Travailing Through Time (sample)
It is church-bells, here, that mark the time—the time, but not the years. Those are kept upon the heart, in the stoop of the back, in the lines of care and worry on a face in deep distress, or on hardworking hands. I know the weight of years, as my Jonathan does. We scarcely need the church-bell to peal that it is morning when we see the light, plain, and know between our bones that another day’s toil awaits us. It is not a pleasant life, at times. But we are both beyond the age of surprises. I might have once imagined that my days to come would also come with fineries, with visions—a great brick house in Philadelphia or Boston, and friends in the opposite city to write to—a shelf of books, perchance a chatelaine. I might have had a beautiful gown for a ball, and then another, unable to choose which for which. But we do not choose our fortunes, or our times. My name is Sarah Hardage. I love God. I love my husband. I love the child that one (and indeed the other, in His way) has given me, who grows yet within. It is for them that I work, for to farm is to suffer—we plant seeds to bloom in the future. My husband could not promise me riches or satins, but I saw with him a future. Late to marry, I knew no other choice. I keep his home, churn his butter, grow his child. I tend his fire. In return he breaks and breaks himself in unforgiving fields. We drop our work and march uphill to worship when the church-bells call us and thank the Lord for what we have been given, and the Reverend assures us that if we are good, we will know something better, in time.
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