Dear America: Standing in the Light: The Captive Diary of Catharine Carey Logan

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.


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.


Weatherunusuallywarm.Papaburnedtreesyesterday,andtheairisstillsweetwiththesmellofburntwood.Beforeschool,ThomasandIcaughtthepigseatingpumpkinsandwechased

themwithsticks.WhenThomasstruckone,Mothersawhimandseverelytoldhimtoexerthimselfwithmoreloving-kindness.Thomasprotested,forheissevenyearsoldanddoesnotliketohavehiswill

crossed.Mothertoldhimtowatchhisimpudenttongue.ShesaidthatGodlovesallHis

creatures,howeverhumble.“Evennaughtypigs?”Thomasaskedwithhisusualmischievousgrin.“Yes,andevennaughtyboys,”Mothersaid.IfGodlovesallHiscreatures,IprayHewillhavemercyonmeanduntiemy

tongue.


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.


MonthlyMeetingtoday.TheFriendsdisownedSarahThompsonfordancingandsinging,JohnPalmerforbuyingaslave,EzekielCarterforenlistinginthearmy,LizaBennetfordeviatingfromplainnessofdress,RebeccaMerrickformarryingonenotofourreligioussociety,andElizabethKnowltonforhavingavainandairymanner.ChristopherBettsacknowledgeditwasshamefulforhimtorideinahorseraceandtoplaycards.Then,inthesilence,IfoundmyselfthinkingaboutJessOwenwavingatmein

thegrove.WhathashappenedtothegirlIwaslastyear?ThespiritedgirlwhospoketoJesssoeasily?Wasshetoobold?Washermannertoovainandairy?WouldtheFriendseventuallyturnoutthatgirl?Ifearshewasnotverymodestandcourteous,astheQuakersrequireayoungwomantobe.Sometimesaloneinthewoods,sheevendancedandsang!ButIconfessImissher.Shewasahappycreature.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


Everythingwasapples today.Mother,Eliza, and Imadeapplesauceandapplebutterandhungstringsofapplestodryfromthekitchenrafters.Writingby thedim lightofmycandle, I still smell apples.The sweet scent

risesfromthedarkdownstairsandmakesmefeelunafraid—especiallyasIjustheardPapaputthebaronthedoor.Hurrah!


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


DearGod,saveus.Wearecaptured.


DearPapa,Ihopethesewordswillfindthee.MycaptorsstarecoldlyasIwrite.


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.


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?


PerhapsSnowHunterescapeddangerandmadehiswayhomeonfootandhasnow returned to the camp and foundWhiteOwl recovered from herwounds.And perhaps the two of them have bundled all to safety beyond these darkforests.


LastnightadreamtoldmethatSnowHunterhasdepartedthislife.Inthedream,apoisonousgreensnakeslitheredthroughthesummerforest,attackedhim,thenmovedontomurderWhiteOwl.


Bellschimefromthemissionbellhouse.Wearrivedhere today.NeitherofushadthestrengthtoreturnthewarmthextendedtousbytheMoravians.ReverendBeckwell’swifekindlyledustoacleanroomsothatwecouldrestalone.Thenagirlbroughtuswarmsoupandbread,butwehaveeatenlittle,forwearetoowearyandfeelpoorly.Thomasliesonhiscotshiveringwithfever.Imuststopwritingandcomfort

him.


ThomasandIbothhavefever.


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.


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.


Neighborsstillcomebyandinquireanxiouslyafterus.Theywanttoknowwhathappenedtouswhenthesavagescapturedus,butIfinditimpossibletoexplain.HowdoItellthemthatwewentintothelions’den—andfoundtendernessandmercy?WhenIturnaway,PapatellsthemIdonotwishtotalkaboutit.Thomasalsofeelsdisinclinedtoshareourexperiencewithothers.I thinkhe

doesnothave the language toreflectupon itsconfusions,while Ihavenot theheart.


Wet,windyday.Alltheleavesaregone.Isitbythewindow,watchingtherain.Iamnotofthemindtoreturntoschool.Aterriblebitternessoppressesme,andoftenImustsitsoasnottofaint.Motherkeepsaconstant,watchfuleyeonmeandThomas.SheandPapaseem

tothinkthatIwastorturedbytheIndiansandamnotinmyrightmind.Ilongtoexplainthetruthtothem.ButIfeartheywouldneverunderstand.


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.


Papareadmydiarylastnight.HereturneditthismorningwhileIslept,leavingitbesidemybed.Hedidnotwakemetospeaktome.I fear he is ashamed to death that I amhis daughter.Hemaywant nothing

moretodowithme,fornowheknowsthatIwaswillingtoforsakemyoldlifetomarryandliveforeverwiththeLenape.


Papawentintothefieldsbeforedaylightandhasnotreturnedallday.Iimaginethatheisoverwhelmedbyhiswrathandthusisafraidtospeaktome.


Papaspentthedayaloneinthefieldsagain.Butbeforemycandlewasout,hereturned.NowIwaitanxiouslyforhimtocomeandtalktome,buthehasnot.Ihearhimclimbintohisbed.Hiscandlegoesout.Ifeeldreadfullyalone.


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.


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.


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.


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.”


AlldayThomasandIhelpedMotherwithchoresandtendedtoBabyWill,whowalkseasilyonhisownnowandpriesintoeverything.IwasmorecheerfulwithMother,andsheseemedrelieved.PerhapsitisIwhowillhavetomoveclosertoherandreassureherthatalliswell.IfeelbettersincetalkingtoPapa,butIdonotknowifIshalleverbeableto

returntoschool.


Rain taps against the roof. Thomas sleeps, exhausted from helping Papa andCousinEzrachopwoodallday.Asusual Icannotsleep. Iamstillmelancholy.Howwill I livewithoutever

knowingthefateofWhiteOwl,LittleCloud,LittleOne,andSnowHunter?


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.


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

registeredtrademarksofScholasticInc.

Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystem,ortransmittedinanyformorbyanymeans,electronic,mechanical,

photocopying,recording,orotherwise,withoutwrittenpermissionofthepublisher.Forinformationregardingpermission,writetoScholasticInc.,Attention:PermissionsDepartment,557Broadway,NewYork,NY10012.

TheLibraryofCongresshascatalogedtheearlierhardcovereditionasfollows:

LibraryofCongressCataloging-in-PublicationDataOsborne,MaryPope

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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Documents

Dear America: Standing in the Light: The Captive Diary of Catharine Carey Logan