I put off writing when your letter first came because I meant to write you a long letter — a full and complete one, and so days slid by,--and became weeks, --and my little Charlie came . . . etc. and etc.!!! Sarah, when I look back, I wonder at myself, not that I forget any one thing that I should remember, but that I have remembered anything. From the time that I left Cincinnati with my children to come forth to a country that I knew not of almost to the present time, it has seemed as if I could scarcely breathe, I was so pressed with care. My head dizzy with the whirl of railroads and steamboats; then ten days sojourn in Boston, and a constant toil and hurry in buying my furniture and equipments; and then landing in Brunswick in the midst of a drizzly, inexorable northeast storm, and beginning the work of getting in order a deserted, dreary, damp old house. All day long running from one thing to another, as for example, thus:--
Mrs. Stowe, how shall I make this lounge, and what shall I cover the back with first?
Mrs. Stowe. With the coarse cotton in the closet.
Woman. Mrs. Stowe, there is n't any more soap to clean the windows.
Mrs. Stowe. Where shall I get soap? Here H., run up to the store and get two bars.
There is a man below wants to see Mrs. Stowe about the cistern. Before you go down, Mrs. Stowe, just show me how to cover this round end of the lounge.
There's a man up from the depot, and he says that a box has come for Mrs. Stowe, and it's coming up to the house; will you come down and see about it?
Mrs. Stowe, don't go till you have shown the man
