There Was One Of The Common Spring Mattresses Of The Country In
The Little Room Which Opened From The Living Room, But Nothing
Upon It.
This was remedied by making a large bag and filling it
with hay.
Then there were neither sheets, towels, nor
table-clothes. This was irremediable, and I never missed the
first or last. Candles were another loss, and we had only one
paraffin lamp. I slept all night in spite of a gale which blew
all Sunday and into Monday afternoon, threatening to lift the
cabin from the ground, and actually removing part of the roof
from the little room between the kitchen and living room, in
which we used to dine. Sunday was brilliant, but nearly a
hurricane, and I dared not stir outside the cabin. The parlor
was two inches deep in the mud from the roof. We nominally
divide the cooking. Mr. Kavan makes the best bread I ever ate;
they bring in wood and water, and wash the supper things, and I
"do" my room and the parlor, wash the breakfast things, and
number of etceteras. My room is easily "done," but the parlor
is a never-ending business. I have swept shovelfuls of mud out
of it three times to-day. There is nothing to dust it with but a
buffalo's tail, and every now and then a gust descends the open
chimney and drives the wood ashes all over the room. However, I
have found an old shawl which answers for a table-cloth, and have
made our "parlor" look a little more habitable.
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