Thomascametomeinadreamandwascoveredbytheshadowofaneagle!”Hemadenoresponsebutbrokefreeofmygraspandwentonhisway.NowIsitinourhutatdusk.Theoldwomangivesrootsandherbstoavisitor
outside.Herdaughterpoundscorn.Thebabycoos.ButIfeelseparatedfromallthatishumanandloving.Aloneinanoceanofdarkness.
DearGod,IamgratefulforthewonderofThyways.IthastakenaheathentoremindmeofthePsalms:“Protectus,OLord,undertheshadowofThywing.”Ashorttimeago,asIlayawakewithabitterheart,Iheardaclickingsound,
asifsomeoneweresignalingoutside.Iwrappedafur robearoundmeandcrept to thedoor.Afigurestood in the
colddark.Hewhispered,“Chilili.”Itwasthehunter.Islippedoutsidetojoinhim.Hespokewithgreatsolemnity,saying,“Donotfeartheeagleinyourdream.
Itcanbeyourbrother’sguardian.”“IsThomasalive?”Iaskedhim.“Yes.”Iburst intotearsandwantedtothrowmyarmsaroundhim.ButIrestrained
myself, and instead asked through my tears if he was the one who hadreplenishedmyink.Hesmiled,thenslippedawayasquietlyashehadcome.NowIterriblyregretthatIaskedatriflingquestionaboutmyinkandwasted
apreciouschancetofindoutaboutmoreimportantthings!WhereisThomas?Ishewell?Whenwill I see him again?Whywerewe captured?Whenwill wereturnhome?
Itmustbespringnow,Papa.IsawaladybugonadeadleafandcaughtsightofababydeerwhenIwassearchingthewoodsforthehunter.I finally found him and othermen peeling bark from trees again to restore
theirhuts.AsIgatherednuts,Iwaitedforachancetotalkwithhim.When he was working alone, I moved closer to him. “Tell me, please,” I
begged.“Whereismybrother?”Withoutstoppinghisworkorevengazingatmehesaid,“HeliveswithBlack
Snake,inanothercamp.”“Willtheetakemetoseehim?Please?”Isaid.Heremainedsilent.
“Can thee tell me,” I asked him, “why we were taken? When will we bereturnedtoourfamily?”Inhalting,crudeEnglish,hesaidwewerecapturedbecauseofthemassacreof
theIndiansinLancaster.WeweregiventotheoldwomanandtoBlackSnakebecausebothhadlostchildrentomeasles.Then, Papa, he gaveme theworst news:Wewill be kept forever. “This is
whattheGreatSpiritwants,”hesaid.“HowdosttheeknowwhattheGreatSpiritwants?”Ibegged.Hedidnotansweratonce,andbeforeIcouldrailagainsttheGreatSpirit,a
youngboyshoutedforthehunter,andhestartedovertohim.“Justtellmeonething!”Icriedout.“HowisThomas?Ishewell?”Heturnedandsaidsimply,“HeisgrowinginIndianways.”
I’mcertainitisneartheendofThirdMonthnow.Isawrabbitstoday,andfreshanthillsinthedirt.Iheartreefrogsandspiedapairofgeeseontheriver.Today when I took my bucket to the water, I watched the hunter in the
distance.Hewasfishing,assuddenwarmweatherhasmeltedmuchoftheice.Before he spiedme, I tried to imagine him in britches and awhite shirt, in
ridingboots,withahat,butIcouldnot.HeseemscompletelyIndianinallhisways.Hepulleduphislineandbeganwalkingaway.Iranafterhim.“Wait,”Icalled.“Pleasetellme,whenwastheeEnglish?”HeshookhisheadasifIshouldnotpry.“Dosttheenotmissthypeople?”Iasked.Hestaredatmecoldly.“TheLenapearemypeople,”hesaid.IfearIcouldnotholdmytongue.Iaskedhowhecouldturnagainsthisfellow
creaturesandgivehimselfovertobeingasavage.Iwas not prepared for the torrent of angrywords that spilled from him. “I
scornyoubecauseyoudonotthinkoftheLenapeasfellowcreatures,”hesaidina low, angryvoice. “Youdonot know thenamesof thewomenwho care foryou.Youdonottrytolearnourwaysbecauseyousayweareanimals.Likeallthe Christians, you lie. You preach lovewhile all the time you think you arebetterthanallpeople.”Iwasstunnedbyhiswrath,butbeforeIcoulddefendmyself,hewalkedaway.I shouted at his back, “I cannot lovingly regard thy people until I see my
brotheragain!”Iwantedtosaymore,buthewastoofarawaytohearme.
The hunter’s angrywords have stolenmywrath. I am not so inclined now tobattertheIndianswithmyinsults.
Papa,Irememberwordstheeoftensaidduringfamilyworship,wordsutteredbyoneofthefirstQuakerFriends:“Ourlifeisloveandpeaceandtenderness;andbeingonewithanother,andforgivingoneanother,prayingoneforanother,andhelpingoneanotherupwithatenderhand.”Athoughthascometome:Thoughhedidnotadmittoit,Iamcertainitwas
the hunterwho replenishedmy ink— forgivingmewhen Iwas daily cursinghim.AnddidhenothelpmeupwithatenderhandwhenInearlydrowned?IfearIcannotrisetothelevelofhiskindness,Papa,nortothine.Myfearand
concernforThomashavekilledthegoodnessinme.Ifeartheloveinmyheartistoomeasuredandmiserly.So,ifIamnotagoodQuaker,Papa,whatamI?
I approached the hunter today with true humility. I used a friendly Indiangreeting. I put my hand up and said, “Hah.” From the old woman and herdaughter, I have learned that this greeting seems to mean something akin to“Goodbewithyou.”I smiled at him,perhapsmy first smile since Iwas captured.Andmyheart
grewlighterashesmiledback.“WilltheetakemetoseeThomas?”IaskedashumblyasIcould.Hejuststaredatme.“Soon?”Iaskedhopefully.“WhenBlackSnakesays tocome,”hesaid,and
wentonhisway.
ItmustbeFourthMonthnow.Beeshavereturned,andtuftedtitmicesinginthewoods.Troutliliesareinbloom.Todaytheoldwomangatheredfreshbloodrootandcowslip.AllIcanthinkis:WhoisBlackSnake?Wheredoeshelive?IshekindtoThomas?
TodayIhumblyapproachedthehunteragain.Icouldseehimeyemewarily,asifexpectingmetobegoncemoretobetakentoThomas.Isurprisedhim:“Whatisthenameoftheoldwoman?”Iasked.Hisdarkeyesbrightened.Hisanswersoundedlike“Wapa-go-kos.”
Ihaveheardpeoplesaythatname.“Whatdoesitmean?”Iasked.“WhiteOwl.”I smiled.My regard for the oldwoman grew slightly, for awhite owl is a
beautifulcreature.Hewentontotellmethattheoldwoman’sdaughter’snameisTan-ka-wun,
whichmeans “LittleCloud.” I like that name, too.The poetry of it somewhatwarmsmyfeelingsforthelonghairedgirl.Itseemsthatherbabyhasnoofficialnameyet,buttheycallhimLittleOne,
whichsoundslike“Penk-won-wi.”WhenIaskedthehunterforthemeaningofhisname,hetoldmehisLenape
name,Wine-lo-wich,means“SnowHunter.”Alovelyname,Ithought.But,Papa,theewillbesurprisedtolearnthatmineisevenmorelovely.Chilili
means“SnowBird”inLenape.HetoldmethatitwasthenameofWhiteOwl’syounger daughterwho died ofmeasles, a disease brought to the forest by thewhitetraders.IamWhiteOwl’snewyoungerdaughter,heexplained.AndLittleCloud’snewsister.Awaveofsorrowpassedthroughme.BothformyselfandforWhiteOwland
LittleCloud.Icanneverbetheirdaughterornewsister.“PerhapstheecancallmebymyIndianname,”ItoldSnowHunter.“Butsay
itinEnglish.AndIwillcalltheeSnowHunter.”Heagreedonthisplan.Ashewalkedawayfromme,Icalledafterhim.“SnowHunter!Willtheetake
metoseemybrothersoon?Imisshim,likeLittleCloudmisseshersister.”AtfirstIthoughthewasignoringme.Butthenhelookedbackandgavemea
quicknodandwentonhisway.PraiseGod!
A warm and lovely day. For certain now it is FourthMonth. Mayapples areback,butnotyetblooming.Inthetwilight,WhiteOwlreturnedfromcollectingplants,thenverycarefully
shookthedirtfromthem.She is a mystery, coming and going into the spring forest at odd hours,
bringingbackplantsandbark,thenboilingthemdown.Everyoneinthecamptreatsherwithrespect,andoftensomeoneasksforone
ofherpotions.AsIwatchedher,shecaughtmyeye,andIsmiled,partlybecauseIfeltsorry
forthelossofheryoungerdaughter,Chilili.
WhiteOwlnoddedandsmiledback.Thenshereturnedtoherplants,sparingmefromtoomuchattention.Nowthat Iknowthemeaningofhername,sheseemsmore real tome,and
lessa“savage”stranger.
TonightwhileWhiteOwlandLittleCloudwerebakingcorncakes, they talkedsoftly and laughed together. As I listened to them, their gentle speech andlaughterremindedmeofMotherandmemakingsuppertogetherathome.IfeltsuchsorrowIhadtowalkaway.
Thelong-awaitedhappenedtoday.This morning, the sunlit river flowed rapidly, completely free of ice. As I
drewwater,SnowHuntercameuponme,silentasadeer.HeaskedifIwantedtoseewheremybrotherlived.Inoddedwithwonder,afraideventospeak,forfearhemightwithdrawsucha
gift.“Come,”hesaid.Andheheadeddownatrailthatledalongtheriver.Iquickly
followed,andsoonwecame toanarrowbendwith largerocks,aplacewherewecouldeasilycross.Whenwegottotheotherside,weclimbedthehill,theveryhillIhaveseenin
mydream!Atthetop,hepointedtoadistantgatheringofhuts.Smokerosefromtheirchimneyholesintothebluesky.“YourbrotherlivestherewithBlackSnake,”SnowHuntertoldme.TearscametomyeyesandIstartedtorun,buthequicklycaughtmeandheld
megently.“We cannot go now. Later Black Snake will invite us, after your brother
learns Indianways.”He spokewith suchkindness, I couldnot feel anger, butonlyimpatience.Iletoutasighandstaredatthedistantcamp.“'Tisamazing,”Isaid.“MydreamstoldmethatThomaslivedonthatsideof
thehill.”“TheGreatSpiritsentthedreamstoyou,”SnowHuntersaidsimply.HeexplainedtomethattheGreatSpiritiskingofallthingsonEarth.Itisthe
sunrise, the sunset, the darkness, the rain and wind and snow. It creates allhumanbeingsbyitsthoughts.ItoldhimthatonecouldsaytheQuakersareofasimilarmind,forQuakers
believethatallthingshaveabitofGodinthem.
Henodded.Theninthegraytwilight,hesaiditwastimetogohome,andweleft.‘Twas
strange, but I nearly tookhis hand aswewalkeddown thehill together. I ambeginningtofeelagreattrustinhim.Whenwe reached the other side of the river, it was almost night. Before I
knewit,hehadquietlydisappeared…intothedarknessoftheGreatSpirit.AndImademywaybacktomyhutalone.
Wemust bemidway into FourthMonth, orwell into spring. It rained all lastnight.Butatdawn,theskywasrose-colored;theairwascleanandcool.WhenIwentforwater,IfeltsoexuberantthatIslippedovertheriverrocks
andclimbedthehill.Agreatflockofgeesesailedthroughthesky,returninghomefromthesouth.
Misthoveredoverthesunlitfields.I could barely see the camp. But I heard children shouting. Was Thomas
amongthem?Washerunningthroughthemist?I longed to run down into the valley and race through thewet fields, arms
outstretched,screaming,Thomas,Thomas!But I keptmy feelings still. If I angerBlackSnake, itmightmeanharm to
Thomas.
White Owl and Little Cloud often laugh with one another. They laugh atthemselves, at their cooking, andatLittleOne.DidChilili, their truedaughterand sister, laughwith them? Sometimes I feel as if I am her ghost, watchingthemfromafar,unabletobreakintotheircircle.Isimplycannotunderstandtheirwordsortheirways.Thinkingthesethings,Ifeelsad,anddonotknowifitisforChililiormyself.
Today themenandboysburnedanumberof trees, thencut themdown.Aftertheyclearedthebrush,thewomenrakedthedirtintosmallmounds.Thissectionofthevillagewillbeourgarden.Thesmellofthewoodsmokebroughtanewwaveofhomesicknessoverme,
so I left theothers andwandereddown to the river.As I sat on a rock,SnowHunterfoundme.HetoldmehewassorrythattheGreatSpirithadcausedhispeopletotearme
frommyfamily.
“ItisnotfairtoblameeverythingontheGreatSpirit,”Itoldhim.“Itdoesnotallowonetoargue.It’slikewhenPapasaysthatGoddoesnotwantustogotoPhiladelphia.”I imaginehedidnotunderstandme,buthe satquietlywithmeandseemed
melancholy.Papa,thetruthisthatInolongerdespiseSnowHunter,WhiteOwl,ortherest
of their people. Our capture no longer seems their fault. It seems the result,rather,ofgreatforcesbeyondallourpower…awarbetweenourGods,notoursmallhumanselves.
IdreamtagainofThomas.HewasnotrunningwithIndianchildreninthefields.Hewasdeathlyill,lyingonanimalskins,inthedeliriumofafever.WhenIwoke,IrantoSnowHunter’shut.Icalledtohim,andwhenhecame
out,Itoldhimmydream.He listenedwith great seriousness, then said decisively, “Wewill go to see
BlackSnake.”Ihurriedafterhim,joyful,yetapprehensivethatwewereabouttoriskBlack
Snake’sanger.We headed for the river, crossed the rocks, and climbed the hill.Whenwe
reachedthetop,thesunwassobrightitblindedus.Aswe started down the slope towardBlack Snake’s camp, I trembledwith
anticipation.Children ran togreetus.Menandwomencame forward to stare.Theytalkedandpointedatme.SnowHunterspoketoawoman,andsheledustoahut.Whenwesteppedintothedimlylitroom,IsawBlackSnake,theoldIndian
who had taken Thomas fromme.He stoodwith amanwhowore awolfskinheaddressandshookarattleoverasmallbodylyingonabearskin.ItwasThomas.Before anyone could stopme, I rushed forwardwith a cry andknelt beside
him.Hiseyeswereclosed,andhisskinsopaleitseemedhehadalreadyleftthisworld.But his tender facemademy heart break open, and Iwept and stroked his
damp,hotcheek.ManyIndiansgatheredaroundandwatchedsilentlyasIwhisperedtohim.I
saidprayersandstrokedhisthinarms,untilfinallyGodopenedThomas’slovelyeyes.Hestaredatmewithadazedexpression,andItoldhimthatIwaswithhim,
andthatheneednotbeafraid.
Lightcameintohiseyesthen,andhesmiled.Iwas allowed to staywithThomas all day and night. I lay beside him and
neverstoppedtouchinghimorspeakinggentlytohim.Iremindedhimaboutourpast lives … Papa, Mother, Eliza, Baby Will … even Curly the pig, ourchickens,and the rulesMotherenforces inMeetings. I talkedabouthowIhadbeenafraidtodividethelongnumbersandhowitwasreallynothingtobeafraidof.Ieventriedtoexplainhowitworks.Thenoverandover,ItoldhimIwouldnotleavehim,never,notever;Iwouldalwaysbewithhim.Atsunrise,hesatupandaskedforfood.Snow Hunter spoke a long time with Black Snake and the man in the
wolfskin.Thenhecametomeandsaidhehadtoldthemaboutmydreams,andtheyagreedthattheGreatSpiritwantedThomastobewithme.Papa,inthatmoment,Icouldseeitwastruththeystrivedfor,notvictory.Blindedbymytears,IthankedBlackSnake.ThenwewrappedThomasina
deerskin cape. SnowHunter picked him up and carried him out of the camp,overtherise,acrosstheriverrocks,andallthewayhometoWhiteOwl’shut.Thomaswas pale and quietwhen SnowHunter finally laid him down. But
WhiteOwlgavehimoneofhermedicines,andheopenedhiseyes.NowImust liedown, too,while she sitswithhim,chantingsoftly. I amso
weary,IalmostimaginethathertendervoicebelongstoMother.IamgratefultoBlackSnake.Iforgivehimeverything.
WhiteOwl andLittleCloudgaveThomas a sweat bath today.The same theygavemelongago—whenIthoughttheyweretorturingme.Thistime,Ididnotfearthem,buthelpedtheminstead.WeputThomasinthe
bark structure and steamed him until great amounts of sweat poured from hissmallbody.Theymadehimdrinkatonic.Thenweloweredhimintothecoldriverwater,
swaddledhimincloth,layhimclosetothefire,andgavehimsassafrastea.Thistreatmenthasbeengoodforhim.Hesitsupnowinthehutand,withbig
eyes,staresatallofus.Iwatchhimwithagrateful,humbleheart.
Thomasisevenbettertoday.Colorglowsinhischeeks—andbestofall,Papa—thatmischievouslookinhiseyeshasreturned!
White Owl’s medicine continues to work wonders on Thomas. Today, like a
littleduckhefollowedmewhenIwashedourbowlsneartheriverandwhenIcarriedwoodandwater.Heeventriedtohelpmepoundthecornintoflour.Asweworked,hesaid,“Caty,istheemadatme?”“WhywouldIbemadatthee,Thomas?”Iasked.“Becausetheetoldmetorun.AndIdidnotrunfastenough.”Looking away from him, I blinked hard to hidemy tears. “No, Thomas,” I
said,“theedidexactlyasGodwantedtheetodo.”
Papa,thyboycontinuestoimprove.Hehasaravenousappetite.Hestillfollowsme everywhere, but he seemsmore like his old self. He even speaks Lenapewords toWhite Owl! This morning, she smiled and shook her head after hespoketoher.“Whatdidtheeaskher?”Iaskedhim.“Ifshehadahorseformetoride.”“Ahorse!Dosttheeridehorsesnow?”Isaid.It seems that Black Snake’s oldest sons have taught Thomas to ride. And
whenIaskedhimifhedidwell,hetoldmehewasthebestriderintheircamp!DostthatnotsoundlikeourThomas,Papa?
WhiteOwl, LittleCloud, and I planted corn in themounds of the garden.Atnightfall,SnowHunterstoppedbyourhutandspokeprivatelytoThomas.SoonThomascamerunningtomeand,withshiningeyes,toldmethatSnow
Hunter wants him to camp with another boy in the guardhouse next to thegarden.“Toscareawaythedeerduringthenight!”hesaid.Forgive me, Papa, if Thomas is turning into a small warrior. But it is so
pleasingtohavehimwell,Icannotrefusehim.OrSnowHunter,forthatmatter.
ThomasandItookcareofLittleOnethisafternoonwhenhismotherandWhiteOwlwenttogatherherbs.Thebaby’sdiapersaremadeofrabbitskinandlinedwithfreshcattailfluff.Whenwechangedthem,wewashedtherabbitskinintheriver,andreplacedthesoiledcattailswithfreshones.WhiteOwlhasmadeasmallholeinoneofLittleOne’smoccasins.Thehole
ismeanttokeepspiritsfromtakinghimaway.WhenIexplainedtheholetoThomas,IaddedthatIwishedwecoulddothe
sameforBabyWill.“Forwhom?”Thomassaid.
Fearstruckme.“BabyWill!Thybrother!Dosttheenotremember?”Inearlyshouted.Hedidnotanswer.Hesimplysaid,“Oh,”andlookedaway.Icouldnottellif
hehadnointerestinthematterorifhesufferstoomuchconfusiontotalkaboutit.
TodaySnowHuntercametoseeThomasagain.HisaffectionforThomasmademewonderifThomasdoesnotremindhimofhimselflongago.“WastheetheageofThomaswhentheebegantolivewiththeLenape?”Iaskedhim.Hegavethebriefestnod,butenoughtopromptmetoinquirefurther.“Whatwasthyname?”Iasked.“John,”heansweredsimply.“Wherewasthyfarm?”Iasked.“Idonotremember,”hesaid,andfromthesternwayhespoke,Iknewhehad
justendedtheconversation.Tenyearsfromnow,willThomasalsosay,Idonotremember?
Today Snow Hunter brought Thomas a whistle made from bird bone. WhenThomasreceivedthegift,hesaid,“Wanishi.”HetoldmethatBlackSnakehadtaughthimtosaythis—itmeansheisthankful.Thomastellsmethatwishimeans“good”andwulelemilmeans“wonderful.”
HehaslearnedanumberofLenapewords.
SnowHunterinvitedThomastohelphimandtheotherboysandmenplanttheirtobaccotoday.Thomas, for his part, looks upon Snow Hunter with awe and admiration.
PerhapsthatisbecauseSnowHuntercarriedhiminhisarmsallthewayhere.Aftertheyleftfortheirwork,IhelpedWhiteOwlrepairourmoccasins.
TodaySnowHunter gaveThomas a hunting lesson.WhiteOwl, LittleCloud,andIstoodbyandwatchedasheputonadeerskincapethathadtheheadofthedeer attached.Wearing this “garment,” SnowHunter showed Thomas how toapproachthedeer—toefirst,headdown.Then he put the cape on Thomas. But it was so huge, it completely hid
Thomas’ssmallbody.TowatchThomasmoveonhistiptoesinajerkyfashionwassoamusingthatWhiteOwl,LittleCloud,andIcollapsedinlaughter.
AmIstandinginsidetheircirclenow,Papa?AmIgrowingalittlemorelikeChililieveryday?
Earlymorning.IwatchWhiteOwlinthesunlightoutsidetheentrancetoourhut.Herbony
armsmove vigorously as she pulls bark from redbud branches and ties it intobundles.Overtimeshewillgiveallthebundlestodifferentwomenwhocometoourhut.In the yellow haze of the early light, she remindsme a bit ofMother. She
worksfromearlymorninguntil lateatnight,alwaysstretchingoutherhandtohelpothers.
Now that I havebegun to seeWhiteOwlas a realperson,notunlikeMother,equal tomeor thee, apure truthhasopenedup inme,Papa: IfWhiteOwl istrulyanequalperson,thenhowcanwhitepeoplebeartheweightofoursin—thesinofourattacksagainsttheIndiansandthestealingoftheirland?
A warm day. Early morning Thomas and I went with White Owl and LittleCloudintothewoodsandhelpedthemgatherwildplantsandbark.We did not take the first plant we saw. InsteadWhite Owl placed tobacco
besideitandspokewordsasifshewerepraying.LaterSnowHunterexplainedthatWhiteOwlwasprayingtothespiritofthe
plant,thankingitforitshelp.Andwhenevershepeelsbarkfromatree,shefirstpraystothespiritofthetree.SnowHuntercallsthesespiritsmanetu.Theyareinallofnature.
TodayagainThomasandIwentwithWhiteOwlandLittleCloudandwatchedthemdig up a number of plants.Thenwehelped thempeel bark fromwalnuttrees.Onthewayback,Itrippedandfell,twistingmyankle.LittleCloudhelpedmeup,and,asIhadtroublewalking,shebidmetolean
againstherandwestumbledtogether,laughing.Ourlaughterincreasedourstrengthandwasasmuchamedicineasthewild
rootswehadgathered.TonightWhite Owl applied blackwalnut sap tomy inf lamed ankle. Then
ThomasandIlistenedtoWhiteOwltellastory,andthoughIdidnotunderstand
whatshesaid,Iwascomfortedbythesteady,soothingrhythmofherspeech.
ItmustbethemiddleofFifthMonthnow,Papa,forthedogwoodareinbloom.SnowHunter,Thomas,andIsawthreeowlsinthetwilight.Owliskookhoos
inLenape.Thenumberoneiskwut-tee,twoisneesh-shah,threeisnah-xah.Oh,andrabbitismoushkiingwaus.Wesawneesh-shahmoushkiingwausinthe
twilight,too.
Papa,sometimesIfear that ifwelearnIndianways, itwill takeusdeeper intoournewworldandfurtherawayfromtheeandMother.Everyday,I trytotellThomasaboutouroldlife.Butheseemstofearmywords.Hemovesawayfrommeandrestlesslybeginssomeotheractivity.Iamafraidtoforcehimtolisten,Papa.IwishIknewwhattheewouldwantmetodo.
Todaythewomenplantedbeansnexttothecorn,sothebeanvineswillclingtothecornstalks.Weplantedsquashbetweenthemoundsofcornplants,sothatitshugeleaveswillshadethegroundandkeepdowntheweeds.Nowall“thethreesisters,”astheLenapecallthem,havebeenplanted—corn,beans,andsquash.Untilnewfoodisharvested,wewillkeepeatingdriedmeatandfishandnuts,
storedinapitlinedwithrocksandcoveredwithbark.Fordinner,WhiteOwlandLittleCloudboil thedriedmeat inwateruntil it
swellsandbecomessoftenoughtoeat.Oftenwehave themeatwith corncakes.Thomas and I help crush thedried
corn.Itseemsthatalldaylongsomeoneispoundingcorn.Wesiftitthroughapawenikan, a flat basket sieve.Thenwemix the flourwithhotwater,mold itintocakes,andbakethecakesinhotashes.Ittastesgood,thoughIlongforMother’sapplepieandpumpkinpudding.
Hotday, rainynight.SnowHunterbroughthis adopted father tovisit ourhut.His name isPethakaluns,whichmeans “ThunderArrow.”SnowHunter urgedThunderArrowtotellastory.ThunderArrowlithispipewithacoalfromthefire.Whenhebegantotalk,
SnowHunterinterpretedhisstoryforThomasandme.Longagoaturtle,takwax,waslyinginagreatbodyofwater.Thewaterwas
thewholeuniverse.Slowly takwax raised his back. When the water ran off him, his dry shell
becametheearth.In themiddleof thisdryearthgrewa tree.The firstmansprouted from the
tree’sfoot.Thenthefirstwomangrewfromthetipofthetreewhenitbentoverandtouchedtheground.Thuswasthebeginningoftheworld.IaskedSnowHunterifhebelievedthattheworldreallybeganthisway.Heansweredmesimply,sayingthatdifferentpeopleshavedifferentdreams.
Thisisthedreamofhispeople,sohedreamsitalso.
IimagineitistheendofFifthMonthnow,orthebeginningofSixth.Another rainy evening. Snow Hunter visited, and we helped White Owl
prepare plants for a special medicine. She urged us to remove the dirt ascarefullyaspossiblefromtherootsoftheplant.ThensheshowedThomashowtostirthebrew.SnowHunter explained that it must be stirred in the direction that the sun
travels. Then he told me that White Owl was giving the medicine to a manwhoseillnesswascausedbywitchcraft.Thomasaskedwhothewitchwas.SnowHuntersaidthatnooneknowsforsure.Butthevictim’spainisthepain
causedbyawitch’scurse.Ihaveneverentertainedbeliefinwitches.ButnowthatIliveinthisworld,it
seemssomethingtoreflectupon.Ihaveneverbelievedthattreesandplantshavespirits,orthatoneshouldstir
medicineinthedirectionthesuntravels.Iconsiderallthesecustomsnow.Iknowtheyarenotthetruthasweknowit,
Papa.Buthereisanothertruth:Whentheelivesclosetoadifferentpeople,itishard
nottodreamwhattheydream.
TodaywepreparedforacelebrationintheBigHouse.LittleCloudandIworkedonourdeerskingarments.Isewedshellbeadsonto
mine.LittleCloudembroideredabeautifulpatternonherswithporcupinequillsdyeddifferentcolors.
TonightallgatheredintheBigHouse.Twofiresburned,fillingtheairwith thescentofredcedarwood.Thewind
blewthroughtheenddoors,makingshadowsdanceonthewoodenwalls.A man wearing a bearskin appeared in the firelight. He wore a mask and
carriedaturtle-shellrattleandastick.The children were frightened. Thomas clutched my hand as the bear-man
sacrificedtobaccoandmeatinthefire.Butwhenthebear-manledthegroupindancingandsinging,Thomasbecame
enraptured.Ididnotwanthimtojoinin,forIknowQuakersmustneverdanceorsinginpublic,butIcouldnotstophim,Papa.HejoinedtheothersandmovedhislittlebodyasifhewereallIndian.I must confess, Papa, that my own eyes closed, my body swayed in the
firelight, and I felt a strange, deep joy. Was this sinful, Papa? Or was it avisitationoftheHolySpirit?I know we Quakers were given our name because we were mocked for
quakingandtremblingunderthepowerofGod.Isthisdancingsodifferent?
Papa,Ihadadreamoftheelastnight.TheewasatMeetingwithMother,Eliza,andBabyWill,and theewasgrievingformeandThomas. Iwokeup in tears,andIhavefeltthypresenceallday.Please,Papa,donotgrieve.Icanstandmyowntears,butthinearetoomuchformetobear.
Thedaysareverylongnow,andallthetreesareinfullleafandthewildrosesareinbloom.Winterisfadingevenfrommemory.Isthefarmlandcomingalivewith thegoldenwarmth, too,Papa?Bees andbutterflieswingingabout?BabyWillwalking?Aretherenewbabypigs?
Warm, lovely night. I write by candlelight as Thomas sleeps on our bed ofdeerskins.SnowHunter andother youngmen arehaving a ceremony toprepare togo
huntingtomorrow.Iheartheirdrummingcomingfrominfrontofthelonghouse.Women cannot attend the ceremony.But I can seeSnowHunter inmymind,dancinginthefirelight.Forgiveme,Papa,butIthinkofhimoften.
DearPapa,Irememberlastyearwhenthepigletswereborn.Thee,Thomas,andIstayedupallnighttohelpCurlygivebirth.Rememberhowshefinallysnoredwhiletheydrankhermilk,andwelaughedsohard,wecried.ThenMothergaveussweetcornbreadandtheethankedGodforthegiftofthelittlepigs.
Itisgoodwedidn’tknowofourimpendingseparationthathappynight,Papa.Ourheartscouldnothavebornethethought.ButpleaseknownowthatThomasandIarewell,andmysteriously,sometimeswefeelquitecontent.
TodaytwoyoungboyscametoourhuttoplaywithThomas.TheyareRunningDeerandLittleBear.White Owl served dried venison and smoked fish and corncakes. Then the
boysplayedasortofdicegamewithflatbuttonsmadeofbone.Theycountedtheirpointswithbeans,buttheykeptscatteringthem,ruiningtheirnumbers.Finally, I brought outmy ink and paper and copied their scores. The boys
staredwithwonderasIwrotedowneachoftheirIndiannames,soundingthemout.At theendof thenight, theybothwanted to take thescoresheetwith them.
Theydrewsticks,andLittleBeargottokeepthepaper.Their curiosity and interest has ledme towonder if perhaps I should teach
Englishtothecampchildren.IwillaskSnowHunterwhenhereturnsfromhishuntingtrip.Iworryabout
SnowHunter roaming thewilderness.What if backwoodsmen shouldmistakehimforanenemy?
SnowHunterstillgone.Yesterday afternoon, Little Cloud and White Owl built a large fire. Then
WhiteOwlbroughtoutawoodendollaboutafootlong.Sheputredpaintonitsfaceandattachedittoastick.Thenshestuckthestickintotheearth.Soonguestsbegantoarrive.Eachspoketothedoll.Theycalledhernuham,
whichThomastellsmemeans“grandmother.”Assoonasitgrewdark,dancingandsingingbegan.Thedollwaspassedfrom
handtohandastheyoungmenandwomendanced.ThomasandIwatchedthemfromtheentranceofthewigwam,thehut.Little
Cloudbeckonedustojointhem.BeforeIcouldstophim,Thomasthrewhimselfintothedance.Andsuddenly,Papa,beforeIknewit,Iwasdancing,too!Ihadnotintendedto,butajoycameovermethatpromptedmetojointhem.Imovedmyfeetandheadandarmstotherhythmofthedrums.Papa,Iconfessthiswithgreatguilt—Ilovetodance.IfeltIwasonewiththemusic,thenight,andmyfellowdancers.Cantheeeverforgiveme?Wedancedforalongtime.Aftereveryonetooktheirleave,andThomasandI
lay down on our bed,my heart pounded. I could still hear the drumming and
singinginmyhead.When Iwoke this earlymorning, everythingwas quiet. The dollwas gone,
andthegroundwassweptclean.Alltraceofoursinhadvanished.
Veryhotday.SnowHunterisnotback.Themenreturnedwithouthim.Iaskedwherehewas.ButIcouldnotinterprettheiranswer.NeithercouldThomas.Whataterriblethingnottounderstand.ImustlearnmoreLenapewords.
Evenhottertoday.ImadefishnetswithLittleCloudandWhiteOwl.Wewovethenetswiththreadfromwildhemp.Asweworked,IlongedtolearnofSnowHunter’swhereabouts.FinallyIdecidedtousemycopybooktoaskmyquestion.FirstIdrewaman’sfacewithaneaglepaintedonhischeek.ThenIcupped
myhandsovermyeyesandturnedmyheadfromsidetoside,asiftosay,Whereishe?WhiteOwlandLittleCloudseemedconfused,untilThomaspipedupinplain
English,“WhereisSnowHunter?”LittleCloudlaughedandgesturedtowardthetrees.Shepretendedtoshootan
arrow.I laughed then, too. It seems theyhavebeen learningEnglish fromus faster
than I have been learning Lenape from them. And I laughed because SnowHunterissafe;heisstillhuntingintheforest.“Wishi.Wulelemil,”Isaidtoher.Good.Wonderful.
Many shadwere swimmingup the river today.Agroupof boyswent fishing.Twosetout inacanoewithoneendofa longnet.Others, includingThomas,stoodontheshore,holdingtheotherendofthenet.Those in the canoe pulled the net through the water, while those on shore
pulleditalso.Bymorning’send,theyhadcapturedatleastonehundredfish.In the afternoon, Little Cloud and I cleaned and prepared our share of the
catch.Wepeggedeachfishtoaboard,thencookedtheminfrontofthefire.
Todaywedriedandsmokedagreatnumberoffish,sotheycouldbestoredandeatenlater.
SnowHunterreturnedinthelateafternoon!Thomas ran joyfully to meet him. But when the two approached me, I
pretendedtobeverycalm,onlysaying,“Hah.”“Hah,”hesaidinreturn.Iwasroastingmeatonaspit.Iaskedifhewashungry.Henoddedandsat.White Owl and Little Cloud joined us, andwe all ate in happy silence, “a
livingsilence,”asQuakerFriendssay.IamgratefulforSnowHunter’ssafereturn.
Tonight Snow Hunter invited Thomas and me to come with him to fish bytorchlight.Embracedbythewarm,darkair,wesatinhismuxul,orcanoe,ashespeared
severallargefish.ThenThomasandIheldasmallnetasSnowHuntersilentlypaddledusuptheriver.Wecaughtquiteanumberthisway.Weworked inwhispersasour lightglowedupon thecalmwaters.Awarm,
lovelynight,Papa.Indeed,Ifeltasifheavenhadgatheredusthreeandcaughtusinitsnet.
Today Thomas and Snow Hunter made fishhooks of dried bird claws andharpoonsfromdeerantlers.Whiletheyworked,WhiteOwl,LittleCloud,andItanneddeerskins.WhiteOwl removed all the hair from the hideswith a stone scraper. Little
Cloud and Imashed the brains and rubbed them into the skin. Tomorrow thebrainswillbescrapedoffandtheskinswillbewashed.Thenwewillrubeachskinwithabonetomakeitsoft.
Papa,thesearesomeofthethingswemakefromnature:broomsfrombirdfeatherswaterdippersfromgourdsbucketsfrombarkbowlsfromwoodofthesassafrastree
cupsfromseashells
potsfromclay
chiselsfrombeaverteeth
rattlesfromturtleshellsredpaintfromthejuiceofwildcrabappleblackpaintfromsumacmixedwithblackwalnutbarkWeareattachedtotheearthbyathousandthreads.
LastnightIdreamtthatwhitebearscameintothecampandstartedsmashingourheadswithclubstillourbrainsranout.Iwokeup,screaming.WhiteOwlrubbedmybackwithgrease,thenpurifiedourhutwithred-cedarsmoketochaseawaythebadspirits.AmInowdreamingthedreamsoftheLenape?
TodaySnowHunter,Thomas,andIwent into the forest.SnowHunterstudiedthetrees,andhestoppedbeforeatallhickory.Hemadeanofferingoftobaccotothankthespiritofthetree.Thenhecutdownasmallbranch.Whenwereturnedtocamp,heusedhisflintknifetoremovethebarkfromthe
branch.Thenhesplitthebranchfromendtoendandhollowedoutbothhalves.Finallyhemadearowoflittleholesinthewood.Severaltimesweaskedhimwhathewasdoing,butheonlysmiled.Whenhe
joinedthetwohalvestogetherwithpinepitchandwrappedthemwithdeerskin,wesawthathehadmadeamusicalinstrumentthatlookedlikeaflute.Hetoldusitiscalledanahpikon.When Thomas begged Snow Hunter to play for us, he nodded and said
simply,“Someday.”Thenheputtheahpikoninhisbeltandleft.Allthewhilethatweweretogether,IwantedtotellSnowHuntermydream
—of thewhitebearsbeatingus— for I knowhe seesgreatmeaning in suchdreams.Butsomethingwouldnotallowmetotellhim.Thehorrorofitallwastoogreat.Iwouldratheritbeforgottenandneverspokenofagain.
Papa,rememberthequestionintheGospelofLuke:“Whoismyneighbor?”I think of that question as I sit near Thomas, who sleeps on our bed of
deerskins. I hear an owl call in the night air, and Little One coo from hiscradleboard.IthinkoftheeandMother,Eliza,andBabyWill,andIthinkhowstrangeto
behere.What for, Papa?To learn about thosewho are different fromus?TolearnsomethingthatfewEnglishpeopleknow—aquickandlivelyknowledge
ofthosesomewouldcall“savage"?Papa,theLenapearemyneighbors.Sittingherepeacefully,Ifeelacurrentof
God’s love running through this life, thoughHe is known here by a differentname.
SnowHuntertellsmetheLenapebelievethatcornwasfirstdroppedoutofthesky from themouth of a crow. Todaywe allworked together, harvesting ourcrop. Then we roasted the ears in their husks until their kernels popped off.Tomorrowwebeginpoundingthekernelsnightanddayintocornmeal.
Tonight I sewed skirtswithLittleCloud andWhiteOwl.Aswe used awls toboreholesthroughdeerskin,Iheardmusicfromoutside.Flutemusic.LittleCloudandWhiteOwlglancedateachother, thensmiledatme.When
Thomasstartedtogooutside,WhiteOwlgentlygrabbedhimbythearm.Shelookedatmeandmotionedformetogooutsideinstead.Ifeltsuddenlynervous.Iwrappedadeerskinshawlaroundmyshoulders,then
steppedoutintothedark.SnowHunter sat in themoonlight, playing hisahpikon. I sat near him and
listenedtohishaunting,lovelysong.Washeplayingforme?Whenhefinished,Iasked,“Whotaughttheetoplay?”“Theeagle,”heanswered.WhenIaskedifthatwasthenameofonewholivedinourcamp,hesmiled
andshookhishead.Thenheexplained.Threeyearsagowhenhewasfourteen,hewentaloneintothedeepforestinsearchofavision.Heneitheratenordrankformanydays.Heonlyprayedthatagoodspiritwouldbehisguardian.Ontheseventhday,whenhewasnearcollapse,hesawaneagle in thesky.
Theeagletalkedtohimandtoldhimthathewouldalwayslookafterhim,thathewouldturnhimintoagreathunterandteachhimtoplaymusic.SnowHunterreturnedhomeafterhiseaglevision.Fromthatdayon,hecould
huntbetterthananyoneelse,andhecouldplaytheahpikon.Hesaid that theeaglewashisguardian.This iswhyhe tattooedoneonhis
cheek.I reminded him that his eagle had visited my dream, that he had covered
Thomaswithhisgreatwings.HesmiledandtoldmethatwasthereasonhehadtakenmetoseeThomas,for
heknewmydreamwassendinghimamessage.ItoldhimthatIbelieveallthingsinnaturebearthemarkoftheirMaker.The
eagle,theowl,andthewind.Wesatsilentlyforalongmoment,understandingthatwearenotsodifferent
really.Weremained in this livingsilenceuntil Ibegan toshiver.Thenhe toldmehemustleave,andhelightlybrushedmyhairwithhishand.“Wanishi,”Isaid.Iamthankful.
AlldaySnowHunter’ssongwaswithme.In themorningLittleCloudstrappedLittleOne toherback,andwentberry
huntingwithThomasandme.Wefilledourbasketswithstrawberries.Suddenlytheskygrewblack.Thenthundershookthegroundandrainbegantofall.LittleCloud ledus toa rock shelterwherewewaitedwhile the rainpoured
downandlightninglituptheforest.ThesoundofthethunderwastheloudestIhaveeverheard.LittleOnedidnot
cryatall,butIconfessThomasandIweremuchalarmed.LittleCloudtriedtosootheourterrorbystrokingourhairandsmilingatusandpretendingnottobefrightened.Whenthestormfinallypassed,Iwassogratefultoher,Iheldherarmallthe
waybacktoourcamp.SnowHuntercametodinner.WhenThomastoldhimaboutouradventure,he
said that the thunderwasmadebyThunderBeings.“Theyarehugebirdswithhumanheadswhoshootlightningboltsfromtheirbows,”hesaid.“Really?”Thomas’seyesgrewwide.“Istheetellingthetruth?”“Yes,” said SnowHunter. “The sharp, crackling thunder ismade by young
ThunderBeings.Low,rumblingsoundsbyoldones.”Thomas looked at me, as if asking me to verify this information. I only
shruggedandsmiled.Iknow thatQuakersdonotbelieve inThunderBeings,but in thatmoment,
listeningtoSnowHunter,Icouldnotbanishthemthoroughlyfrommymind.
Hearty dinner tonight. Beans boiled with bear grease and fresh turkey meatbroiled on coals. After we ate, SnowHunter,White Owl, Little Cloud, and Ipassedthetimeinsilence.Nowandagain,onemurmuredaboutthedeedsoftheday,butmostly,we listened to thesoundsof twilight, thecrickets,andcooingnightbirds.
Our days andnights are getting cooler.Late summerweather.Today I helped
Little Cloud andWhite Owl gather acorns. Later we roasted them to removetheirbadtaste,thenpoundedthemandaddedthemtoourcornbread.Whileweworkedoutside,SnowHunterstoppedbytobidushello.Afterhe
left,WhiteOwl smiled atme andmade a sign toLittleCloud to indicate thatSnowHunterandIwereapair.ThenLittleCloudrockedherarmsasifshewererockingababy.DotheythinkthatSnowHunterandIwillbemarried?Iwassoastonished,I
quicklyfinishedoffmyworkandwentinsidetoliedown.Iamonlythirteen!ButLenapegirlssometimesmarryasyoungasthirteenor
fourteen,Ihavelearned.WhatamItothink?
IaminastateofconfusionoverLittleCloud’sgesturesaboutSnowHunterandmyself.Thismorning,IfolloweddiscreetlywhenThomaswentintotheforesttohelp
Snow Hunter and the other men make a canoe. Soon they are going on anexpeditiondownriver tosell theiranimalskins toCanadiantraderswholive inBethlehem.They cut down a huge tulip poplar, then burned and scraped the trunk,
hollowingitouttoholdeightmen.While they worked, I watched Snow Hunter from afar. He seemed totally
engagedinhistask,withoutentertaininganythoughtofme.Helookedveryhandsomeandstronginthesunlight.
It is strange.But now I donot feel as though I amwriting forPapa. I feel asthoughIamwritingformyself.WhatshouldhappenifIweretomarrySnowHunter?ThoughSnowHunter
wasbornanEnglishman,he isdefinitely Indiannow. Ifheweremyhusband,wouldPapa’sQuakerlovestillembracehim?IfIwerehiswife,IfearIcouldneverreturnhome,forhedoesnotseemto
have theslightest inclination to liveamong theEnglishagain. Iwouldhave toliveherealways.AndwhatofThomas?Ithinkiftheeaskedhimtoday,ThomaswouldsayhewouldliketogrowuptobejustlikeSnowHunter.If Papa, Mother, Eliza, and Baby Will were not on this earth, I would
welcome sucha fate among thesepeople. Indeed, sometimes I feel thatWhiteOwl,LittleCloud,andLittleOnearemynewfamily.But I cannot stand to think thatThomasand Imightbe foreverexiled from
ourlovedonesbackhome.Helpme,God.
SnowHuntercamearoundtonighttosaygood-bye,forheandhispartyembarktomorrowmorningontheirjourney.Heaskedtospeakwithmealone,soIaccompaniedhimintothemoonlight.
He stood very close to me and touched my hair. He whispered, “Snow BirdcapturestheSnowHunter.”Myheartnearlystopped.Heplantedasoftkissuponmyforehead,thenheld
metohim,andIcouldfeelbothourheartsbeating,andIwantedtobehiswife.Hegentlyletmego.Thenhewhispered,“Wanishi,”andheleftmealoneinthedark.Ilovehim.
Thewholevillagesawthemenofftoday.Eightofthem,includingSnowHunter,embarkedintheircanoedowntherivertoselltheirskinsandfurs.Beforetheyleft,SnowHunterspokekindwordstome.“Iwillseeyouinadream,”hesaid.“Andyouwillseeme.”“Yes,”Isaid.“Goodbetothee.”Hesilentlyhandedmeastringofwhiteshellbeads,orwampum.Thenhegave
Thomashisahpikonandaskedhimtokeepituntilhereturns.The canoe pushed off, and themenmoved silently away from us, like the
yellowleavesfloatingdowntheriver.OnlyoncedidSnowHunterglancebackatme.Iwavedandhesmiled,radiant
intheearlyautumnsunlight.My heart is heavy, but they will be back in two weeks, the Great Spirit
willing.
LittleCloudandImadenewfishlinestodayfromhand-twistedbark.Thenwesewed rushes together for new floor mats and repaired torn sleeves on ourdeerskinrobes.All the time, I felt an emptinesswithout SnowHunter in our camp.At the
sametime,Iamcontentwiththecertainknowledgeofhisloveforme.IfImarryhim,IwillpersuadehimtotakeThomasandmehome.Perhapswe
couldallbe togetherat the farmfora longvisit.PapaandMotherwouldbothlikehim.He speaksplainly andhonestly, andhe seems tohavegreat courageandloving-kindness.
IhelpedWhiteOwlwithahealingtoday.Herpatientwasanoldwoman,older
than herself. She will not die, White Owl says, because when I placed thehealingrootsinwater,theydidnotsink.Wealsoboiledcorntasselintotea.WhiteOwlwillgiveittoamotherwitha
colicky baby. Perhaps this would be a good remedy for BabyWill.We alsoboiledcottonwoodbarktomakeanointmentforsorelimbs.WhiteOwlhasgreatknowledgeofthenaturalworld—doesthatnotbringherclosetoGod’struth?
MymindandheartconstantlywandertothoughtsofSnowHunter.SometimesIimagineIhearthesongheplayedforme.
ThomasandIcollectedwildstrawberriestodayandgatherednuts.LittleCloudcrushedthestrawberriesandmadeabalmforherselfandforme,too.Withhandsigns,sheexplainedthattheberrieswouldmakeourskinsofter.IfearQuakerswouldnotforgivememyvanity,butthetruthis—ifmyskinismadesofterbyLittleCloud’sbalm,Iwouldnotmind.ThenWhiteOwlgroundthenuts.Wewillusetheirmilkyfluidasaflavoring.SnowHunterhasbeengoneninedays.Ineedwaitonlyafewmore.
LastnightIcouldnotsleep.Irealizedinthedark,coldsilenceofnightthatourSociety of Friends would never give Snow Hunter and me a certificate ofmarriage.Iwouldbeturnedoutinthemostshamefulmanner.Mysinswouldbefarworsethanjustunrulyconductormarryingonenotinourreligioussocietyorbeingtemptedbyfineryandprideinappearance.Farworsethanallthis,Iwillhavejoinedmyhearttothatofaheathen.AmIbraveenoughtofollowmyownstill,smallvoice?WouldMotherand
Papastillloveme?
All day my mind has been tortured— one minute I grieve that I will mostcertainly be turned out of the Society— the next minute, I angrily fight formyself.Mybestdefense:WouldthegreatWilliamPennscornmeifhewerestillalive?Ithinkhewouldnot.Iwilltrytofindpeaceinthiscertainty.
Ourmen arehourly expected.Perhaps theywill returnnear twilight. Iwill benervouswhenIheartheyarecoming,andtrembleforthesightofSnowHunter.I imagine his party will return through the forest from the river. I imagine
Thomaswillruntogreethim—andpersuadehimtocometoourfireatoncefordinner.LittleCloud andWhiteOwlwill broil venison, and Iwillmake corncakes.
After we have eaten, perhaps he will light a pipe and offer the smoke to theGreat Spirit for his party’s safe return. Then perhaps hewill speakLenape toWhiteOwlandLittleCloud,andkindlyinterpreteachwordformeandThomas,and thushewill tellusallof thesuccessofhis journeyanddescribe thebirdsandthewildanimalsandtheweather.Thenwhilealltheotherssleep,perhapshewillplayhisfluteformealone.
IhavewaitedallnightandstillSnowHunterhasnotreturned.Itisdawnnow.Thesunshinesontheleaves.Theyareturningevenmorebrilliantcolors.Ilongtosharetheautumnwithhim.
Themendidnotcomebackyesterday,nor today.For threedays,ThomasandLittleBearhaveclimbedtalltreesneartherivertokeepwatch.
Thismorning,WhiteOwlburnedredcedar todispelbadspirits.She indicatedthat a dream has brought pain to her heart, but she would not say what thatdreamwas.
Awindy,rainyday.Still themendonot return.Feelingastrangesortofdread, I lay inourhut,
listening to the rain, and I pray for the skin over the doorway to be suddenlypulled aside and for Snow Hunter to appear, wet, safe, and well from hisjourney.
AmessengerfromtheIndiancampover thehillcametoday.Hespokefirst toWhiteOwlandtheothers,andthoughIcouldnotunderstandhiswords,Icouldseehisnewswasbad,foreveryonewasclearlyanguished.Ibeggedhimtoexplaintomeandwasgratefultolearnthathecouldspeaka
littleEnglish.ThusIheardthatapartyofIndianswasattackedsomedaysagoontheriverbyEnglishsoldiers.HedoesnotknowiftheIndianswereourmenornot.
AllofusgatheredinthelonghousetoprayandoffertobaccoforthesafereturnofSnowHunterandhisparty.Afterward women came to me in anxious search of answers. At first, they
gesturedwith their hands, I could not interpret theirmeaning.But gradually Icame to understand that they think I have special knowledge of this situationbecausetheEnglisharemypeople.SomeevenquestionwhetherornotThomasand I should be sent out from the camp — they wonder if the soldiers aremurderingonourbehalf.
Stillourmenhavenot returned.Wearedesperate for freshnews, fearing theymayhavebeenmurderedbythehandsofwhitemen.Awatchiskeptnightandday.Toraiseourcourage,WhiteOwlpraysconstantlyandburnsredcedar.
Word arrived that bands of English soldiers are now scouring the forests forIndiancamps.IthinkoftheattackontheConestogasinLancasterandshudderwithterror.Nowallarelyingquietlyintheirhuts.Ikeepawake,listeningforthedrunken
criesofamob.MyfearremindsmeofwhenIlayinbedathome,waitingfortheIndianstoattack.Allterrorisalike.
Today thewomen, children, andoldmengatheredwhatevermight be used asweapons—oldknives,bowsandarrows,evensticksandstones.Wewill taketheweaponsandpackouressentialthings,fleeourcamp,andhideintheyellowautumnwoods.
Inthelateafternoon,wordcamethatthewhitemenwereonlyafewmilesaway.Panicsetin.WhiteOwlsoughttocalmeveryoneandurgedustopackverylittleandmovequicklyandquietlyintotheforest.Ourfootfallwasnoisythough,aswesteppedoveracracklingcarpetofdead
leaves.Finally,with relief,wearrivedata rockshelter thatWhiteOwlknowsfromhermedicinehunts.Now at the approach of dark, we eat nuts, dried deer meat, berries, and
cornmeal.Weareaboutfifteenwomen,twentychildren,andafewoldmen.Asthecloakofchillynightfallsoverus,WhiteOwlsoftlypraystotheGreat
Spirit for protection. Little One whimpers. Little Cloud tries to console him,coveringhissmall,roundfacewithkisses.
ClingingtoThomas,Iamwornoutwithfearandprayforsleep.
Awet,windydawn.Leaveswhirlwildlyasweallhuddletogether.Earlier,LittleCloudcreptclosetomeandwithherhandsaskedmewhythewhitemenwanttokillthem.Itoldherthattheydonotunderstandthatthesamelightofhumanitythatisinthemisalsoinherpeople.ItoldherthatGodmeanshernoharm,andIbeseeched Him to hide us all under the shadow of His wing. Though LittleClouddoesnotknowmuchEnglish,Ifeltsheunderstoodmytone.Shepressedmyarmasifshewerecomfortingme.
Thechildrenaregrowingmorefretfulandrestlessbythehour.Wedonothaveenoughprovisions,andmanyareshiveringinthedampcold.
Sunlightilluminatesyellowandorangeleaves.Thedayisfilledwithanautumnglow,raisingallourhopesandspirits.Wewonderifperhapsthesoldiershavecomeandgonefromourcamp.Perhapsourmenhavereturnedandaresearchingforus.WhiteOwlsaysweshouldreturnhome.
Suchhorrorinsunlight.Godmockingus.Ishudderinthedepthsofmybeing.Ihavenowords.
DearGod,whydidThyterrorsturnagainstus?WhydidTheebringthesoldiersdownuponus?WhydidTheeharmWhiteOwl?
Noonewill tellmewhathasbecomeof theLenape. Icannotwrite. Ihavenoheartandnofaith.
20thofTenthMonth,1764
For the first time inmanymonths, I know the date. It is the twentieth day ofTenthMonth. Thomas and I have re-entered time.And in this bitterworld oftime,everythingseemsrigidandunyielding.Three dayswe have been lodged in this fort and strictly guarded.We have
beenscrubbedcleanbyunlovinghandsanddressed inscratchywoolclothing.Thomasmutelywatchesoutthewindow,whileIsitalone,tryingtofightoffthememorythattearsatmysoullikealion:WhiteOwl’sredbloodintheautumnlight.Overandoveragain,Iamtorturedbyonethought:IfIhadtoldSnowHunter
mydreamofthewhitebearsattackingus,wouldweallbesafenow?Wouldhehavemovedusalltosafety,farawayfromthehorrorthatstalkedus?
21stofTenthMonth,1764
Imustrecordthesorrowfuleventsofthatsunnyday.Whenwereturnedtothestillandquietofourcamp,everythingwasthesame
aswehadleftit.Withinmoments,weallresumedourdailyactivitiesininnocenthopethatourfearsofthewhitesoldierswereunfounded.ThomasandIbegangatheringcorn.Aswelostourselvesamidsttheswaying,
dustystalks,theycame.OneEnglishsoldier,thenanother,thenanother,crashedthroughthetallstalks,theirgunsraised.I grabbed Thomas and we ran to our hut. I whispered madly to him that
whatever happened wemust not reveal our true identity. Thus, we concealedourselves under a bearskin and peered out from the shadowy entrance as theotherswereroundedupinthebrightsunshine.Thesoldiersbegan tobullyWhiteOwl, forshestoodbetween themand the
restlikeafierceguardian.Whenonebloatedsoldiercalledheranoldwitchandpushedheraside,sheslippedandfell.Theirpartylaughed.LittleCloudrushedtohermother’ssidewithLittleOneinherarms—theymockedherandoneofthesoldiersspatonher.Ihaveneverfeltsuchragebefore.Itfilledeverycellofmybeing,everyhair,
bone, and bit of blood. I trembled, but I could notmove, could not openmymouth, nor run forward, for I thought White Owl would fare even moremiserablyforsucharevelation.Thomas, however, could not silently bear the cruelty of it. TheHoly Spirit
foundpureexpressioninhimasheranscreamingfromourhutintothepartyofmenandpummeled themwithhis little fistsandbit them,andwhen theyheldhimatbay,laughing,theyheardhiswords:“Leavethemalone!”TheyknewatoncehewasEnglish.Theyseizedhim,kickingandscreaming,
andthenIwasforcedtocomeforward,torevealmyselfandbetraymyfriends.Lurchingintothecruelsunshine,Icriedforthemtolethimgo.“Hemeansnoharmtothee!Noneofthemmeansharmtothee!”Icried.WhiteOwltriedtocrawltome,butonemanhitherwiththebuttofhisrifle,
andshefellonherface,bleeding.Thenothersgrabbedmeandtiedmyhands.They forced Thomas and me to come with them. As we left, we heard
screamingbehindus,butcouldnotseewhathappened.Thenwesmelledsmokeandsawflamesleapingabovethetrees.Inthehoursofdarknessthatfollowedthathideousscene,Ihaveimaginedthe
worstandeatmyheartinanguish,thinkingmyexistenceonEarthhasbroughtpain and torment to those I have come to love as friends. I cannot stop thememory ofWhiteOwl’s blood on the leaves in the bright sunshine.How thesunshinebetrayedus.
22ndofTenthMonth,1764
ThismorningThomasandIwereroustedfromourbedsandusheredoutintoadamp,grayday.Ourcaptorshaveassignedustoseveral tradersheadingtotheMoravianmission nearBethlehem. I asked the traders if they knewwhat hadbecomeoftheLenapecamp,buttheyseemednottoknowwhatImeant.Istillcannotforgivemyselfforbringingharmuponmyfriends.
23rdofTenthMonth,1764
Wearecampedonariseabovethewater.ThetradersseemoblivioustoThomasandmyself.Wehavenothingtosaytothem.Wesimplydoastheytellus.NowThomassleepsfitfullywhileIwrite.
24thofTenthMonth,1764
We journeyed all day downriver, taking perhaps the very path takenbySnowHunter and his party. When he came this way, did he hear the same birdssinging?Didheseethesamefishglidingbeneaththesurfaceofthewater?Ishisfleshnowrottingsomewhereinthescrubnearthisriver?
25thofTenthMonth,1764
PerhapsSnowHunterescapeddangerandmadehiswayhomeonfootandhasnow returned to the camp and foundWhiteOwl recovered from herwounds.And perhaps the two of them have bundled all to safety beyond these darkforests.
26thofTenthMonth,1764
LastnightadreamtoldmethatSnowHunterhasdepartedthislife.Inthedream,apoisonousgreensnakeslitheredthroughthesummerforest,attackedhim,thenmovedontomurderWhiteOwl.
27thofTenthMonth,1764
Bellschimefromthemissionbellhouse.Wearrivedhere today.NeitherofushadthestrengthtoreturnthewarmthextendedtousbytheMoravians.ReverendBeckwell’swifekindlyledustoacleanroomsothatwecouldrestalone.Thenagirlbroughtuswarmsoupandbread,butwehaveeatenlittle,forwearetoowearyandfeelpoorly.Thomasliesonhiscotshiveringwithfever.Imuststopwritingandcomfort
him.
28thofTenthMonth,1764
ThomasandIbothhavefever.
29thofTenthMonth,1764
Papa sat up all nightwith us and now sleeps in a chair betweenmy bed andThomas’sbed.Hearrivedlastnight,afterourcandlewasout.Hecameintotheroomwithalanterntolookuponus.WhenIsawhisbrightfacebytheflame,IthoughtIwasdreaming,andIbegantotrembleandsaidthatweneededhishelp,wealldesperatelyneededhishelp.ThenIsawthathedidnotfadeaway,andIfeltmyself joltedback intomyoldworld, andwegrabbedone another, and asleepy Thomas piled on Papa’s back, and we all clung together as one greatgiant.NowPapasleeps,withonehandonThomas’sbedandonehandonmine.His
palms are up and his head is dropped back, as if he were thanking GodAlmighty.
30thofTenthMonth,1764
Wearewellenoughtotravel.TodaywewillclimbintoPapa’swagontojourneyback to our farm. Hewarned us thatMother, Eliza, and BabyWill might benervousandemotional,andtoldustoforgivethem.Hesaidthatneighborsmightcome by to stare at us, and theymight ask painful questions, and we shouldforgive them also. I believe he is warning us thus because neither of us hasspokenmuch,trappedasweareinournumbandwearysilence.
31stofTenthMonth,1764
Wrapped in a blanket, Thomas sleptmost of the journeywhile I stared at themaple trees.Their lastyellow leavesmade theday seemsunny, though itwasnot.Papa,unlikehimself,hummedatune.Whenwearrivedatourhouse,everythinglookedfamiliar,yetdistant.When
Mother tearfully embraced Thomas, he began to cry also; but when sheembraced me, I was stiff and cold. Eliza looked at us shyly, as if we werestrangers,andBabyWill,too.Inaway,Ifeeltheyareright—Iamastrangernow.Atdinner,ThomassatinMother’slapandshefedhimasifhewereababy.I
staredatmyplatewithoutappetite,andPaparecommendedthatIgouptobedandrest.Now,intheloft,Istareoutthewindowatthetwilight.DearGod,willIever
comehome?
2ndofEleventhMonth,1764
TodayLucy,Molly,andJessOwenallcametogether tovisitme.WhenI firstlaideyesonJess,Ifeltnothing,notevennervousness.BesideSnowHunter,heseemsverydullandyouthful.Ihadnothingtosaytoanyofthem—notfromshyness,butfromdespair.FinallytheyconversedonlywithoneanotherasifIwerenotpresent.
3rdofEleventhMonth,1764
Thomas and Iwent toour firstMeeting today sincewehavebeenback.Papawasright.Whileweallsatinsilence,IglimpsedmanyFriendsstaringatusasifwe had returned from the dead. Afterwards, the children circled around us,cravingknowledgeofourterribleexperiences.
6thofEleventhMonth,1764
Neighborsstillcomebyandinquireanxiouslyafterus.Theywanttoknowwhathappenedtouswhenthesavagescapturedus,butIfinditimpossibletoexplain.HowdoItellthemthatwewentintothelions’den—andfoundtendernessandmercy?WhenIturnaway,PapatellsthemIdonotwishtotalkaboutit.Thomasalsofeelsdisinclinedtoshareourexperiencewithothers.I thinkhe
doesnothave the language toreflectupon itsconfusions,while Ihavenot theheart.
7thofEleventhMonth,1764
Wet,windyday.Alltheleavesaregone.Isitbythewindow,watchingtherain.Iamnotofthemindtoreturntoschool.Aterriblebitternessoppressesme,andoftenImustsitsoasnottofaint.Motherkeepsaconstant,watchfuleyeonmeandThomas.SheandPapaseem
tothinkthatIwastorturedbytheIndiansandamnotinmyrightmind.Ilongtoexplainthetruthtothem.ButIfeartheywouldneverunderstand.
8thofEleventhMonth,1764
Tonightintheearlyevening,IheardThomasplayingtheaphikon.HeplayedthesongSnowHunterplayedforme.Icouldnotbeartheagonyofit,soIranfromthehouseintothedarkwoods
andcursedGodforthegriefIhadseen, thebloodinthesunlight, theviolenceandrumorofslaughter.BythetimePapafoundme,collapsedonthecoldground,nighthadfallen.In thedark,heassuredmethatIwashome,Iwassafe.Hewouldnotallow
harmtocometomeagain. Icouldonly leanagainsthim,muteand trembling,unabletodeclaremytruethoughts.Afterheledmebacktothehouse,Icameuptothelofttowrite.I have made a decision. I must give my diary to Papa. Long ago, in
desperation, I beganwriting it for him.But then, tomy amazement, a greatertruthrevealeditselftomeandIbegantowriteitformyself.NowIfearthatifIcannotsharethatselfwithhim,Iwillnevercomehome.
9thofEleventhMonth,1764
Papareadmydiarylastnight.HereturneditthismorningwhileIslept,leavingitbesidemybed.Hedidnotwakemetospeaktome.I fear he is ashamed to death that I amhis daughter.Hemaywant nothing
moretodowithme,fornowheknowsthatIwaswillingtoforsakemyoldlifetomarryandliveforeverwiththeLenape.
10thofEleventhMonth,1764
Papawentintothefieldsbeforedaylightandhasnotreturnedallday.Iimaginethatheisoverwhelmedbyhiswrathandthusisafraidtospeaktome.
11thofEleventhMonth,1764
Papaspentthedayaloneinthefieldsagain.Butbeforemycandlewasout,hereturned.NowIwaitanxiouslyforhimtocomeandtalktome,buthehasnot.Ihearhimclimbintohisbed.Hiscandlegoesout.Ifeeldreadfullyalone.
12thofEleventhMonth,1764
Papagonealldayagain.Finally,afterdark,hereturned.Hedidnotlookatmeallthroughsupper,thoughIscarcelyevertookmyeyesoffhim.Afterthelittleoneshadbeenputtobed,heaskedmetofollowhimoutside.
When we stepped out into the evening, he said that he had spent all day insilence,askingforGod’sguidance.Inalowvoice,hetoldmethatmydiaryhadtaughthimthatIhadstoodinthe
light.Butthisisallhesaid!AndwhenIwaitedformore,itwasnotforthcoming.Hewentbackinside,andwithaconfusedheart,Ifollowed,thencameupstairs.
13thofEleventhMonth,1764
TonightItalkedtoPapaandMotheraboutourwayoflifeintheLenapecamp.IrecalledtendermomentswithSnowHunter,WhiteOwl,andLittleCloud.Thomasheardmeandcamedownfromtheloftandtoldabouthowwedanced
theDollDanceandhowwefishedandhowtheGreatTurtlemadetheworld.IfearMotherwasabithorrified,forshespokeverylittleandfinallydeclared
shehadaheadacheandmustretire.Papakeptasteady,concentratedgazeuponus,asifhewerelisteningtousandprayingforguidanceatthesametime.I long for Papa and Mother to understand the truths I have learned. But
perhaps I must always carry them bymyself. As I write this, my heart beatsanxiouslyatthethoughtofsuchloneliness.
14thofEleventhMonth,1764
Thismorning Papa toldThomas andme that itwould be better ifwe did notshareourstoriesinMeetingoratschool.HesaidthatthetwoworldsofEnglishand Indian are still far apart, and only a few people would understand ourjourney. He added thatMother was very upset by what we had told her. Heaskedustobegentlewithher.
15thofEleventhMonth,1764
WhenMollyandLucyvisitedagaintoday,theyaskedhowIwasabletobearmylifewiththefilthyIndians.Icouldnotanswerthem.Later,after theyhad left, Ioffered tohelpMotherwithsupper,but shesaid
shedidnotneedmyhelp.Itriedtoread,butIgrewdesperatelylonely,knowingthatMotherisrepulsedbyourexperience.SoIwentouttothefieldsandlookedatthesky,andIbeggedGodtotakemy
life. Iwillneverbelonghereagain. Ihavenohome. I layon theground tobeclosetothescentoftheearthandlostallsenseoftime,untilPapafoundme.I calmly confessed to him that I did notwant to live for Iwas desperately
lonelyandcouldnotbearMother’swrathagainstme.Hetookmyfacebetweenhishandsandsaid,“Theelearnedtoopenthyheart
tothosewhoaredifferentfromthee,Caty.That iswhytheestoodinthelight.Butsuchlearningisverylonelyandcannotbetaughttoothers,fortheehadtosuffergreatlytouncoversuchtruth.”Whenhe said this, I broke for the first time since the attackon theLenape
campandcollapsedinaterriblegrief.Papaheldmetightlyastearsfloodedforthandmytonguewasreleased.Itoldhimthatmyfriendshadnooutwardsignofwealth,buttheirlivesoutshonethoseofmanyChristians,andthatSnowHunterwasnotunlikehimorme—andWhiteOwlandLittleCloudandLittleOne,thatwewereallpartofthesamefamily.ThenIweptwith loudcriesagainsthisshoulderfor the terriblesorrowof it
all.Heheldmetighterandsaid,“Theemustprayforthyredfriends,Caty.Forthe
samelovingSpiritwholovestheelovesthem,thoughtheyknowHimbyanothername.TheemustknowthatweareallalwaysinGod’sembrace,whetherwearealiveorhavedepartedthisearth.”
16thofEleventhMonth,1764
AlldayThomasandIhelpedMotherwithchoresandtendedtoBabyWill,whowalkseasilyonhisownnowandpriesintoeverything.IwasmorecheerfulwithMother,andsheseemedrelieved.PerhapsitisIwhowillhavetomoveclosertoherandreassureherthatalliswell.IfeelbettersincetalkingtoPapa,butIdonotknowifIshalleverbeableto
returntoschool.
17thofEleventhMonth,1764
Rain taps against the roof. Thomas sleeps, exhausted from helping Papa andCousinEzrachopwoodallday.Asusual Icannotsleep. Iamstillmelancholy.Howwill I livewithoutever
knowingthefateofWhiteOwl,LittleCloud,LittleOne,andSnowHunter?
18thofEleventhMonth,1764
Weather raw and cool. Mother and I quilted all afternoon, then cleaned ironcandlesticks.Wespokeverylittle,stillmilesapartinourthoughtsandfeelings.But at least we were together, and several times she smiled lovingly at me.TonightIfeltherwarmgazeuponmeasIgaveThomasareadinglessonbeforethefire.Mother and Papa both laughedwith relief when Thomas asked if he could
learn to divide the long numbers. I imagineMother perceives that Thomas isadaptingbacktohislife,andwillsoonforgethis“savage”experience.Ifearitisverydifferentforme.
20thofEleventhMonth,1764
Thomasreturnedtoschooltoday,butIwasdisinclinedtodothesame.Motherkindlyallowsmetostayhome.
21stofEleventhMonth,1764
TodayatMeeting, aFriendquotedWilliamPenn: “They that lovebeyond theworldcannotbeseparatedbyit.”IdonotimaginethatWilliamPennwastalkingaboutthesortofloveIhave
known, but ’tis strange that when I left Meeting, I saw an eagle flying highabovethetrees.Iwhispered,“Iwillalwayslovethee,SnowHunter.”SomehowIbelieveIwasheard,forthegreatbirdcircledtwice,thendipped
gracefullydowntowardmebeforeheglidedawayintotheinfinite.Aknowingnessfloodedmyheart,andIfeltthatsomeday,somewhereonthis
earthorbeyondit,wewillmeetagain.Wanishi.
Epilogue
CatharineCareyLogandidnotreturntoschoolthatyear.ShefelttooestrangedfromherfriendsafterherlifeamongtheLenape.Thefollowingyear,hermotherdiedofyellowfever,andshewasthenceforthcompelledtostayhomeandcareforEliza andBabyWill.Her father, however, educatedher himself.Once theyoungerchildrenweregrown,shebecameateacherandtaughtinPhiladelphia.Catharine never married. She taught impoverished children throughout the
period of the Revolutionary War. After the war, she devoted herself to theabolitionofslaveryandtraveledthroughouttheSouth,urgingsouthernQuakerstogiveuptheirslaves.HerexperienceswiththeLenapehadtaughtherthatallpeopledeserveequalrespectandtreatment.ThomasLoganwaslikewiseprofoundlyaffectedbyhisexperienceswiththe
Lenape Indians. After the Revolutionary War, he helped represent IndianinterestswhentheSixNationsmadetreatieswiththeUnitedStatesgovernment.Healsohelpedestablishcenterswhere farmingandother skillswere taught toeasternIndianswhohadbeenforcedtoliveonreservations.Formanyyears,ThomasinquiredafterthesmallLenapebandwithwhomhe
andhissisterhadlived—hecalculatedthattheymusthavehadtheircamponthenorthernbranchoftheSusquehannaRiver.NooneseemedtoknowthefateofWhite Owl, Little Cloud, Little One, and their people.Moravianmissionariesassured him, though, that if they had survived the attack of the soldiers, theymostlikelyhadmigratedwestovertheAppalachianMountainstojoinmanyoftheirpeoplewhoatthattimelivedpeacefullyintheOhioValley.FromtheMoravians,Thomasalsogatheredinformationaboutaboywhohad
lived near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and had been captured by the Lenape in1756.Theboy’snamewasJohnMcCloud.Ashewasnineyearsoldatthetimeofhiscapture,hewouldhavebeenseventeen in1764, theapproximateageofSnow Hunter. According to various sources, John McCloud was killed bysoldiersinthefallof1764.
LifeinAmericain1763
HistoricalNote
ManyoftheearlysettlersofAmericaweremembersofnewlyformedreligiousgroupsfromEuropewhohadcomeseekingaplacetoliveandtopracticetheirfaithfreely.TheQuakerswereaProtestantgroupthathadformedinEnglandinthe1600s.ThoughrootedinChristianity,theearlyQuakerstaughtthatallpeoplein the world, regardless of their religion, were illuminated by an inner light.TheybelievedthatthislightwaspartofGodanditwouldhelpguideapersontodowhatwasright.TheearlyQuakersmetforworshipinmeetinghousesorinsomeone’shome.
Their form ofworshipwas very simple. Therewas no singing, no sermon orcommunion.The “Friends,” asQuakers call themselves, sat in silence.Duringthesilence,anyFriendwasallowedtoshareaprayerormessagewiththegroup.Duringthe1650sandthe1660s,thefirstQuakerswhocametoAmericafrom
England were persecuted by the Puritans. Over time, they gained acceptance,and in1682, an aristocraticEnglishQuaker namedWilliamPennwasgiven atractof landbyKingCharles II.The landbecame thecolonyofPennsylvania(named after Penn by the king). Penn declared it a “Holy Experiment,” as hewanteditsgovernment torule justly,accordingtoQuaker truths.Henameditsmajorcity“Philadelphia”whichmeansthe“CityofBrotherlyLove.”When Penn came to Pennsylvania, the Lenni Lenape (whowere called the
Delaware Indians by the early settlers) were an Indian tribe who held theirancestrallandsinNewYork,NewJersey,Delaware,andPennsylvania.PennandtheearlyQuakersinsistedthattheLenapeIndiansofPennsylvania
be treated fairly.Thus, for thenext fiftyyears, therewaspeacebetweenwhitesettlers and the Lenape. One of Penn’s treaties, however, did not serve theIndians well. He hadmade an agreement to buy land from themwest of theDelawareRiver, thesizeofwhichwas tobedeterminedas thedistanceamancouldwalkinadayandahalf.Bothsidesunderstoodthistomeanaboutthirtymiles.However,itwasnotuntil1737thatthe“WalkingPurchase”wascarriedoutbyPenn’sdescendants,whohadnoconcernfor thewelfareof theIndians.Theycutaroadthroughthewildernessandhiredprofessionalrunnersto“walk”
at a run. Thus, the area covered stretched to sixtymiles instead of thirty, andincludedvirtuallyalloftheremainingeasternterritoryoftheIndians.Quakerswere reluctant to enforce the “WalkingPurchase,” for they loathed
robbing the Indians of their ancestral territory. Non-Quakers, however,demanded that the treaty be honored. Thus, the “Walking Purchase” (or the“Extravagant Day’s Walk,” as it was sometimes called) contributed to thedisintegrationofharmonybetweensettlersandIndians.Relationswentfrombadtoworse.Inthe1750s,whentheFrenchandEnglish
foughtover the landin theOhioValley, theyboth treatedtheIndiansunfairly.English and French traders bribed and cheated them, stole their lands, andinsultedtheirleaders.TheLenapefinallychosetosidewiththeFrenchastheywereangrywiththeEnglishforbuildingfortsontheirland.Further,theFrenchhadconvincedthemthattheEnglishwereplanningtomakethemslaves.InanefforttoendtheFrenchandIndianWar,theEnglisheventuallymetwith
the Indians in a series of treaty meetings and promised protection andcompensationforancestrallands.However,whenthewarendedin theearly1760s, theEnglishfailedtokeep
theirpromises.Indespair,theIndianstriedtocaptureEnglishposts.Later,whenthey attacked families of the Scotch-Irish frontiersmen, allQuaker pleas for apeaceful relationshipwith themwent unheeded. In fact, other settlers becameangryattheQuakersfortryingtoprotecttheIndians.Finally, in December of 1763, a vigilante mob called the “Paxton boys”
decided to teach the Indians a lesson.They roundedupandbrutallymurderedmembersofthepeacefulConestogatribeofLancasterCounty.Forthenextyear,theLenapeandothereasterntribesfoughtwiththesettlers
until, in theearlyfallof1764,English troopsdestroyedmostof theremainingLenapevillagesinPennsylvania.Atthattime,theIndianswereforcedtoreturntheir captives takenduringandafter theFrenchand IndianWar.Anumberofcaptives, however, had formedmeaningfulbondswith the Indians anddidnotwanttoreturn.After they were defeated, many of the surviving Lenape moved west into
Ohio,thenlaterintoIndiana,Kansas,andOklahoma.By the end of the eighteenth century, Pennsylvania Quakers were little
involvedwith governmentmatters. Still, eastern Indian tribes considered themfriendsandaskedthemtorepresenttheirinterestswhentheysignedtreatieswiththe new United States. Those Quakers who tried to protect the rights of theIndiansappearedtohavebelievedinthephilosophyexpressedbyWilliamPennacenturyearlier:“Forcesubduesbutlovegains.”
ThepiousQuakersadheredtostrictruleswithintheirsociety,eveninmattersoffashion.Womenworelong,simplehigh-neckeddresseswithplainbonnets.Menworeshort,fittedpantsknownasbreeches,
jacketswithlittleadornment,andthetraditionalflat-brimmedhat.
Lenapewomenandgirlsdressedinfringedbuckskinskirts,ortepethuns,madefromanimalhides.Lenapemenandboysworelongpiecesofdeerskinfoldedoverabeltknownasasàkutàkàn,orbreechcloth.
Thebreechclothwaswornaloneinwarmweatherandaccompaniedbyanimalskinpantsduringthewinter.Bothmenandwomendecoratedtheirclothingwithfeathers,shells,andthequillsofporcupines,
andworemoccasinsontheirfeet.
ManyQuakerslivedinthelushcountrysideoftheDelawareValleyandmadehomesonfarmssimilartotheonepicturedhere.Everyday,exceptSunday,wasfilledwithchores.Womenandgirlscooked,washed,andsewed,whilemenandboysplantedandharvestedcropsandtendedthefarmanimals.
ManyQuakerchildrenwereunabletogotoschooleverydaybecauselessonswereofteninterruptedbyseasonalharvestinganddemandinghouseholdchores.Thisdrawingdepictsayounggirlstudying
geographyinaQuakerFriendsschool.QuakerFriendsschoolsstillexisttoday.
TheFriendsmeetinghouseprovidedareligioussanctuarywheretheQuakerscouldworshiptogether.
TheirreverentsocietyemphasizedtheimportanceofadirectrelationshipwithGod,thriftiness,modestsocialbehavior,andunity.
WilliamPenn,aleaderofthePennsylvaniaQuakers,metwiththeearlycoloniststodiscusshishopestokeeppeacewiththeirLenapeneighbors.
ThisactualLenapedeed,fromJuly15,1682,isforlandinBuck’sCounty,Pennsylvania,thatwasnegotiatedbyWilliamVenn’sagentWilliamMarkham.SignaturesanddistinguishingmarksofIndian
leaderscanbeseenatthebottom.
ThispaintingdepictsWilliamPennwithmembersoftheLenape,Shawnee,andSusquehannocktribes.The“WalkingPurchase”treatythatPennsignedwiththemstatedthatthelandhepurchasedwouldextendasfarasapersoncouldwalkinadayandahalf.However,fiftyyearslater,whenthetreatywascarriedout,non-QuakercolonistscheatedtheIndiansbyusingskilledrunnerswhocoveredtwicethatdistance.
La-Pa-Win-SoewasapowerfulLenapechiefwhosignedthe“WalkingPurchase”treaty.IndiantribesintheDelawareValleylookedtotheirleadersforguidanceandhonor.
TheLenapewereremarkablyskilledatutilizingthenaturalworld.Longhousesareoneofthebestexamplesoftheirhandiwork.Menandboyswoulduprootyoungtrees,calledsaplings,curvethemintoframes,andcoverthemwithstripsofbark.ThesehomesprovidedtheLenapewithcomfortableshelter
throughouttheyear.
Theinteriorofthelonghousewasquitelarge.Woodenbenchesusedforbedslinedthewalls;storageshelveswerestackedwithbasketsoverhead;anddryingherbsandcornhungfromtheceiling.Lenape
womencooked,sewed,andperformedmanydailydutiesinsidethelonghouse.
TheLenapewereegalitarian,andwomenplayedavitalroleinsociety.Gardensandhouseswereconsideredtheirproperty,andfamilyinheritancewastracedthroughthemother.
TrunksoflargetreeswereusedtomakedugoutcanoessotheLenapecouldtravelvastdistancesswiftlybyriver.Theinsideoftreeswereburned,andthecharredwoodwasscrapedawaywithstonetools
tohollowouttheinterior.
Captivenarrativesbegantoappearasearlyasthemid-1600s.ThisnarrativewrittenbyMaryRowlandsonwaspublishedin1682.Captivenarrativessuchasthisoneprovidedvaluableinsightintothe
Indians’wayoflifeandtheirtreatmentofcaptives.
Itwasnotuncommonforcaptivestofeelbewilderedanddisplacedwhentheyreturnedtotheirnativecommunities.
Forthecolonists,candlemakingwasatediouschoreinvolvingtallow,orhardanimalfat.Hereisasimplecandlemakingrecipeusingparaffinwax,whichreplacedtallowinthelate1800s.
Forenjoyment,Lenapefamilieswoulddancearoundfiresatnightandsingchants
QuakerfamiliesrecitedpsalmsfromtheBibleforcomfortandtoreaffirmtheirbeliefs.
ModernmapofthecontinentalUnitedStates,showingtheapproximatelocationoftheDelawareValleyinPennsylvania.
ThismapoftheDelawareValleyandsurroundingareasshowsplacesmentionedinthediary.
AbouttheAuthor
Mary Pope Osborne has long had an interest in American history. She haspublishedbiographiesofGeorgeWashingtonandBenjaminFranklin,aswellasacollectionofAmericantalltales.HerinterestintheLenapeIndiansbegantenyearsagowhensheandherhusband,Will,boughtasummercabininthewoodsoftheDelawareValleyofPennsylvania.Herknowledgeof thearea,combinedwith a fascination with Indian captive narratives and a deep respect for theQuakerfaith,ledhertodevelopthestorythatbecameCatharine’sdiary.“In the autumn,whilewriting inour cabin, on landwhereCatharine’s farm
mighthavebeen,IfeltasifIwerelivinginasortofdreamtime.Atmidnight,listening to the leaves rattling in the wind, I felt Catharine’s fear as sheanticipatedtheIndians’attack.Canoeingonourcreek,IwasCatharinetravelingtotheLenapecamp.Walkingnearacornfieldonacool,sunnyday,Iimaginedthe moment when the soldiers crashed through the corn rows. I attendedmeetings at an historic Quaker meetinghouse nearby. I roamed the site of aLenapevillage.Myownexperiences in theDelawareValleymadeCatharine’slifefeelimmediateandalivetome.”MaryPopeOsborneistheaward-winningauthorofmorethanfortybooksfor
children, among them the bestselling Magic Tree House series; One World,Many Religions, a 1997 Orbis Pictus Honor Book; and four books of classicstoriesfromaroundtheworld, includingFavoriteMedievalTalespublishedbyScholasticPress.Shehas justcompletedtwotermsaspresidentof theAuthorsGuild,theleadingauthors’organizationinAmerica.
Acknowledgments
The authorwould like to thankTheMuseum of theAmerican Indian inNewYork City; The Mercer Museum in Doylestown, Pennsylvania; The QuakerMeetinghouseinQuakertown,Pennsylvania;andTheChurchvilleNatureCenterinChurchville,Pennsylvania.ShewouldalsoliketothankTracyMackforherwonderful editing, Marge Custer at The Churchville Nature Center, SheilaKogan,DianeNesin,andMelissaJenkins.
Gratefulacknowledgmentismadeforpermissiontousethefollowing:CoverportraitbyTimO’Brien.
Coverbackground:“BraddocksDefeat” July9,1755byEdwinDeming,1903.WisconsinHistoricalSociety,WHi-1900.
Quakermanandwoman,HaverfordCollegeQuaker&SpecialCollections,Haverford,Pennsylvania.
Lenapeman,drawingbyDr.HerbertKraft,LenapeLifewaysInc.,Stanhope,NewJersey.
Lenapewoman,ibid.Farmscene,LibraryofCongress.GeographyinanEarlyFriendsSchool,drawingbyJ.WalterWest.Friend’sMeetingHouse,NorthWindPictureArchives,Alfred,Maine.WilliamPennmeetingwiththecolonists,LibraryofCongress. Deed fromDelaware Indians toWilliamPenn,TheHistoricalSociety of
Pennsylvania (HSP), Treasures, 0060_0003_001, Philadelphia,Pennsylvania.
Penn’sTreatywiththeIndians,1771–1772,paintingbyBenjaminWest,oilon canvas, 75 ½ x 107 ¾ in. Acc. No: 1878.1.10, Courtesy of thePennsylvaniaAcademyofFineArts,Philadelphia,Pennsylvania.GiftofMrs.SarahHarrison(TheJosephHarrisonJr.Collection).
PortraitofLa-Pa-Win-Soe,LibraryofCongress.
Buildingoflonghouse,drawingbyDr.HerbertKraft,LenapeLifewaysInc.,Stanhope,NewJersey.
Interioroflonghouse,ibid.Lenapewomeningarden,ibid.Canoebuilding,ibid.Captivenarrative,LibraryofCongress.Returningthecaptives,ibid.Lenapechant,fromTheDelawareNationinBartesville,Oklahoma,astold
toTheChurchvilleNatureCenter,Churchville,Pennsylvania.MapbyJimMcMahon.MapbyHeatherSaunders.
OtherBooksintheDearAmericaseries
Copyright
Whiletheeventsdescribedandsomeofthecharactersinthisbook
maybebasedonactualhistoricaleventsandrealpeople,CatharineCareyLoganisafictionalcharacter,createdbytheauthor,
andherdiaryanditsepilogueareworksoffiction.
Copyright©1998byMaryPopeOsborneCoverdesignbyElizabethB.Parisi
CoverportraitbyTimO’Brien,©2011ScholasticInc.Coverbackground:Braddock’sDefeatbyEdwinDeming,courtesyofthe
WisconsinHistoricalSociety
Allrightsreserved.PublishedbyScholasticInc.,Publisherssince1920.SCHOLASTIC,DEARAMERICA,andassociatedlogosaretrademarksand/or
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Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystem,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,mechanical,
photocopying,recording,orotherwise,withoutwrittenpermissionofthepublisher.Forinformationregardingpermission,writetoScholasticInc.,Attention:PermissionsDepartment,557Broadway,NewYork,NY10012.
TheLibraryofCongresshascatalogedtheearlierhardcovereditionasfollows:
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Standinginthelight:thecaptivediaryofCatharineCareyLogan,DelawareValley,
Pennsylvania,1763byMaryPopeOsbornep.cm.—(DearAmerica;10)Summary:AQuakergirl’sdiaryreflectsherexperiencesgrowingupin
theDelawareValleyofPennsylvaniaandhercapturebyLenapeIndiansin1763.ISBN0-590-13462-0(alk.paper)1.Indiancaptives—Pennsylvania—Juvenile
ISBN0-590-13462-0(alk.paper)1.Indiancaptives—Pennsylvania—Juvenilefiction.
[1.Indiancaptives—Pennsylvania—Juvenilefiction.2.DelawareIndians—Fiction.3.IndiansofNorthAmerica—Pennsylvania—Fiction.4.Quakers—Fiction.5.Pennsylvania—History—Colonialperiod,ca.1600–1775—Fiction.6.Diaries—Fiction.]I.Title.II.Series.PZ7.081167St1998[Fic]—dc21LC
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