The Lost Diaries of Susanna Moodie by Cecily Ross

Author:Cecily Ross
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Canada
Published: 2017-03-15T16:00:00+00:00

JANUARY 20, 1833

My foolish and short-lived vocation as a teacher has been thoroughly crushed. Old Joe Harris arrived on my doorstep this morning in a half-drunken state. It took me a few moments to understand what he was on about as he attempted to spew his vitriol through teeth clenched firmly about his ever-present pipe. He finally removed it after I invited him in and tempted him with a cup of rum. As I suspected, his ire concerned his daughter Phoebe. Apparently, he thinks I am “puttin’ ideas in a poor girl’s head.” After accepting the refreshment, he exhorted me to mind my own business and stay away from his family if I know what’s good for me.

“You and your fine fella act like we are the dirt under your feet,” he railed, stabbing the smoke-dimmed air with the aforementioned pipe in one hand, though he was careful not to spill a drop of the drink he held in the other. “Your book larning and fine manners is of no earthly use here. If you spent less time mooning over ‘the finery of autumn’”—there was a sneer in his voice as he said this (apparently he had seen my poem in the newspaper and taken the time to read it)—“and more time gettin’ your hands dirty, you wouldn’t be livin’ worse ’n the livestock you and the mister have to borrow money to feed.” He looked around the shed in disgust.

I was apoplectic. How dare he? This rancid little squatter standing there, drinking my rum, still living in my house. I grabbed a broom and raised it over my head. “Get out, you sack of vermin, before I beat you to death.” And I would have too, if he had not fled like the coward he is. When Moodie came in an hour later, I was still shaking. I told him what had happened and he laughed. “That old rascal,” he said, as though I had just related an amusing anecdote. But it is not funny. How would Old Joe know of our debts? I can almost hear the whispering that is going on behind our backs.

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